The dealer was very nice. Oh yes, he was a good guy. Going to do me a real nice deal on a '93 Suzuki DR125S. Deal of my life, he said. I could ride out of the showroom with a big grin on my face. I should've known better, I'd done an apprenticeship of sorts on an old Yamaha FS1E so I wasn't a complete idiot. But the shiny DR125 had gripped my mind with thoughts of flash highway madness and, well, loadsa fun. Every seventeen year old has a god given right to the maximum amount of excess. Right?
So there I was, after handing over a large wedge, with this neat looking trailster powered by the obligatory 12hp motor, though in this case an OHC four stroke rather than the more normal rattly, short-lived stroker. Related as it was to the well regarded GS125 mill, I thought it was bound to last for ages and not need any regular maintenance, save for the very odd oil change.
The kickstart needed a much more manly kick than the FS1E ever required. Deter the thieves, I thought optimistically, as I almost expired on the tenth attempt. The dealer was leaning against his doorway with a cynical smile written on his fat face. One final desperate lunge made the engine explode into life. The dealer jumped a foot in the air when the engine back-fired. Ha, ha!
Riding off, I thought, this is interesting, the damnable thing wants to go up on to the pavement. Push the bars that way, lean the other, and it straightened out. Felt rather weird to be all contorted just to ride in a straight line. It was a mild consolation that it only shot off towards the left on acceleration.
I soon settled down, worked my way up the five speed gearbox. Nice slick box, light clutch and a lack of fearsome power made it even easier to ride than an FS1E. 5000 revs in top was smooth, quiet and relaxed. Felt I could keep going for ages until I went to lean into a gently sweeping curve. I'd taken that bit of road flat out at 45mph on the FS1E (it was an early one that wasn't restricted and even had pedals for when the fuel ran out or the engine broke). At the same speed on the DR it felt like I was riding a camel with a broken leg.
Lurching home I was a bit distraught. Check the wheel alignment. Miles out. I got the wheels in line but it left a huge discrepancy between the eccentric chain adjuster marks. I tried it like that, felt rotten in a straight line and I almost came off the first time I banked over. I played about with the wheels a bit more, but something seemed miles out of line. Took the seat and tank off. Ouch! Bent top frame tube. I pulled the gaiters up, there were some indentations in the forks where they had been straightened. I then noticed that the front rim was a different colour to the back and the mudguard was different to that in the Suzuki brochure.
It was too late to return to the dealers. The next day I wobbled over there with murder in my heart. Mr Dealer backed up by a couple of muscular mechanics denied everything. Reckoned that I had obviously fallen off and caused all the damage myself. When he came out with that pile of garbage I saw red, lunged at him, getting one good punch in before the gorillas grabbed hold of me and threw me out into the street.
I went to see the police who just laughed, sending me to the Citizen's Advice Bureau where there was a mile long queue which hadn't moved a foot after an hour. I gave up. Wobbled home, being followed by a police car for half a mile. The way the bike was wandering all over the road they probably thought I was drunk out of my head. They sped off suddenly, saving me from that interrogation. As I neared home I was down to 10mph as the idiot council had put a huge bump in the road to stop hooligans speeding. Bang! My heart nearly stopped as the front forks broke and I was thrown over the bars.
I couldn't believe it! My life savings were blown on a machine that looked like it belonged in a skip. I had to get some neighbours to help me carry the two separate sections into the house. The fall had almost dislocated my neck and I could barely cart my own mass around.
The next day, after telling my parents a pile of lies about studying hard for the next year, I had enough money in hand to buy some forks and a frame from a breaker. There wasn't a logbook, the dealer had just winked when I'd enquired. It was then just a matter of tearing all the bits off one bike and putting them on to the other one. That was what I told my mother who was rendered speechless (for once but not for long) when she saw how I'd transformed the front room into a centrally heated workshop.
After a week I'd learnt more than I wanted about how to put motorcycles together but was back on the road. I wasn't far off having spent the cost of a new machine putting the DR back together! The steering was brilliant after the previous horrors, couldn't fault it. I was soon in much better spirits.
I even thought up a way of extracting revenge on the dealer which involved sawing up the frame and doing something very nasty with the bits and some petrol, but we won't go into that here as it would get me arrested.
The DR turned out to be very cheap to run, which was very important as I had sod all money left to spend. Fuel was even better than the FS1E, with 80 to 90mpg on hand even when the engine was caned. The other consumables just didn't seem to wear. It was hard work putting 70mph on the clock and even harder work keeping it there. The trail biased gearing obviously didn't help, as the engine would buzz flat out in fifth with a frenzy of vibes from an engine that had no balancers but was relatively smooth at 65mph. Taller gearing would've been more relaxing and just as good in acceleration, as I often took off in second.
The gearbox sometimes felt a bit vague but didn't actually miss any changes going up the box but changing down was a bit hit and miss. As the speedo probably came from a different bike I had little idea of what mileage the engine had done, so new ones might be better. Mine had started out slick but as soon as the engine became hot, say after fifteen minutes of town abuse, the vagueness set in.
I began worrying about the engine. When I checked the valves they were miles out. Oil was disappearing as fast as I could fill up the sump, or so it seemed to me. I thought I could hear the camchain rattling away but the adjuster was supposed to be automatic. After about three months it started stalling dead in town for no apparent reason. Took six or seven kicks to reluctantly fire up, which was long enough to have the cagers going crazy on their horns.
When I tried to remove the spark plug it wouldn't move. Right, I thought, I know how to deal with that, the special plug socket from dad's toolkit, long lever with another tube over the top of it. The bike threatened to fall off its stand, the plug acting like it's welded to the head. Tap the lever with big hammer. Nothing. Right, one big lunge, bound to shift it.
And it did. The violence of the hammer blow, the sudden movement of wrench, sent me flying and the spark plug spinning off. After landing on top of an old oil can, becoming covered in stinking lubricant, I picked myself up and headed for the wrench. The bloody spark plug had broken in half, leaving an unassailable bit in the head.
The only way to remove it was to take the head off. Even then it wasn't going to be easy to shift. Off with the cylinder head then. The piston and bore thus revealed didn't look too hot, so off with the cylinder as well. May as well do a proper job. Aaargh! The small end bearing was loose! I could've cried like a baby. Looking at the cylinder head there seemed some white stuff around the edge of the remaining plug body; probably Araldited in after some moron stripped the thread. Not good, then.
After asking around for prices on all the used bits I'd need it became pretty obvious that I'd be better off buying a used motor. All it would need would be a mild crash for me to have ended up replacing every bit on the Suzuki.
Final happiness arrived with a good used motor and my passing the test first time. The DR's an ideal bike to learn on, no doubt about that, so don't take too much notice of this sorry tale. Other than to keep enthusiasm in check when buying seemingly beautiful bikes in a blur of passion
Eric