There she stood, unmoved for 18 months. Blown up, parked up and any hope given up for what must have seemed like a millenium for her aching main stand pivots. N'ver a wheel turned, a brake disc warmed, a spring compressed, or a throttle grip twisted for many long and lonely months. A sad remnant now, the greenest moss enjoying the tranquiility of her north facing silencer. But she was no more a rolling stone, the X5 was dead. And it was mine for 25 quid.
The clock showed 18,500 miles, wearing a Chipped Shin front cover and a bald square rear of the same dubious source. The alloy was well weathered but came up with Solvol. Chain and sprockets were well knackered but I could live with that if the Ministry could - and they did.
The front brake worked, the advancing moss no match for modern hydraulics. The rear brake did not, EBC shoes rectifying that for about six notes. One big-end had gone west (via the exhaust port judging by the piston crown) and a secondhand motor was decided on against the extortionate cost of pressing thirty quid's worth of bearings and seals on to the crank. £50 secured a genuine but unknown quality engine at a local breaker.
The seized throttle cable was replaced along with the battery. The motor was slotted into the frame (very easy), the dull bits were made shiny (very boring), empty receptacles were filled (very messy) and an MOT duly passed (very dodgy). She almost looked decent, especially for around £130 total outlay.
The fresh plot ran, rattled and smoked, rattled some more and kept on running, something beyond the comprehension of many a mechanical physician. For the first month petrol and chain lube were very generously administered, the oil tank only requiring infrequent attention. Its frugality impressed me. Until, that is, she partially seized flat out at 75mph. Thirty seconds later she restarted amid much rattling, which was quite normal, and all seemed well.
The journey was completed rather more sedately but no investigation into the cause of the mishap was carried out, as I'm a lazy bugger. Two weeks later it happened again. The performance tailed off through overheating and on closer inspection the oil tank was found to be dry. The nearest garage was about three miles away and rather slowly I coaxed the bike along.
They had loads of videos, sandwiches, etc but no two stroke oil. I opted for a litre of outboard oil, premixed in the tank, to save the day. (Let's face it, speedboats are a common sight on the road today, aren't they?) The journey was completed without further mishap, the engine seemingly enjoying the change in its diet, my only wish that the decrease in piston slap had been proportional to the incredible increase in exhaust emissions. We roared into the sunset, the roadside greenery wilting in out wake.
Soon after all this another GT200 was purchased, again for £25, a non runner to be used for spares. Once more a partial seizure occurred, a fault was obviously present so I looked at the oil pump, for about 2000 miles the poor old twin cylinder engine had been receiving half the regulation amount of lube.
The barrels and pistons were taken off the spare bike to use on the running one, the part worn Roadrunner replaced the bald banana like skin and the gearbox sprocket gained an extra tooth. The plot already handled well, although the front was twitchy at speed - the term used in its broadest sense - and the Avon rear inspired even greater confidence.
The suspension worked okay, on the firm side with good damping when solo. The addition of a pillion causing the bike to wallow, though not fear inducing, on unevenly surfaced bends. The small size and low mass meant the GT could be thrown about with great recklessness in the curves and through roundabouts. Ground clearance was good, but then it needs to be with fixed footrests. The main stand would go down first on genital enlarging missions.
As for braking, well you don't expect much from a disc with ten years worth of glaze on it, do you? Just as well, as you don't get much. The lever felt very wooden, lacking feel and requiring a four finger gorilla grip for decent retardation. The back brake was crap too.
Consumables, predictably, gave decent mileage on such a light machine. The chain wore out some more and the day came when the wheel ran out of adjustment, so the chain was replaced with a similarly junk item off the spare bike. I would expect a regularly lubed chain to go for around 10,000 miles before link removal became necessary.
Front pads never actually wore out and fuel went from 55 to 70mpg, a range of around 110 miles from the puny tank. Oil consumption? Not bad. The engine's appetite for plugs was, for a stroker, abnormally low, no doubt aided by the CDI providing a nice fat spark.
Five gears are provided which are well spaced, even if top is a little low, and slick to use. Until, that is, the gearbox oil goes off after about 2000 miles. Undoubtedly, the machine's way of saying she needs an hour or so with you in the shed to experience your mechanical dexterity (servicing to the rest of you). But beware those who overfill the box, during the inevitable thrash that comes after fettling the machine, your favourite roundabout gets resurfaced with the excess oil.
A pair of Allspeeds were fitted in the quest for more speed. The resultant effect was akin to a hefty boot in the genitals. Firstly, the absence of all responsiveness coupled with great apprehension for what was to come. Then Bang, as all hell breaks loose, followed closely by breathlessness.
The battery that was fitted was one size up on the stock and performed superbly, spinning the electric foot with great vigour. In fact, the only time the bike refused to start on the button was when the motor was so clapped out that only much macho swinging on the kickstart would bring life into her aching bones.
Hence, a rebore at 21,500 miles. Pattern Jap pistons (£15ea) and new small ends transformed the engine's characteristics. Apart from main bearings rumbling madly after a thrash on a hot day, the plot was very quiet indeed. The performance in the higher gears was a revelation. The most I ever coaxed on level ground was a heady 90mph, albeit with a tail wind. But 1500 miles of enthusiasm and all was not well.
The big-end noise was slight at first, but even turning the oil pump to max would not lessen the mechanical intrusion. Then it happened. The day I had removed the baffles I must have sensed it approaching. Returning from the local, the wife in transit, the ageing, once oil starved crank finally threw in the towel. She let out one last yell from the exhausts and in a massive crescendo of mechanical carnage ground to a halt. She was done. The X5 was, once again, dead.
My idleness dictated she lay there, at the roadside, for seven days and nights. I would see her twice a day, to and from work, aboard a mate's CD200. On the 8th day, me and the wife, passed where X5 marked the spot. Two miles later I realised I hadn't seen the bike, the wife confirming that she too could not remember seeing it as we passed. She had been claimed by another and was never seen again.
The Suzuki provided our only means of transport for six winter months and nearly 6000 miles. Between reincarnation and disintegration she never failed to start and never left us stranded, just total reliability through massive neglect. The longest journey was 650 miles, a two day trip to Kent and total confidence in making it there and back.
For a small hack it must be hard to beat. Rumbles and rattles aside, I knew I could leap on the bike at any time and she would go wherever I wanted, and raise a smile doing it. There are few about nowadays as it's a fairly old model but if you can find one and need a cheap means of transport buy it.
It's a good alternative to Yamaha's RD200, which may have a powerband and marginally better performance on its side, but lacks things like the Suzuki's CDI, a starter that actually works and its undeniably smarter looks. And she'll drink a Z200 under the ozone layer.
Crabo