One mudguard disintegrating in an afternoon I could put down to bad luck. But two? Deliberate built in obsolescence, to my mind. The rear broke under the seat, tried and faailed to lacerate Taiwan’s finest rubber then flew down the road. The attached rear light, something straight out of the sixties in design, went with it. By the time I sussed its demise a couple of cars had flattened whatever the rust hadn't destroyed. Three years old and falling apart under me!
Did I mention that both darkness and rain were threatening to fall? Life’s an adventure, ain't it? I love British weather and Taiwanese rubber (not dolls, boyo). The only way to compensate for the missing rear light was to wire both back indicators into the light’s circuit. Probably blew a few car drivers’ brains trying to work out what the hell was going down but we all have to make sacrifices. The GN has good guards, their disappearance turning the mild rain into a maelistrom which the pathetic front light did little to penetrate.
The tyres slid, my teeth chattered and the engine threatened to cut out but once again the old bugger got us home in one piece. Albeit a rather soggy one. If the GN feels like it weighs next to nothing most of the time, the need for insane countersteer measures to compensate for the naff tyres keeps my muscles up to scratch. The dicey handling revealed by the ease with which I picked up a pair of guards from the breakers for af iver. Some black gunge was brushed on to the undersides to keep the dreaded rust at bay.
The finish wasn't exactly inspiring in other areas. The wheels were more rust than.chrome and the exhaust was replaced after a mere three years (15000 miles). The GN has a singularly simple OHC thumper motor, a sort of grown up CB125. But it’s a fastidious one that produces lots of flat spots once the rust has eaten into the exhaust system. I christened the bike Lurch with rather a lack of affection when this trait was revealed. Cutting out at junctions was another joy but the electric starter saw that one off without any angst.
Another thrill was the time we ground to a halt. Felt like fuel starvation to me. The tank had rusted internally to the extent that there was a mass of sediment in the bottom and the reserve pipe was totally blocked up. I’d thought the tank was becoming a bit thin by the amount of give in the sides. By the time I'd finished the desiccation I was left with an empty tank and a large pile of gunge. Those of a sadistic nature might conclude that the half mile push was good exercise but my heart and back were close to agony.
After this little vexation I neglected the GN for six months until the tank gave way. The fountain of fuel over the still running engine failed to cause spontaneous combustion. Even when I threw a match at it from a safe distance. I performed this cowardly act with an eye on my TPF&T insurance and an awareness that the never touched valves were beginning to burn out. The solution to these woes was fifty quid to the local breaker/mechanic who fitted a one year old tank and a newish set of valves as well as giving the engine its first ever service. I'd been quite content with changing the engine oil when the gearbox became full of false neutrals. What the fuck!
What kinda piss artist’s going to expend lots of TLC on a motorcycle that feels like it’s falling apart on a rare day when it does 80mph? I know some sorry souls who try to keep them immaculate, but they rot just as quickly as when brutally neglected. One other misdemeanour showed up a couple of times. The power pulses never stuck me as being the stuff of legends, but then I'm a cynical old bastard. The drive chain didn’t share my total disregard for the power output, destroying itself in about 6000 miles. The way it broke whiplashed the chromed but rotting (there’s a surprise) chainguard into a trillion pieces. One of these ended up embedded in my leg!
Yes, I’m one of those wimps who faint at the sight of blood. Especially my own blood, a fountain gushing out when I removed the offending piece of metal. For a moment I thought I'd hit an artery but the flood died out with my animal screams. I had to strip down to my long-johns and tear up my shirt to use as a bandage. Some youths in a neon Fiasco found it all hilarious, but disappeared fast when | gave them the finger. Readers should be warned that tearing out a bit of rusty chrome and not seekIng subsequent medical attention is a quick way to lose a leg to gangrene. By the time I staggered into the hospital I needed strong enough antibiotics to make my hair fall out!
The second time the chain snapped it took out the crankcase rather than my leg, which was anyway safely enclosed in wader length leather boots. Way kinky, my man, and sent the ladies into a furore. Plastic metal was carefully applied to the hole (in the crankcase, please) but took three increasingly panicked attempts until it held. What can I say? Greasing and adjusting every week didn’t make much difference to neglecting it until the gearbox refused to work. I started changing it every 5000 miles!
In the fourth year of ownership, with some 15000 miles done, I rode the bike harder than ever before, adding 14000 miles to the clock. I’d changed jobs, had to commute across London. The pace was so frenetic that I was only achieving 55mpg instead of the more usual 70mpg. If that sounds impressive remember that the performance wasn’t that much better than a GS125 which does 100mpg. A set of cheap Michelin tyres stopped much of the skidding on the greasy road surfaces and a newish front end much improved the braking which, via a single disc, had gone rather vague. A combination of warped disc and seizing caliper.
As the spokes were almost rusted through it seemed like a good moment to put in a better wheel! Indeed, a couple of months later I had the weird experience of the back wheel breaking up. Ever sat on a bike that was disintegrating under you? Loadsa fun! I stopped before any terminal damage was done to myself; the egg shaped wheel was something that should only be encountered on an LSD trip! Luck was on my side, a King’s Cross breaker was just 100 yards away and had a replacement on offer. We had a good laugh over the build quality of commuter Japs, the prime exhibit being a five year old C50 with a rear subframe that'd cracked in half.
After that exhibition of poor quality there wasn’t much left to fail in the chassis, apart from the frame which I'd at least kept touching up - you can only take neglect so far and I'd been suspicious of Jap frames ever since my mate's GS550's top frame tube cracked up. The GN has a barely adequate trellis that rust could easily turn to rat shit.
As strange as it might appear, despite these hassles, I'd actually grown quite fond of the ageing heap. We had some close scrapes together in London traffic. Call it a bonding process. The GN reacted well to my instinctive survival manoeuvres, a reflection of its lightness and wide handlebars. I’m naturally muscular, fear and adrenaline adding to the effectiveness with which the GN could be snapped around offending cagers. Twice, even this combination failed.
God, these cagers are as stupid as they are arrogant. Shooting out of nowhere, doing mad U-turns and just not thinking before they act. Once I hit a cage hard enough to snap off the forks and end up thrown over the bars. I landed on the roof of the cage, leaving a large enough dent to write off the car. I laughed at the cager when he demanded insurance details; just boasted that I'd fix the bike for less than a hundred.
The other time I ended up sideways in speedway style, screaming until the tyres lost their grip. My leg suffered more than the Suzuki, which took most of the damage on the engine bars. I hobbled over to the a cager, head-butted him into oblivion and leapt onto the GN before I had to pay for my sins. Divine justice I'd call it,
It'd be easy to dismiss bikes like the GN250 as a pile of crap, fit only for a hacking role, but the thumper engine has its share of character and the rest of it’s tolerable. They are cheap to run, repair and renovate, their biggest flaw the rate at which they rust when neglected or used in the winter.
Gary Davies