I and a friend each bought a new CB500T during the summer of '77. These were the last of the range, I think, and were purchased at a good discount. We bought them with the intention of taking them to India, judging them reliable, rugged and big enough to comfortably pack all our gear, ourselves, and any potential passengers which we were hoping to pick up along the way.
The bikes were customised after a fashion. I immediately sprayed my bike black, ostensibly to hide the hideous chocolate brown original colour. My mate left his bright orange in the vain illusion that foreign drivers would see him more easily. In fact, it just gave Iranian drivers a better target to aim at.
We put large wrap around crash bars on the front of the bikes with oblong crash bars on the rear. A stone guard was put over the headlights, reducing their power to that of a pencil torch, but that didn't matter out East as it was too dangerous to drive at night. Fork gaiters were put on, front and back, mainly because I like them rather than for any practical use.
Next came large pannier frames and carriers, plus a huge top box with another rack bolted on top to carry spare petrol cans, etc. The whole unit secured (from the natives) with padlocked steel straps. To offset all the weight at the back, we had large tank bags strapped to the petrol tanks, which made tight turns difficult - the horn was usually blown when they were attempted. We could not afford to fit decent tyres, but we did fit a modicum of luxury with home-made electrically heated handlebar mitts. These were just rubberised fabric with an electric blanket arrangement sewn in and connected to the battery. Although this refinement was rarely used it was very useful in the Turkish mountains where it was a chilly -30, although it wasn't your hands that you were worried about freezing.
Once loaded up, the bikes looked twice their normal size and were difficult to manoeuvre, sometimes needing two of us to put them on their centrestands, although this was possibly due to my lack of strength. Once in motion, though, the bikes handled extremely well, even when two up. We had one delicious 90mph race with the rain and a Merc for a couple of hours through Southern Turkey, taking him on in relays.
We usually covered a leisurely 200-300 miles a day without any vibration or real fatigue, even in a wet France - we foolishly set off on our epic run in November. Our longest ride was from one side of southern Italy to another, not stopping until our wheels were literally in the Adriatic. The roads were broad and deserted, cutting through the mountains, we rode in the hot sun without the need for stifling helmets. The only hassle was two to three mile detours off the road into Middle Age villages to find fuel. We then took a boat to northern Greece and rode down to Corinth for our first planned, and as it transpired only, maintenance stop.
During this part of the trip, the bikes had been dropped several times, all but two when stationary, due to the aforementioned increase in volume and weight. With the crash bars and panniers no damage was done, although I did drop my bike twice on my colleague, which did help cushion its fall.
One time, in France, I slid off when I braked at some lights in the rain on a steep hill, although I still claim it was my mate hitting the back wheel and not my overzealous braking. My friend slid off spectacularly in Greece on a slippery hill, having ten minutes before warned me to be careful as the roads were wet.
He came off and the bike carried on in a hail of sparks, came upright again and toppled over. Both the bike and he were a little bruised, but no real harm was done and he crashed just above a beautiful bay, where we camped that night right next door to a friendly taverna.
The bikes were rugged and came to no harm the many times they were dropped during the rest of the trip. It was just the embarrassment that hurt. Especially at times like when in the Turkish mountains at an isolated teahouse, where all the natives came out too see us off. I struggled to turn the bike around, got the wheel into a rut and promptly toppled over sideways. A horde of locals rushed forward and picked both bike and myself up, much to my friend's mirth and delight. As he said, that was one time he didn't have to get off and help pick up the bike.
As for maintenance, we stopped in Corinth to service the bikes and it took the next 200 miles to get the points right again. After that, they were left alone and the bikes coped superbly with the rest of the trip through Turkey, Iran and on to India, and the return. This in conditions of -30 to 120 degrees, with snow and the desert dusts and monsoon rainstorms, on highways, mud roads and even no roads at all.
After three days of sunbathing and tinkering in Corinth we headed across the Isthmus up to Athens, encountering our first Greek traffic light - unfortunately it was while travelling at 70mph and it was red. Fortunately, the brakes on the 500T are good. You do not expect lights on the main highway into a capital, but then again I did not expect that the main road into Paris would suddenly turn to cobbles - and wet ones at that. There is an acute shortage of warning signs abroad.
Athens was a cool place to cruise without a helmet if somewhat dangerous at times, but we had to press on and took a very large car ferry to the island of Chios. In the hold we parked next to a lorry containing some 50 piglets. When we got back to the bike, we found that all the pigs had escaped and run amok. We spent the next two hours defending the bikes and hunting the piglets amongst the cars with a crowd of locals helping and, in many cases, hindering the operation.
Finally, the last porker was caught and we were allowed off the boat only to find there were no boats that ran to Cesme on the Turkish mainland. After a week on a storm swept island, where we only ventured out once, we managed to hire a boat to take us to Turkey from a couple of villainous and somewhat verminous Greeks. We paid out £29, sharing the cost with an American hiker and a Dutch guy, also marooned, who had a Dutch 250cc bike called a Sparta. I had not realised that they made bikes and after seeing the Sparta I still wasn't certain.
The boat was small with just enough room to hold the three bikes in a central bit of deck between the fore and aft cabins, with no room to turn around. Upon arrival at the harbour, we were asked to pay a £35 harbour fee by the crew, which we refused to do. After some argument and tense moments, they parked the boat against a high harbour wall, unfurled a narrow plank and told us to get off. They wouldn't move the boat so we elected to try the 45 degree plank - it looked more like 80 degrees.
As the Sparta was in the middle of the boat, the Dutch guy went first, got a quarter of the way, slid back and toppled sideways. Fortunately, we caught him in time and got the bike back on the deck again. We took the bags off his bike and tried again, this time supporting him from each side. The deck heaved and just as we thought he was going to get wet, the bike shot up the plank on to dry land.
I was next and there was no way that my bike could be held if it fell. So, with plenty of revs I shot up the plank on to the harbour just managing to stop before hitting a metal bollard. My colleague, after a little hesitation, did the same and his bike was on dry land again. Just a page of unreadable scrawl in our passports and a small bribe later we were officially in Turkey.
We were rewarded soon after that, as we rode past a superb wolf gazing over the road from a small grass bank. We stopped a hundred yards further on and watched as the wolf loped down across the road to disappear into the tree line. We headed south and the weather grew hotter, it was now the beginning of December but we were pleasantly warm. We continued south east through Izmir, Aydin and Mugla to a place called Fethiye where we camped in a deserted valley.
We saw Nomads, camels, ponies, sheep, goats and huge half wild dogs. We decided to avoid meeting these travelling folk but they found us anyway. Another party had camped over the hill from us. Fortunately, they were friendly, they examined our tent, kept their dogs at bay, insisted on their picture being taken and then gave us five different towns to send a copy to. At least they didn't give us sheep's eyeballs to eat, or so I hope.
That night there was a violent storm with continuous rain, and so after our cultural exchange with the locals, we carried on east under a cloudy sky. There were only two roads on to Antalya from Fethiye (this was 10 years before tourists hit Turkey) and both of these were dirt, or should I say mud, roads. We tried both, but after sliding down two banks to avoid half track lorries that couldn't stop going down hills, we gave up, deciding to go north and try for a main road.
But first we had our race with the Merc, the rain and a couple of days in sunny Marmaaris before heading north to Aydin where snow began to fall, and on to Afyon and Ankara, the capital. In Ankara we received useful information from the British embassy on what to do in the case of an accident. Don't stop. Apparently, you get clapped in gaol whether or not it was your fault. Presumably, one had to avoid getting caught by the natives and seek the asylum of the nearest British consulate. We decided, as we couldn't take the southerly route as intended and as it was now below freezing, instead to put the bikes on the train to Tehran across the snow covered mountains.
This took us through Erzurum on to Tatvan across the lake and a two mile drive at -30 to Van where we could pick up the train. Our Dutch friend had the same idea and we met him again on the train, but he and his bike hadn't cleared customs properly and so he had to stay in Van to negotiate a proper bribe.
We had waited a week in Ankara, a truly boring place except for a few Roman remains and the small area of the old city where we stayed. The only excitement was a hot shower in the Turkish baths with a couple of bottles of ice cold Tuborg, brewed in Izmir.
The rest of the time we huddled over a paraffin heater playing Risk and Turkish Monopoly. Due to the week's delay and the fact that the train was 26 hours late, we spent a very pleasant Christmas eve on the train, collected together with all the other westerners singing songs (not carols), drinking our pooled booze, sharing our edible delicacies and swapping travellers' tales.
We arrived in Tehran on Christmas day and as Iran was an Islamic country and not celebrating Christmas, we were able to go to the Poste Resante to pick up our Christmas cards.
The only annoying cloud on the horizon was the fact that the bikes hadn't arrive, they were on the same train at Van, but we were told that they would arrive a couple of days later at the railway customs area near the airport. Having been to Iran before I should have known better than to believe the guy.
A couple of trips to customs later and still no bikes. Meanwhile, our Dutch friend had turned up at our hotel. There were only two where western travellers stayed, and they were opposite each other. To our chagrin, he had his bike. He stayed for a couple of days and then headed south to the Gulf.
We spent 11 weeks waiting for the bikes, teaching English to earn money and living mainly on egg and chips cooked on a petrol stove in the hotel room. After the excellent Turkish cuisine, Iranian food was junk. The petrol stove was great - dangerous but great - although Iranian petrol did not taste particularly nice.
Eventually, the bikes arrived and we were allowed to ride away on them but not before having to hire a lorry and load both bikes on this truck to take them to the other customs station where we had actually arrived on Christmas day. This also required two passport pages to describe the bike and the hiring of a native minion for the day to severely hassle the head of customs. Such is the fun of international motorcycling.
We stayed in Tehran to recoup our finances and wait for the warmer weather. Driving in Tehran was always interesting, I think I spent more time riding on the pavement than on the road, as it was marginally safer. All the locals did it, even the car drivers, although many ended up in the wide open sewers that ran between the road and the pavement. Road junctions were like something out of Ben Hur's chariot race. Tehran and its folk were not very pleasant even before the fall of the Shah who was beginning to totter.
Tehran was like a squalid communist Balkan city inhabited by nomads who don't know what to do with it. Still, we did, of course, meet some friendly folk, especially in the north in Daraband - like the time the policeman swapped his police Electra Glide with my 500T for half an hour.
We headed east in April, on to Pakistan and into India, although we couldn't legally take the bikes into India due to the cost of the customs carnet. After a good unofficial excursion, we turned the bikes around and headed west. A great run, where, excepting Iran, most folk were only friendly and the bikes performed superbly.
The bikes had travelled on boats both large and tiny, on a lorry between custom posts and by train across the Iranian border. The bikes stayed reliable on their return to the UK, with other European travel, excepting for the electric start and the need for a camchain tensioner adjustment. All in all, it was a good touring bike, rugged and, if you did regular oil changes, mechanically reliable. I retired the bike when I got a Yamaha TR1, a similarly unfashionable type of machine but still an excellent bike. The 500T was however very much a going concern when I eventually sold it in 1986. The CB500T is definitely a motorcycle where the old adage, if it works don't touch it, applies - as is fully illustrated by my tale.
Alan Spencer