Loose Lines: Dealers Deranged! [Jul/Aug 1998]

No sooner had I applauded some of the big dealers for trying to off-load used bikes at almost competitive prices than the bastards upped the ticket tabs, ordered a new Porsche and made me look a right plonker in the process. The press reported a shortage of certain new cycles in official dealers and a firming up of used bike prices - but the same models were available from the shadow importers at the same cost as before whilst used prices floated ever downwards, at least on the private market, which is all that really matters. All very odd!

I phoned around the shadow importers pretending to be a punter with cash to burn (chance would be a fine thing), promised delivery within the week even on exotica like the R1. There were a couple of odd chaps, whose insistence on the manufacturer honouring the warranty and the willingness of local dealers to do the servicing seemed as likely as one of the Big Four phoning me up desperate for advice (most of what I suggest comes to pass about five years down the line, which may or may not be mere coincidence - what do you think, dear reader?).

Being a persistent little blighter I headed for the extreme north (beyond Birmingham, anyway) accompanied by thunder, lighting and usual insane antics of the civilians, fairly sure that I wouldn't be recognized in such virgin territory. I still don't know how the bastards in the south have sussed my identity, but there you go; all's fair in love and war.

One publisher up there had regaled me with tales of the local bints wearing minimal skirts and black stockings (he seemed put out when I said it must seem like Merthyr Tydfil, then)...er, sorry, I headed for a couple of large dealers pretending to be a punter with cash to burn, wearing my newish leather jacket and a clean pair of jeans (I'll be in a bloody suit, next!).

It took a while to adjust my mind to the outrageous accents but I finally managed to work out what they were talking about. I'm Welsh but dropped the accent a long time ago (much to the annoyance of various idiots), have no capacity for these strange languages people want to inflict upon the world - this is probably a quick way to get yourself fire-bombed, but there you go.

The salesmen showed the same kind of keenness, if not desperation, as an MP in a close run election, not willing to let me out of the door without a machine between my legs. One young lady thrust her breasts at me and put enough wattage into her smile to make flash bulbs redundant (but this probably had nothing to do with selling motorcycles). Her sales patter was somewhat lacking in technical detail but her insistence that motorcycling was the modern way to go wasn't one I'd dare argue with. I refrained from adding, not wanting to give my identity away, that few, if any, nineties motorcycles warranted the description of being modern.

I left empty-handed, though, more amused than annoyed - the prices were still no better for one year old machines than those on offer on the shadow circuit for new bikes. It's considered bad form to point this out - judging by the scowls and muttering that results. Try to help someone get a grip on the reality of the modern motorcycle marketplace, and what do you get? Neither thanks nor a large reduction in the ticket price, that's for sure!

I even tried waving around a dog-eared copy of Motorcycle News but to absolutely no purpose - I was treated like some innocent clown who'd walked in straight off the street with a desperate need to purchase some wheels. I can actually remember feeling like that - an awfully long time and extraordinary excess of motorcycles ago. I got screwed the once; just the once - you have to learn fast to survive.

I tried throwing in some half-nonsense (the actual way things will be in two, three, years time, though) about the way the factories were churning out yet newer models, not just every year but twice a year, and by the time they had finished with the game they would be like the computer companies - by the time one model gets into the punters' hands the factory is already producing an upgraded version. Tried to tell these chaps that as well as being overpriced their new bikes were already, or just about to be, completely and utterly out of date. Drop the ticket price by thirty percent and maybe we can do a deal? This is not the way to make friends and influence people...

Rather than showing me the door this usually bought out a shower of curses on the infidelity of the Jap factories and why can't the buggers produce long-lived models like they used to? Another rant about all the shadow importers spoiling the game for everyone (except the punters, surely?) and how they were all fly-by-night operators not even working out of any premises who could only be contacted by mobile phone; these guys obviously had a lot of bile they wanted to off-load: I must have that kind of face.

The motorcycling future is certainly going to be as weird as it is wonderful. I feel sorry for a company like Triumph, which obviously put huge effort into making the T595 the machine of the moment, only to blink too long and find it unable to compete with the latest tranche of Japanese hyperbikes, although if they repackaged the basic Trident as a low rent, low weight hack they could give the Bandits, and the like, a good run for their money. Starting by mounting the f..king swinging arm on the back of engine (yet more free advice ignored; oh well...).

Turning my attention from the new stuff to the nearly new... I always like to give these people a chance - drop a gentle hint about the frailty of the motorcycle they are trying to off-load, they’ll just go into a rant along the lines that no such fault ever existed, and, anyway, they have hundreds of punters lined up for said bike even if I'm the only one within half a mile of the showroom and if I don’t want to pay the going rate I can jolly well sod off. Back to the good old days, wander into some dealers, look at the ticket prices, gawp in wonder and walk straight back out. Just isn’t even worth arguing the toss with the dossers.

The going rate, to be completely irrelevant for the moment as neither you nor I are in Thailand, for a new 40hp, 250lb watercooled 150cc stroker single in Bangkok is just over a grand - an inferior version from Japan going for four times that in the UK. Even if you take off Thai VAT (10%) and add in 30% in UK VAT, import tax and shipping charges you still end up with a remarkably cheap motorcycle (£1200). It comes down to selling 100’s of thousands of bikes rather than ten’s or hundreds! Because they're made under licence from the Jap corp's they can’t actually compete on the world market - talk about taking the piss! There should be a law against this kind of anti-competitive practice (sounds good, huh? - should've been a lawyer).

Getting back to the weird motorcycle scene in the UK. Even with the huge discounts on offer from the parallel importers, there's still a way to go until prices reach a reasonable level. At the moment a seven grand retail 600 goes for five grand on the import circuit, but that's still an awfully long way from the factory gate price (a cost that includes all the research and development plus a decent return on capital) and even if the pound starts going down as it should do in mid-1999 (yes, yes, you don't won't to believe this but go back through some past UMG's and you'll find I got the collapse of the Japanese market spot on - I don't just read motorcycle magazines, y'know) there's still plenty of room for prices of new bikes to keep falling. Marvellous motorcycling kicks out there for the taking - if you know what you're doing.

Bill Fowler

Despatches: On The Run In Shit City

Having narrowly dodged a bullet, well OK, a raid by the filth, on my recent soujourn to the Scottish Highlands, I found myself on a train headed south with no clear idea of what to do next. I'd had nothing to do with the alleged illegality, of course, but I very much doubted that McPlod would have believed that version of events. After some thought I elected to continue to London, as I hated the place with a passion and no-one in their right mind would have thought to look for me there. Most importantly I had a couple of friends I could call on, and I hoped against hope that neither of them had moved in the past year or so!

I successfully hid in the bog until the conductor had passed by, and pretended to be asleep for the remainder of the journey. This old favourite had served me well on the odd occasion that I'd been forced to travel by train, but nowadays there is the problem of the closed station to deal with. On my arrival at Kings Cross I simply bought a ticket to there from the nearest unmanned station and passed through the barrier unmolested, the entire journey completed for just a couple of quid. At one time I would have simply vaulted the barrier, but these days the Met have been known to shoot people dead for less.

So now what? I used some of the little credit left on my phone to ring the first of my mates. Disconnected... shit! I rang the second and, mercifully, Baz answered! That was the good news, the bad bit came in the form of his living arrangements. He now had a wife and kid in tow, and was still living in the same poky bedsit as he had been when I'd last seen him. So, no room for me then, but he suggested I could crash at his lock-up, and he would fix me up with some despatching work with his employers. This was the closest thing I'd heard to a plan since I'd landed in the wilds of Scotland just over six months ago!

I headed off to a nearby army surplus to load up on camping gear, and then there was just the problem of a bike. Mine were in storage, a good couple of hundred miles away, and I was going to need something PDQ if I was to take up the work Baz's firm had just offered me. Baz drove me round to the lock-up, gave me the spare key and, grinning from ear to ear, ushered me to a corner. There, under a dust sheet, stood a mystery bike. Grabbing a corner of the sheet, Baz whipped it away in one swift movement of the wrist revealing... a Honda 70.

Not wanting to appear ungrateful, I tried to see the positive aspects of this machine. Its engine had been replaced with a 90cc one from a later bike, which came with the added bonus of 12V electrics. These bikes, while slow, are extremely agile in traffic and will tolerate ridiculous levels of overloading. As I was to be working largely in the city these qualities would prove most suitable for its purpose.

My first day at work was not a total success; it rapidly became obvious that the Honda's engine had almost no compression and was absolutely knackered. Once warm, it was nigh on impossible to restart it. I put up with this for a week, after which I decided enough was enough and, now flush with a week's wages (and no outgoings!), I purchased a Chinese 110cc engine. This took all of an hour to install, there are just two mounting bolts, and six wiring connectors. The engine cost just £150 brand new and was a massive improvement - the bike would now, even with the original carb, pull 50mph on the flat - fully laden! Better yet, it had four gears as opposed to the original's three, making progress up hills much easier.

A couple of weeks later I bought a carb from a Honda ATC110 trike (£20 from a breakers), figuring this to be a better match to the engine. For once, I was right - the bike pulled more strongly throughout the rev range and now boasted a top speed of 55mph! Thrashing the arse off the bike everywhere was taking it's toll on the oil, however, and after 500 miles Asda's finest was well cooked. A £35 oil cooler from eBay improved matters greatly, and on the basis of this I upped the oil change interval to 1000 miles - partly because the stuff still in good nick after 500 miles, and partly because I'm lazy (and tight).

After about 5000 miles of unremitting abuse I made the mistake of believing the little Honda to be indestructible. A combination of shit rusty old forks and bumping up one too many kerbs had ended in disaster. The shocks had simply gone through the 'metal' and reduced the suspension travel to zero. By now I knew several of Baz's colleagues, and many of them had run similar step-thrus in the past, and had parts lying around that they were often only too glad to get rid of. When one chap offered me a set of forks FOC, I went round to his house to be offered a selection of parts including part-worn tyres and rusty exhausts. I gratefully accepted this and other offers, and in this way I spent almost nothing on the upkeep of the bike.

By the time I'd reached 7500 miles the chain fell off. I suppose adjusting it might have alerted me to its condition, in truth I hadn't even noticed the racket it made scraping along the bottom of the chainguard until I fitted a better, used one from the heap of parts. Around the same time the exhaust snapped off at the flange, which I'm guessing is a common problem as this was the third one I broke. Again, a rusty used one was thrown on in its place. I guess it's possible that the increased vibration from the Chinese motor caused these failures; the vibes certainly caused plenty of other stuff to fall off - horn, indicators, lower chainguard etc.

Baz was mostly doing out of town runs at this time, so I would hang out at the pub with the other despatchers. I did try not to go on the piss too often, but instead to use the pub as an alternative to spending evenings at the lock-up. While my accommodation was cheap, it did little for morale. I had done my best to make life there more bearable; as well as my army camp bed, stove and chemical toilet, there was now a mini-fridge that I'd pulled from a skip and I'd also amassed a sound system and satellite TV setup by similar means! Notwithstanding, it was still a shit-hole and I still hated London, so I knew that I would have be on my way sooner rather than later.

The one saving grace in all this was the work: despatching in London on the Honda was actually not too bad. I wasn't doing huge distances or great speeds and that suited me. The bike cost next to nothing to run, and I wasn't too worried about the odd knock or scratch it might pick up during the day's business. I was also earning pretty good money and, thanks to my unusual digs, spending very little of it indeed.

Consequently, after a year I decided to head back up North. Baz was amazed that the Honda had survived 12 months and 15000 miles at my hand, as was I, and he promptly sold it to me for £100. Man hugs were exchanged, I extended an invitation to him and his family to visit me in the frozen North and got on my way. The Honda had a week's MOT left, two bald tyres and serious wear in the front suspension bushes but, on the upside, all it had to do now was get me the 200-or-so miles to my home. No bother!

M Zapata

The Good Speed Guide: CBR900, GSXR750, R1

There are times when you say sod it, go for the fastest, nastiest piece of high tech equipment available. Worry about the cost later, just feel the speed and measure the smile. Although I'd had loads of kicks from the 600 replicas my experiences with the bigger, more exotic, stuff were largely limited. The odd leg-over on a GSXR, the occasional weekend on a begged and borrowed special (the girlfriend wasn't too amused at being swapped for the bike, but when needs must...) and a bright line of chatter on a few dealers on demo days. The flighty CBR 9 was the only one I'd experienced to any extent. Any thought that the UMG could blag anything decent too absurd to contemplate - it's always amusing to turn up at a dealers with the mag poking out of my pocket and clock the scowl.

I sort of knew what was on offer, then, but hadn't really been turned on enough to make the effort, to take the plunge into the world of 180mph speedsters. The appearance of the Yamaha R1, though, brought these vague longings into fine focus. I hadn't felt so much lust for a motorcycle since my early days when big British twins were still the premium tackle. Back then, it was always faintly amazing what a bit of lust could motivate by way of weekend and evening jobs to get the dosh together.

The first step was the obvious one of descending on the nearest Yamaha dealer's, demanding a test ride whilst showing an impressive array of credit cards to convince them of my financial standing. It was like taking candy off a baby. One Wednesday afternoon, the bike was wheeled out in all its glory. I knew I was on to a good thing just by the snarl the exhaust made. The riding position was a bit extreme but I contorted myself into the relatively svelte machine and hit on first gear with a far from high tech lurch. First lesson, the R1 had a rather abrupt clutch that needed a little bit of tenderness to stop the thing leaping forward like a randy race-horse chomping at the bit. But what the hell else could you expect when 150 horses was mixed with less than 400lbs of metal (at least when there weren't any fluids added)?

I couldn't resist the urge to let loose in first gear. all that very precious metal going wild, needing all my weight thrown forward to stop it turning cartwheels. The change snicked up lovingly to second - I soon learnt that the harder the bike was revved the slicker everything became. If anything, the bike appeared to hurtle forwards with even greater urgency but my fun and games were curtailed by an approaching junction. For a moment, I thought go with the flow, speed across it at some incredible velocity and rate of acceleration, dance between the gaps in the traffic - you have to understand that these bikes are reality altering and they make every ride like you're thoroughly intoxicated.

A brief blast on the motorway revealed that it was absurdly easy to put 150mph on the clock, the riding position beginning to make some kind of sense and the fairing dealing effectively with the fierce wind-blast. Stability was brilliantly reassuring, with none of the imminent feeling of extinction that the CBR sometimes exhibited, even if in reality it never came close to actually throwing the rider off the bike. Thing was, the R1 combined a better stability with fiercer acceleration, just about up to rotating eyeballs in the skull! I couldn't get enough of it.

Back at the dealers, they had a pile of finance forms ready for me to sign, having done a credit check (and probably life history) in my absence. Had I not clocked the prices shadow importers were offering in MCN and the cheap bank loans available I might have gone for it. I made my excuses and left. Only to grab MCN and make with the telephone. Several importers were sold out already but one had a couple left, about 700 notes less than the price the dealer quoted. The bank was so obliging about the loan, also over the phone, that had I any serious money there I would've taken it out - banks that give money away too easily are to be avoided. Right?

A plus B equals C, so a few days later I was in proud possession of a brand, spanking new R1. Can there be anything worse than having an immensely powerful motorcycle at your beck and call that has to be run in? 70 to 80mph in top gear was quite feasible so I ran it up and down the M4 a few times. It buzzed a bit and wasn't very comfortable but turned in 60mpg! As the engine loosened up, I was soon breaking through the ton, a speed at which the bike felt like it was just getting into its stride.

Streaming through a bend at this speed, I almost dropped a load when some idiot in a cage came roaring past about an inch from my handlebars. Don't know if it was my involuntary jerk or the Yamaha losing it, but the turbulence of the air made the bike shake its head - just once but at the ton that was enough to make me think twice about its famed handling. Didn't do it again, though, might just have been a touch of tightness in the steering head bearings before they wore into each other.

It was with great relief that I started revving the bike out. At relatively sane speeds the riding position made no sense, the Yam never feeling really right. The howling engine, spine buckling acceleration and mind warping top speed (about 190mph on the clock) transformed the whole nature of the beast. Totally addictive! Don't even bother with a test ride unless you've got the means to buy one, otherwise the yearning will do your mind in!

If the Yam represents the best in handling that the hyperbikes can offer, it doesn't mean it isn't subjected to the laws of physics. That is, it's dead easy to kill yourself if you go wild on the throttle in the corners. There's so much power, so much mad acceleration, that hitting on the throttle hard in second or third will have the bike going sideways almost before the throttle's made its move. I can imagine some relative novice giving it a handful, the next time he wake's up being in hospital! It took me a while to know how hard I could push it.

In the wet these limits are even more obvious. I've ridden bikes of a similar capacity that've been much more dangerous - a ZX-10 stays in the mind as being particularly suicidal - and the R1 always presented the possibility of an easy escape due to its pure lack of mass and excellent basic stability. But, again, the sheer excess of power allied to so little mass made for some fearsome slides when I forgot myself in the early days. It takes a couple of weeks to really become used to the way minor throttle movements result in excessive power being fed through the back wheel. Believe me, leaping off the R1 on to a CBR600, for instance, makes the latter feel incredibly slow! Moped status in one easy step.

One price paid for the R1's violent manners is truly shocking frugality. 25mpg was about par for the course. It wasn't just that the engine was particularly inefficient but that I kept playing with the throttle like some mad youth on his first motorcycle. Not helped any in the sanity stakes by the absolutely delicious howl the engine took on at the red-line in first, second and third. It was obvious that the bike had never been noise tested at such heady limits! My next door neighbour was way gone on rage when I returned after an early morning blast - this is the kind of bike that gets you out of bed at six o'clock! He reckoned I'd almost made his double-glazing disintegrate and wasn't too amused when I told him such early morning sorties were likely to be frequent.

If the throttle was treated with a modicum of respect the R1 would, in the bends, run rings around my mates variously highly rated tackle - tuned CBR600, new GSXR750 and GSXR1100. I was sometimes so far over that I thought I was going to scrape my helmet along the tarmac, but the tyres held and the bike felt just as stable as when upright. Couldn't fault it. Mind, the tyres were showing serious signs of wear after 1500 miles! 200 miles later the bike was sliding through bends rather than holding an almost stately line - basically just a fast way to an early grave or permanent NHS accommodation.

Before I could change the tyres disaster struck. The bike was nicked. I wasn't silly enough to leave it outside the Brixton gaff but had chiselled the steps down so that there was a ramp I could roar up at about 20mph. The handlebar ends just shaved through the doorway - it wasn't the kind of trip to try when slightly drunk! Anyway, the bike was parked relatively safely in my hallway. Or so I thought, until some little sods jemmied the door out of its frame and made off with my prized possession. It's at this point I should admit that due to the cumulative effect of past bad behaviour I couldn't get insurance for love nor money! Cry? I got pissed out of my head and woke up in the local tart's bedsit - must be reading too many of those Culler tales of debauchery!

That was no kind of consolation. To be absolutely honest, it wasn't the loss of money that had me down but the removal of the adrenaline and speed kicks. It was like walking around with half a ton on lead on my shoulders. I had a CX500 maggot as a despatch hack but all I really wanted to do to that heap was put a match in its petrol tank. Things had to get better...

Another demo day, another dealer. This time a GSXR750. A fierce little racer lacking sophistication but a mean spirited engine that could be used harder than the R1's for a lot of the time without the fear of being high-sided into oblivion. Though it lacked the massive kick of the rival Yamaha, I was used to playing with excessive power by then and found the GSXR a ball to string along on the throttle and gearbox - the latter much slicker than the Yamaha's. The dealer was offering a big discount and low finance which was mine for the taking. Couldn't afford it unless I defaulted on the R1's bank loan but what choice was there? Addictive bastards these latest hyperbikes.

Another running in session, up and down the M4 a couple of times. The cops laid traps along the way but I wasn't ready to push things and they went home disappointed, which was the only good thing about the running in chores - the GSXR's riding position made the R1 seem like a luxury tourer! I later found that it didn't make much sense until 150mph was on the clock! Even then, a 100 mile blast had me walking all funny and cursing the civilians who were wondering why someone so young had the posture of an eighty year old.

The lack of comfort was a constant irritation and limitation on my enjoyment of the bike. Made me go completely mad on the throttle, frying the tyres and discs when I realised I had to slow down from the resulting insane speeds or end up splattered on some cage that seemed to be going so slow it was moving backwards. The GSXR was turning in 35mpg even under such abuse, not a miser's dream but given the level of kicks more than acceptable.

Subjected to truly mad velocities, as much as 175mph on the clock, as many times a day as I could get away with (like the true addict, work no longer held any attraction) my mind underwent a curious transformation - the faster I went and the harder I pushed things the more time I seemed to have to react; time expanded to compensate for the rate at which the road was ate up. Frighteningly, 150mph soon felt like a mild amble and 175mph like the bike was just coming into its stride.

A few times I tried some mad lines through corners that on the R1 resulted in the mildest of shuffles, as if the bike was giving me a warning that it was time to back off. Pushed similarly, the GSXR began to shake its back end, but rather than scaring me silly, I merely compensated instinctively with a bit of body shuffle and got away with it! The curious reader might have formed the impression, that after more than 25 years of relatively sane biking, I was an accident waiting to happen; they wouldn't be far wrong!

It went down like this. One clear, warmish day, on the M1 I wanted to see what the GSXR would really do. Strung the bike out in the gears, really fighting the engine into the red each time, then got down behind the far from protective fairing - you have to be jockey thin for it to make any kind of sense; I was almost there! 170mph came up without too much effort, but the slight headwind appeared to turn into a howling gale that slapped the front of the bike around. I thought best to ride through it; ground my teeth and tightened my grip. The engine sang with its vibration but the speedo moved inexorably further into the speedster's dream-zone.

183mph came up in the end, the bike way out of line by then, waltzing across a couple of lanes of carriageway as if the alloy frame was suffering from chronic fatigue. My muscles bulged with the effort to hold her on line and I had the odd inclination to just ride the bike right off the road. I was crouched down so low that I could barely see over the screen and when I clocked a white Sierra that was a dead ringer for a cop car up ahead I thought I'd had it.

The Suzuki had amazing brakes but with such a high velocity distance was covered even as speed was vaporised. We cruised past the white car at 110mph which had resolved itself into a civilian vehicle, the brakes still steaming off the speed. At 90mph the bars gave an almighty twitch for no sane reason that I could see. With the forks all wound up under the pressure of full-bore braking it's possible a minor bump upset the whole chassis, but I can't recall feeling anything.

I did the natural thing, let off the brakes. The bike went into an all out speed wobble that twisted the bars out of my hands. It all went a bit blurred after that, my next real moment of consciousness came when I picked myself up after a slide along the hard shoulder - luckily, the nearest and dearest fearing the worst had force-fitted me into a prime set of leathers that were ripped to shreds - much better than leaving my skin in a similar state.

The bike had managed that rarest of feats - written itself off without any damage to other vehicles. I didn't know, given the state of my insurance, if I should be relieved or gutted! Its plastic was scattered along the motorway, the broken frame and scraped off engine covers only needed a cursory glance to confirm the bike's demise. I made it up the embankment and into a field full of mad cows before the cops arrived. They probably assumed I'd been flattened into the tarmac by a couple of speeding artics and spent a couple of days valiantly searching for my remains.

Any sensible person, at this stage, would've opted for a C90, a nice little car or a holiday in the sun. Not this kid. After the shaking stopped I decided a CBR900 was the obvious solution to all of my problems. Having by then been blacklisted by all the banks and finance companies, there was the minor problem of finding the dosh. A gruelling month followed - despatch riding in the day, bar work in the evening and the odd bit of buying and selling of dodgy motorcycles. The only good thing to come out of all this effort was the confirmation that the CX was a marvellous workhorse that took all the hard running and neglect I could throw at it.

Four thousand notes richer, I decided the only solution to my speed lust was a used CBR900. This is not the kind of search to take up lightly, there being as many dodgy CBR900's and vendors as there are stars in the sky. Many were eliminated over the phone, with the usual questions about names in the logbook, frequency of oil changes and length of ownership. A couple seemed worth a visit but it took two weeks until I found one that wasn't crashed and hadn't been obviously abused - most CBR owners just ride their bikes into an early death, although the toughness of the motor means most make it to at least 50,000 miles.

Enter an early, 34000 mile CBR900. It desperately needed a new front tyre but I didn't have the dosh. Thus the bike was very light-headed in the corners, sliding and twitching all over the shop. Felt like a right old barge after the other bikes. All the more so because the engine was in fine fettle - lacking the ultimate punch of the R1 but needing more restraint than the GSXR, it felt like it was just run in, turning over with a fine wail out of the non-standard Motad 4-1 and barging though the 150mph barrier as if demanding to know what all the fuss was about. Only after a new set of Bridgestone's finest were fitted did the handling offer a semblance of stability but it never approached the sheer outrageous modernness of the R1's chassis. Compared to the GSXR, though, it was a paragon of virtue. Mind, newer CBR's have evolved over the years until the machinations of its strangely sectioned 16 inch front tyre but rarely intrude - it's unfair to compare a used and abused bike with new stuff but the UMG didn't heed my appeal for a new Honda in the interest of fairness.

The Honda was undoubtedly fast - 180mph on the clock before I decided that, for once, discretion was better than suicide. The R1 would have the legs on it in both acceleration and top speed; a GSXR750 would stay in sight at the price of a lot of hard work on the throttle and gearbox. The CBR was the sweetest of the bunch around 125mph, having the least annoying riding position and all its components blending into a whole that even the R1 couldn't, at times, match. But there was something lacking in the Honda, despite its outrageous excess of power and speed.

After a week in its saddle I was actually feeling bored! Dare I suggest it was too civilised, a trait entirely eradicated in the GSXR and you never really had time to notice anything other than the R1's exaggerated rate of acceleration. I wanted another R1. The other love of my life threatened separation, the parents howled in despair and all my friends tried to prevail upon my saner instincts. The family doctor was even consulted but went into a litany about the seriously ill needing his attention. Quite right, too.

A few more demo rides on the R1 were taken but when I came back all aglow with the speed the scowl on the dealer's face was worth framing - he'd obviously clocked the red flags when checking out my credit rating (worse than Indonesia's I'd gamble). A plus B didn't equal C any more! In the end word got around and I was barred from testing the R1 - just had to content myself with running a hand over its flanks before being rudely ejected by irate salesmen.

A few frightening moments when I tried antics I got away with on the R1 which turned the CBR into a lumbering carthorse, convinced me that I'd better get my life together before it was too late. The CBR was sold at a mild profit, the Maggot was kept running on a shoestring and pictures of the R1 lovingly caressed... Some day.

My final conclusion from this long ramble on speed is that the R1 should be avoided unless you can really afford one (and that includes the heavy insurance!). Both the GSXR750 and CBR900 are bad enough in their own right but the R1 has an added element of such total excess that to ride one is to fall in love, become totally addicted to the beast of forward momentum. Most Japanese fours ultimately become a little boring, edging you on to the next new model. The R1 redefines that experience! A brilliant speed beast that has no equals - I reckon the guys who stole mine must've had a test ride, been smitten so badly that they just had to get their mitts on one! Can't even blame them for their lust. I'm off to check into the nearest psychiatric ward before it all becomes too much for me!

Dick Lewis

Ducati 888

Speed merchants usually go for big Japanese fours but I opted for a walk on the wild side - a used Ducati 888! Why? Well a series of so-called Japanese superbikes had left a bad taste in my mouth. Not because they were unreliable or slow or anything you could point a particular finger at, just that all they offered was speed. After a while, it simply wasn't enough. Enter a lovingly cared for Ducati 888 vee-twin. The owner was the kind of fanatic that dreams are made of - he spent an hour interrogating me before I was let loose on the machine. He would only sell to the right kind of chap! This is pretty typical of Ducati owners, despite the huge wedge involved.

The 888 is a beast of a motorcycle. Though it doesn't actually vibrate as such, it's a raw old thing that communicates the nuances of the combustion process directly to the rider in a way that a straight four could never emulate. A brief ride left me astonished at the fluidity of its vee-twin motor and wondering just what I'd let myself in for. The punch when I whacked open the throttle for the first time almost broke my back in two; the subtle difference between the outrageous torque of a vee and excessive power of a four. I practically had to force the money on to the vendor, who clocking my shining mug must've relived the highs of his own ownership and become suddenly reluctant to part with the 888.

Reality is a harsh bedfellow. The next day I found that the watercooled motor was reluctant to rev beyond 6000rpm. I phoned the old owner up who reckoned he'd never experienced such symptoms, added that he was about to go to Australia for the next six months so I shouldn't waste my time phoning him again! There followed several visits to people who reckoned they were Ducati dealers but didn't appear to have much of an idea of what was going down in the complex array of electronics and high tech metal that the 888 represented.

The bike would rumble along nicely enough at low revs but lacked the kicks I'd experienced on the test ride. I eventually found a Ducati expert who deduced that the previous owner had bodged the exhaust's baffles with some GRP that had soon been eaten up by the heat. He sat me gently down in a seat before revealing how much a new exhaust system would cost - a few taps with his hammer revealed that the old one was so far gone that there was no easy reclamation. He even offered to buy the bike off me, obviously reckoning that as a Ducati novice I didn't really know what I'd let myself in for. I got in hock with the bank and decided the good times were only a minor financial embarrassment away.

Fortunately, the expert had been correct in his diagnosis - these seemingly simple motors are actually more complex and finicky than the Japanese fours, one minor problem causing the whole to be rendered useless. With the new exhaust I was soon in seventh heaven, revelling in the bike's manic acceleration, glorious exhaust note and heavenly handling.

It took three weeks for the clutch to start giving trouble. Ducati clutches are notorious weak spots in an otherwise sophisticated design. It'd always been a bit grabby and noisy but it soon became really annoying, dragging in town and slipping whenever I went over 7000 revs - which was often, such was the intoxicating mix of power, torque and handling! I could run rings around bikes like the CBR900 in the tighter bends. The good life redefined. And such was the gutsy nature of the beast I never came close to boredom city.

Eventually, the clutch was burnt out to a cinder. Refused to work at all. The expert was called in, who just smiled and demanded another large wedge. He also informed me that it was time for the desmo valves to be done and that the piston rings were nearing their wear limits. He came up with a four figure sum to put the motor to rights and wasn't surprised to find my jaw aligned with my belly-button! This time I took his offer of money seriously; if the loss was slight, the relief was great! For all the Ducati's serious sensations I always had the feeling I was close to complete mechanical disaster. If I could afford it, though, I'd buy a new 916 - like yesterday!

Dave Williams

Kawasaki Z1000

It could be so wonderful. Life with the Z1000, that is. Wonderful in the sense that I could leap aboard and head for the open road without any worries whatsoever. Just knew its meaty, outrageously tough, four cylinder motor was going to hold together, come what may. Not that I could go totally wild on the throttle. Not with 600lbs of ill-framed metal to fight against. Even on non-standard, much improved, suspension... there was still a weak headstock and peculiar steering geometry to contend with. Not that it was totally suicidal, a brief dalliance might even persuade that it was pretty damn good for such a hefty old bruiser - muscle needed, yes, but a slice of precision steering there for the taking.

It wasn't an impression that would last - for instance the need to back off the throttle going into a bumpy bend would reveal a very different creature. One that wanted to bounce off the road, turn around back the way it had just come. Fun and games once you get used to it and develop the right reactions - point, squirt and muscle it back on to line... not for ten stone weaklings, I think!

Other mannerisms included chronic head shaking when exiting bends at mach speed - and it wasn't just a case of riding right through it, either, you had to manhandle the sod in the direction of your dreams otherwise you ended up amidst a rolling nightmare! The forks would also flop about in emergency braking even though the twin disc set-up was barely up to coping with the 140mph the bike would occasionally put on the clock - pogo-sticking across a couple of lanes of highway just to make sure I was still awake! Always, I was aware that the frame could turn to plastic without any warning, throwing the mass about like a deranged spastic.

Somehow, I never actually fell off or gave myself a heart attack, though judging by the antics of other road users they came pretty close to meeting their maker when viewing our perambulations. It also dissuaded bikers on modern tackle from trying to go inside or outside me but once they did get ahead, they weren't seen again; even the hot 400 replicas could leave me for dead, at the price of excessive throttle and gearbox action.

The torque of the Z1000's old fashioned air-cooled mill could teach the new kids a thing or two, though even the full weight of its excess guts was slightly muted by having to cart along 600lbs of metal as well as a slightly overweight rider (17 stones ain't nothing up north, boy). Thus were the hefty characteristics of man and machine extremely well matched, though the suspension had been hastily upgraded, not wanting to destroy the rear mudguard and seat in one easy step, nor to rip off the silencers in mild acts of cornering.

A lot of time and effort was put into sorting out its ancillaries. I expected some wear on a 15 year old, 27000 miler, but not the all pervasive rot that was trying to ruin many of the chassis components. Most desperately, the original swinging arm. A brief run around the breakers turned up a classy looking alloy job with a beefy bit of bracing. This needed a couple of spacers and different pair of shocks to work, but I got there in the end. It's not worth thinking about having this component break up on you at speed, is it?

The saddle base was repaired with GRP, the mudguards replaced with plastic, the bottom of the petrol tank welded up and the downpipes wire-brushed and coated in heat resistant matt black paint. Such an energetic act that it caused the fast decaying silencers to disintegrate in sympathy; replaced by a couple of universal cans that luckily were the same length as the originals and did no harm to the carburation. A nice snarl results above 6000 revs, where the engine comes into its power, and an even better concerto on the overrun.

The paint was also damaged, flaking off and letting rust sprout. The frame was covered in red-oxide, left like that where it didn't show and given a bit of black Smoothrite where it did. Tank and panels were done to the original colours, the bloody decals costing almost as much as the paint job! The finished result looked jolly classy to my eyes, a view shared by many ex-bikers who ear-holed me with stories of their kicks on similar machines back in the midst of time. None of the blighters made me an offer I couldn't refuse, though!

Not that I really wanted to sell. Despite needing a bit of tender loving care along the way, handling like something out of the ark and not being on the pace with the 600's, the fundamental point about these old Kawasaki fours shouldn't be missed - the engines are incredibly tough! Mine has now clocked up 116,000 miles! An oil change every 1000 miles has paid off, though with roller crank bearings it's not even dependent on fresh oil. The carbs get a balance every 5000 miles, though I'm not sure they need it whilst the valves are left for more than 25000 miles and even then only very rarely need any attention.

The only other bike I've come across with a similar aura of indestructibility in the face of such neglect's the GS550 - a mate's got one up to 160,000 miles. We have a good laugh at similar era Honda fours which need loads of rebuilds and the XJ Yamaha's aren't much better. Friends on replica 600's are usually in big trouble come 60,000 miles, though I know one guy who got 89000 miles out of an early Yamaha FZR600 - he has a very light hand on the clutch! That makes the Z one of the few bikes I'd buy without really worrying about the state of its engine.

The price paid for such build quality, as mentioned, is all the mass it has to carry around. You get used to it after a while. The top heavy feel disappears and it's easy to become convinced that this is the way motorcycles should be built... until the bends get too fast and the roads too bumpy. Mine's got flat bars and rear-sets, which gives a quantum improvement in comfort over the stocker, which is more likely to make you feel like a human sail than part of the machine.

Long distance cruising is limited to 85-90mph. At this velocity, as long as the road is reasonably smooth and the curves not too tight, the Z feels well settled and the wind's force isn't so extreme that I can't lean into it. Open the throttle in top, there's a very strong rush of power up to about 125mph; more available if you can hang on. Anything more than 90mph for more than a few minutes is heavy going, though. Not just the wind pressure but the muscle expended fighting the brutal monster into submission. I can do it, have done it, but the returns, in terms of distance covered and time saved, don't merit the feeling of being totally knackered.

Two grand will get you in the low end of the game, three thousand notes needed for a really prime example with low mileage. Not a great bargain but it's the kind of bike you can keep for decades and just get off on its brutality; a true original.

R.O.

Suzuki GSX750 Katana

The grey importer ushered me into the back garage where the Suzuki was being dismembered from its crate. Inch by inch the metallic white missile from hell was revealed. There followed lots of head scratching whilst trying to start her. Sonic booms from the exhaust hinted that the good times might be about to start. A burning smell from the battery, connected up to a double-decker charger, soon put a stop to that. The wannabe mechanic scratched his balls, pulled the battery out and went hunting for a replacement. The dealer, meanwhile, tweaked the electrical system by putting about a hundred amps through it, only deterred when smoke started pouring out of the starter motor!

They all looked pretty disconsolate when the only battery that would fit turned out to be new! With this shoved rudely in place, the four cylinder motor chewed out a few gobs of white smoke and then fired up. The choke was stuck fully open, soon had the revs screaming to seven grand! The engine was hastily switched off, some artful work with a grease splattered can of WD40 sorted that out. By then I was in two minds about the machine - it looked in excellent nick, had only 13500 kilometres on the clock and cost just 999 quid. On the other hand, the treatment received at the hands of the dealer clowns didn't instill any great sense of peace of mind.

With trade plates added, I was encouraged on to the pillion. The young mechanic rode with the usual death-wish but it did reveal the bike as fast accelerating, strong braking and fairly smooth - all in comparison to my previous mount, a Yamaha XJ750. I was allowed a brief go on the controls, impressed with the slickness of the gearbox and hard edge to the engine during acceleration. Despite my misgivings I decided to go for it, as it was the best bike I'd seen for under a grand by a very long shot!

A couple of weeks later they had finally sorted the paperwork, their whole attitude changing once I'd handed over the dosh. Being an old hand at the game, I'd written down the frame and engine numbers to make sure what I was paying for was actually what I got at the end of the day. The dealer's grimace of disgust stays etched in my mind but better safe than sorry.

The Katana range made Suzuki's name for innovative styling which they largely failed to follow through. Available in 550, 650, 750, 1000 and 1100 forms, the 750 was the odd one out, never seriously imported into the UK - don't know why as it arguably had the best styling and a superior blend of power and mass. Lately, the 1100's styling has turned up in Japan, allied to 250 and 400cc four cylinder bikes that weigh a fraction of the original's excessive mass. Whereas the larger Kat's were justly famed for their high speed wobbles, the smaller stuff had much of the inherent stability of the GS550/750...

That was the theory anyway (these dealers don't half go on, given a chance), one immediately put to the test as I rode back home along some favourite Kent back roads. Tight curves, humpback hills that left ya flying thru the air and some faster than motorway straights. I knew them off by heart and how they reacted to the XJ's chassis. The big Yamaha was a bit of a pig through the tighter stuff, whereas the Suzuki flew through them 10-15mph faster without really trying. A grin soon broke out and lasted until the first ridge.

Riding the big dipper kinda tarmac. We went flying off the top of a blind hill at about 90mph to meet a vista of total disbelief. Farmer Fred steering his extra wide combine harvester, in might as well give the hedgerow a free trim mode. The hedgerow on my side of the road, that is. As the machine was airborne at this point my panicked seized mind didn't really matter. Farmer Fred looks up, trying to work out what the irate buzz-saw noise means. Low flying aeroplane? Some form of extraterrestrial vehicle? By the time he figures out that a motorcycle is about to come through his cabin, I've grabbed everything I can grab, landed with a scream of tearing metal, burning rubber, and somehow twitched the 475lbs of oh-so-heavy metal sideways, through the hedge. Missing the harvesting part of his machine by about one millimetre.

Silly of me to think he might hang around to check whether flying through the air at 60mph and landing in a bog might've broken my neck. It hadn't but the fall, and the added strain of extracting the Suzuki from the bog, did in my back for months afterwards. The bike was still rideable, though its pristine finish was now ancient history. I still get retards making jibes about the way I'd repaired the cracked plastic with GRP.

The handling was a bit odd thereafter, shuffling through slow speed bends like it wanted to fall over rather than faithfully follow my every command. High speed work was fine, with only the slightest wallow at 135mph, which worked out as the top speed. This was real mph, not an optimistic reading on the clock - I've got the speeding ticket from the plod as proof! Kind chaps that they are. 100mph cruising was easy going, matching the bike's riding position perfectly and allowing me an hour's good comfort before my arse started screaming for mercy.

Fuel worked at 40mpg in full bore mode, though it would do 60mpg in laid back riding, that still included blasting the motorway speed limit by 20mph. Mind, the carbs needed a 1000 mile balance to keep the frugality reasonable. The rest of the consumables haven't done any serious damage to themselves in 7000 miles of abuse - I'm not a wheelie piss artist, which obviously helps!

The electrics are a bit marginal - 125 miles of night work leaves the front light flickering, the whole beast going dead if I'm silly enough to try the horn or indicators. I mentioned this to the dealer, he coming up with the usual refrain - they all do that, sonny! An auto-electrician reckoned it was firing on all three coils, so to speak, that maybe something was breaking down when the motor became too hot. I could spend hundreds trying to sort the problem and still not find the solution. Best to leave it until something goes terminal; meanwhile, join the AA!

The bike's surprisingly strong accelerating up to about 120mph, when things go into slow motion. I've given quite a few newish 600's the frights and it's faster than all the old style 750's, not to mention a Z900 and CB900 that have fallen by the wayside in highway battles. As might be expected at this relatively low mileage, the motor's as tough as they come and the bike has a general feel of being totally bullet-proof - well, as long as the electrics don't cause it to go up in flames. For the money I paid, even if I have to fix the electrics I'm still well ahead of the game.

Jon Trenington

Loose Lines: Helmetless [May/June 1998]

I am of an age that can work out which year the helmet law was introduced with some simple arithmetic - the year I was born plus sixteen, as it hit me halfway through my ownership of a moped. If we want to get really historical, that was also a year when mopeds weren't restricted to silly power and speed limits and it was quite feasible to find a 50cc set of wheels that could top 45mph via a vertiginous drop and howling gale to the rear, albeit one with a set of pedals whirring around frantically. A year later, FS1E's and SS50's took things a little further along the way to youthful self-destruction, though by then I was old enough to own a proper motorcycle (anything up to 250cc, no power restrictions but 30hp the most the technology of the day was up to).

The bureaucrats convinced that the combination of forcing youths to wear silly looking crash helmets on 30mph mopeds would soon wean them off such indulgences. To an extent it worked pretty damn well. Recently, in the corridors of powers, mutterings abound that mature riders will actually be allowed to ride bikes without crash helmets - it may have already happened for all I know. I'm so out of it that I haven't seen a newspaper, heard a radio or watched any TV (in a language I can comprehend) for the past few weeks. The corollary to that removal from reality, that I've been bopping around on a motorcycle without wearing a lid. And jolly good fun it is, too!

Could it be that forcing everyone to wear a lid has backfired. That along with head protection, the leather and knee-slider junkies have made it trendy to get all dressed up (to my eyes looking pretty absurd, but then what do I know?) and armed with the latest 180mph hyperbike, go and have some fun on the open highway. Hear those bureaucrats and safety fascists grinding their teeth? Luckily, banning outrageously fast bikes would inevitably lead to a similar ban on powerful cars, which the governmental junkies, and others, with more power in their fingers than lead between their legs, wouldn't like at all; a fast set of (four) wheels needed to impress gullible babes.

Actually, those with both a full set of mental facilities and back issues of the UMG might like to look up a past column (if they have nothing better to do) in which I suggested this very thing many years ago - let mature riders, those over 25 or who had done a certain number of years on bikes, ride without helmets if they want to. Don't believe it? Well it's there in print somewhere, though I have neither the eighty-odd copies of the UMG to hand, nor the time to sift through them. Sorry!

The result of that idea, a barrage of letters from riders offended by the notion that they would be shown up as cowards by not having the courage to ride without a helmet - it wasn't the way they put it, but the tone of moral outrage and anger made it all pretty plain to me. It was, in my moped days, much more fun to hurtle along bare-headed at 45mph than with a lid on and I couldn't understand why anyone should object to me taking the risks at higher speeds when I later made it on to serious wheels - I wasn't going to do any harm to anyone else if I topped myself.

Apart from the rare early morning indulgence which involved getting up at an unlikely hour and heading for deserted back roads, the vast majority of my UK riding has been with a helmet on. In the winter or rain I wouldn't complain but when the sun's shining and the weather's warm, who the fuck wants to ride around with a coloured potty perched on their head? Not this kid, for one, not even after passing 41 pleasant summers on this planet (go on, work out which year the helmet law was introduced, get the old brain working. No?).

One thing's for sure, the removal from reality that comes from wearing a full-face lid helps safety not one jot. Speed's much less intense, aural awareness of the proximity of other vehicles almost non-existent and the consequences of falling off much muted under the illusion of cranial protection. Theories abound about the effect of the lower half of a full-face lid snapping back suddenly under impact with the ground, breaking the wearer's neck. And judging by the high level of baldness amongst the motorcycle fraternity, wearing a helmet aids premature hair loss.

Obviously, grinding down the road helmetless is likely to result in brain meeting air or a whole face being torn off; but then crossing the road with a moment's inattention is equally likely to cancels one's existence! Motorcycling has always been mixed up with living one's life to the full, taking chances and going to the edge at times; riding without a helmet just one more aspect of the great dance with death. If you're gonna go, you're gonna go, etc.

Being out in the country (and out of the country as well, if you see what I mean) you can take things even further. As well as not having to wear a crash helmet, the speed limits in practice non-existent and whatever traffic rules the bureaucrats thought up haven't quite made it into the brains of the populace. Having to avoid the antics of drunken, if not drugged, lunatics in forty degrees of heat might appear to make helmets, if not full leathers and body armour or even a machine-gun, mandatory but it's all so fluid, in a mad kind of way, that it seems dead easy to dance through the traffic at dangerous speed whilst screaming obscure insults in English that no-one has any chance of understanding. Just smile whilst it's going down.

See, the thing about all this craziness is that it only needs a minimally modern motorcycle to join in - say 35 horses of Japanese inspired two-stroke wizardry in a chassis that weighs little more than 200lbs. Less than a thousand notes brand spanking new. Enough to make you cry, ain't it? Combine that go, which includes hot acceleration to about 75mph and an ultimate top speed of around 110mph, with riding sans lid, to find a whole new world of motorcycling that harks back to the sixties in the UK, when men were men and bikes were raw and mean if wholly lacking the sophisticated reliability of modern strokers (engines good for 25000 miles plus).

When riding lidless, 50mph feels like 90mph, 100mph like 150mph and doing 110mph likely to snap sunglasses in half, the only reasonable means of ocular protection when you have to ride fast and look cool. Senses are alive, even overloaded, with stimuli and it's an incredible buzz just to be alive and out on a bike in the sunshine with a babe clinging on desperately out back, nothing more than a couple of tee-shirts muting the body heat. And the heat of some frail who's spent her youth cutting rice or sugar cane in suicidal temperatures is something else - once experienced never forgotten, anything less no use whatsoever (a diet of rice and beer doing wonders for one's potency, by the way).

In fact, I'd go as far as to say that riding helmetless makes the whole plethora of superbikes totally redundant, pointless, their excessive speed and power wholly unnecessary in this context. In the rain and cold, when it's sensible if not essential to wear a lid, the big bikes have too much power to use properly, the small stuff killing them dead in most circumstances.

Throw in the appalling economy, massive expense and silly complexity of the superbikes, to figure that the past two and a half decades have just been one huge con - could the Japs have been foresighted enough to bribe the bureaucrats to introduce the helmet law so that they could off-load increasingly powerful, and therefore necessarily expensive, motorcycles. Nah! No-one's that clever, are they?

Bill Fowler

AJS 350

The crack was pretty good. And the bike wasn't bad either. The girlfriend's uncle had an AJS 350 thumper stashed in his garden shed. He was a bit of an old goat, all the girlfriend had to do was turn up braless in a tight tee-shirt and he would give in to her every whim. Thus for a measly 600 quid did I gain the seat of a bike that was basically as it came out of the factory - plus 30-odd years worth of wear and corrosion. The starting had me short of breath, sharp pains screaming in my spine. Amusing was the first time the hefty kickstart snapped back and did in my shin. The old goat looked like I'd made his day whilst the girl scowled like we were into a thirty year marriage.

The engine made a terrible din. The engine not the exhaust, which had the kind of meaty growl that sent old-timers weak at the knees. The valves rattled, the piston slapped and even the carb vented its anger with a chortling noise. The fast loosening bolts joined in with their own chorus. We struggled on to the sagging seat and I tried to sort my feet out - the gearchange was on the wrong side and worked the wrong way around. Very confusing!

The clutch lever seemed seized but after nearly breaking my hand I managed to pull the lever back and knock the gear lever into first. The bike leapt a foot forward and stalled dead. I was told I should've freed the clutch before starting the engine. I had visions of doing a partial engine strip down but, no, this just involved pulling in the clutch lever and giving the mill a few kicks, wiping excess oil off the plates thus removing the clutch drag. The carb also needed to be tickled, which was a case of depressing a small button until fuel ran out over its casing. All very curious and quaint but you had to get everything right else you'd end up knackered trying to attain forward motion.

Once I had her rolling in first gear I felt a bit more relaxed. True, some effort was needed on the bars to stop her going way off line - nothing to do with the chassis, which was tautly efficient even by modern standards, just the way the thumper vibes shook everything. By the time I was up to third the bike had smoothed out a bit, thrumming along at 50mph without much mechanical violence. Into fourth (top) gear and 60mph, the world was actually a pretty pleasant place if the noisy motor was ignored. Even the exhaust bark had mellowed out a bit, more likely to achieve a wave from a British bike fan than a booking from the plod.

The latter would doubtless have been amused to find that the rear light/numberplate assembly had disappeared along the route home. Backtracking found only a bit of crushed black metal that might or might not have been the missing item. Don't know if it was the rust or vibration that did for it, or a combination of the two. Finding authentic bits added up to almost a hundred notes so the local breaker was visited and some stuff off a CD175 bodged on; painted black it looked pretty authentic unless you were some kind of pernicious prick.

I soon decided that a bit customizing was in order. Higher bars, a cut down seat and a nice bright yellow paint job looked the business and almost gave the past owner a heart attack when he saw what I'd done. No sense of aesthetics, some people! He seemed particularly perturbed by the devil's head I'd attached to the cut down front mudguard, asking if it was legal. He was even less amused when I said I didn't give a toss - given his reputation he was a fine one to talk about legality!

These minor modifications well suited the minimal speed and decidedly laid back rate of acceleration. 90mph was the most I dared push the motor to but in reality there wasn't much point doing more than 75mph. It wasn't that there wasn't the power there - even with way too wide valve clearances and optimistic ignition timing, the engine would still happily hold illegal speeds - but that the basic, long stroke, thumper mill put out a fury of vibration that, on one memorable occasion, left me cross-eyed!

Its sweetest spot was dead on 65mph. 60 or 70mph there was a definite tremor in the bars and pegs but nothing that couldn't be ignored after a mild bit of practice. 75mph equated to harsh teeth rattling, 80mph to fillings falling out; 90mph was seriously detrimental to health. It also didn't like running below 20mph in top gear. The motor was standard with over 40,000 miles worth of wear on its original components, if the past owner's to be believed - as he was a lazy bastard it's probably true! A newly rebuilt one might be truly glorious but I doubt it.

I did all of 4000 miles on mine, in about six months. Had a few electrical problems and it needed constant spanner wielding but it was still together when I sold it at a nice profit - yes, I put it back to original spec and did a polishing and cleaning session. Many of the motor's noises went away when I did the valves and ignition timing but it never rustled with mechanical integrity.

Other weak spots included useless lights, dangerous brakes and suspension that would lock up over truly rotted roads, though the bike never came close to rolling off the road even in this perilous state. When I'd become used to the starting technique and the lack of speed I had a grand old time thumping along minor roads and generally blowing civilian's minds in town. The Viking helmet also had them confused! If you want a bit of individual biking at a reasonable price, look no further.

Steve Shantar

Tricky Triton

The bike consisted of a Wideline Norton Featherbed frame with an old pre-unit 650 Triumph engine mated with a Norton gearbox. There was a lot of intricate metalwork around the engine mounts and it looked like a well engineered special. Except that the GRP petrol and oil tanks were weeping fluids, messing up the whole machine.

The owner was a graduate in gunge and declared that the bike had been like that for a long time, that he hadn't really noticed that it was in a bad way. As he wanted two and a half grand I had a lot of trouble stopping myself bursting into laughter but kept a straight face. The test ride had revealed the motor had a surprising amount of punch, that the valves floated at nine grand and that the handling was nicely tight - very accurate steering with not much effort needed on the clip-ons.

I definitely wanted the bike but my idea of a fair price was 750 notes. This went down like a Hell's Angel at a born-again biker's meeting. The scowl would've won praise from a third world politician deprived of a bribe. He came down to two grand and I went up to half that. I left my phone number and the warning that there were plenty of other British tackle out. In reality, anything under two grand was in a right old state of neglect that added up to loads of dosh to put to rights.

He phoned back three weeks later with the news that his rock bottom price was 1500 quid. On this he would not shift. Another test ride. A look over by an expert in British antiques, who reckoned that all was well mechanically and he could get me used alloy tanks for less than a hundred notes. I went for it, Mr Gunge's scowl replaced with a huge smile of relief that seemed to say one born every day!

On the ride home I was worried that some prick in a cage was going to toss out a fag on to the weeping petrol tank. Old Gunge had smelt like a walking gas station and with the petrol vapour flying back into my groin and stomach I soon found out why. If I'd been pulled by Mr Plod I'd have been booked. No two ways about it! I made it back to base without bursting into flames, quite amused to find the old tug would rattle and roll up to an indicated 120mph on the chrono speedo. You have to be used to the level of vibes put out by old British twins, though. A bolt tightening sessions was needed after that fast 60 mile ride; one of the springs between the rocker covers - used to stop them rotating off - had even broken!

The alloy petrol and oil tanks didn't fit straight on. These things never do. A bit of artwork on the brackets with a hammer and buying the rubber strap that ran the length of the tank (to replace the bungee cord) soon sorted that. Needed a bit of alloy and paint polishing to get the sheen back into the bike, but after that was done I was looking at a three grand machine, minimum, and was like a kid with a sackful of toys at Christmas.

Such infatuation was short-lived. Surprise, surprise. Nothing too major, just complete electrical failure (except for the ignition circuit). The wiring was held together with ancient strips of Sellotape. A lot of it fell apart when I started investigating. Some spice was added by different coloured bits of wire being connected to each other - once it fell apart it was difficult to put back together. It was still charging, so I put some new wiring in and everything went back to working. The bike had a 12V conversion but neither the lights nor horn were much cop.

The machine was running open mega's and twin Amal Concentrics with bellmouths. Made a glorious noise and revved so freely that if you ignored the vibes its valves could quite happily be bounced! The owner had proudly informed me that the valve seats and valves had been upgraded so that the bike could be run on unleaded fuel. I found no problems with the latter and was often amazed at how economical the bike could be - 70mpg if ridden sanely (up to 80mph) and it was hard work to get worse than 60mpg. This compares with about 50mpg from a GS450E ridden at similar velocities. In fact, as well as being more economical, the Triumph had much more amusing acceleration and a much more gutsy nature.

Yes, the Suzuki was much smaller but it should also have benefited from 35 years worth of motorcycle engineering. Apart from the major fact that the engine gave every impression of resisting total neglect, I could find no area in which it was superior to the Triton, which would whip the smaller bike into submission on any road with some corners in it, as well as having the legs on it in top speed and acceleration. Of course, after a ride on the pile-driver Triton, the Suzuki appeared turbine smooth. Triumph engines never that well matched to Norton frames with regards to the latter's ability to absorb vibration, amplifying an already vibratory motor to new levels of self-destruction!

My engine was relatively mildly tuned - basically the later Bonneville spec - thus not life threatening in the amount of vibes put out. It all depended on what you're used to - as well as the GS450 my garage contained a well abused Tiger Cub and a Royal Enfield 500cc single. Enough said. This added up to a full service every 500 miles - valves, ignition timing, points, carbs and primary chain, as well as daily bolt tightening sessions - though I soon found out which ones were likely to come undone and which ones could mostly be ignored - no more than ten minutes a day needed.

Between 5000 and 8000 revs the motor was at its most violent - both in the amount of power put out and the level of vibration. The acceleration took my mind off the latter but trying to maintain a ton-plus cruising speed was an entirely different game. The handling was confidence inspiring at any speed the motor was capable of propelling the steed. Better than most middleweight Japs despite the great age difference. Not just down to the inherent rigidity of the tubular trellis, but also good geometry and weight distribution - both gained on the race track by Norton. You have to be careful not to ruin the latter when fitting the Triumph engine.

The brakes and suspension were off late Sixties Nortons. The TLS front drum was adequate by modern standards but about as good as it got in the sixties. The drum brakes were better than most discs in the wet or at low speeds, giving really excellent control. In the wet, I felt safer on the Norton than I did on the Suzuki. The Roadholder forks were but rarely deflected from the desired course although the whole bike would rattle over ruined roads; more the fault of neglectful local councils than the Triton. The butt-in-the-air riding position didn't aid comfort over rough going; the bike a pain in the spine on most roads if the speedo was under the ton.

Those of a nasty disposition would thus conclude that the bike was impossible to enjoy - too vibratory at high speeds and too uncomfortable at moderate velocities. In a robotic world this would be all too true but there was something about the way that the disparate elements of the Triton meshed together that overcame the all too obvious limitations imposed by its ancient design. After about two months I decided I'd had enough of the clip-ons; fortunately, retained were the castings on the yoke that allowed fitment of flat bars - my spine and posture were greatly relieved. Curse the fashion conscious!

My favourite routes were along downgraded A-roads - three laners that had been converted back to two laners. An intoxicating mixture of bends and straights with more than enough room to get past the cages. Most councils refuse to signpost them, preferring to send the traffic on to the new dual-carriageways and motorways. You either have to know the roads, be able to read a map carefully or just want to explore a bit. Judging by past disasters - overcrowding by bikers or massive plod presence - the last thing to do is to advertise them in these pages! Sorry, but I like my kicks too much to share them with you!

In terms of sheer speed, the Triton's easily up to the motorway cruise - I know, your hyperbike will do 180mph, but not for long if the cops have anything to do with it. There's actually a sweet spot between 90 and 100mph, when the vibes fall back to a minimal level (if you work as a pile-driver operator - no, only joking) and the motor saunters along at less than half throttle, with plenty of hustle in reserve to put some Henry in his proper place. At that kind of velocity, the handling's amazingly stable and accurate. The only thing to watch out for, the motor can consume more than a pint of oil in less than a 100 miles!

One of the oddest things about this particular Triton is the general oil tightness of the engine, always the sign of a well put together mill. The odd drop escapes from the oil breather after a long run but I can roll up to my rich friends' houses without the fear of despoiling their pristine driveway - some of their wives in need of severe psychiatric help, so obsessive about cleanliness they! Having done 6400 miles, the motor has managed to retain that state of relative bliss. Neither has it developed any untoward rattles nor exhaust smoke. Overall, a bargain buy. If you're not into standard British cycles there are still some bargains out there.

Alfred L.

Norton 16H and Ariel 350 NH

Once clear of the A12 I was able to pull over. Pennny and Rebecca, my wife and daughter, had been flashing me to stop for the last half mile or so. Now, as I dismounted, the reason became clear. Vibrating on its hinges against a hot exhaust pipe, lay the open tool-box lid. The tool-box itself, of course, was empty. My small but essential collection of running repairs equipment had been scattered over the Colchester bound dual-carriageway and what with the endless stream of Sunday seaside traffic there was little chance of retrieving any of it.

My own fault...exceed 55mph for a sustained period of time and everything that was not split-pinned or Loctited into position on the old Norton liberated itself! As it happened, on this particular Sunday we were off to a rally at West Bergholt, where there would be, with luck, every chance of replenishing the lost tools. Nevertheless, I should've known better. I really had no business subjecting a venerable old friend to such sustained indignity.

My Norton 16H was born towards the end of 1945, according to the serial numbers, and must therefore have been one of the first to have been re-kitted in civilian clothes after years in army-drab. I say my Norton but it had actually been a restoration project of my dad's before it came to me.

I was running an Ariel NH at the time. The OHV 350 was a 1954 model but while there was less than ten years between them, the 500 sidevalve looked prehistoric by comparison. This is not a criticism, I actually preferred the minimal appearance of the Norton. Besides which, its power output was so low I don't really think it was disadvantaged on the road by having girder forks and a rigid rear end.

But the ride quality between the two machines was different. The Ariel was at least able to make a stab at absorbing the impacts of bumps and holes, whereas the Norton couldn't. As for pillion provision, Penny would tolerate the 350's dual saddle for as long as the trip lasted but when I took the Norton out, my wife took the car. For all that, the sidevalve's road manners were predictable. Navigating with care, studying the road surface ahead in detail (there is usually time for this kind of thing at 16H speeds), the wide sprung saddle gave a very comfortable ride.

To talk of performance in machines of this age and kind would be to miss the point of running them. Both moved with determination along the tarmac and conceded nothing to hills except for a slight falling off of pace. Of course, you could cheat and change down to third gear but I ask you where is the challenge in that? No, it's far more fun to play with the ignition/advance lever positioned thoughtfully close to your left hand, and stick it out in top.

I might have changed gear once or twice on the Ariel, going through villages, purely for the pose value guaranteed by a change of exhaust note but generally speaking it was a case of get into fourth as soon as possible and let the flywheel do the rest. This was especially the case with the Norton, which with the possible exception of making a hill start didn't need the first three ratios at all.

Given that neither machine moved very quickly by modern standards you may think they would be unsafe on today's roads. Well, rather lacklustre braking can in part be offset by the fact that everyone and everything will know that you are coming. I regularly used both machines for travelling to and from my workplace, nine miles away, and Penny was always able to tell Rebecca that I was coming long before I arrived!

On the other hand, only a real optimist would think of taking primitive six volt lighting systems on to the dark roads of the nineties. I was going through my authenticity phase in those days, stubbornly wouldn't entertain a conversion kit and so never rode at night unless fate intervened. I have never known such an impressively sized headlamp as the Norton sported shed such an embarrassingly little glimmer of light.

Another problem encountered by the rider of old Brit singles is the unusual amount of interest you generate in other road users. Firstly, as mentioned, there is the noise. In these sanitised days of whispering emissions, the flatulent boom of an old thumper stirs nostalgic impulses in the most unexpected quarters. You can expect one escort after another as cars flank your offside, the inmates giving you the thumbs up and chatting knowledgeably between themselves about the finer details of your mount. All of which would be very flattering had you not wanted to turn right a mile back.

The first time I took the Norton out, I was overtaken by a speeding black BMW on a narrow country lane. Having fought the handlebars to get the bike off the verge and back on to the road, I looked up and was amazed to see the car screech to a halt not twenty yards ahead. I squeezed and stood on the brakes and was eventually brought to a safe standstill by the BMW's back bumper. The driver already out of his car and depressing the aerial on his mobile, simply said,

'Lovely bike mate, how much do you want for it?'

To this day I don't know if the man was serious or not but he certainly knew something about human nature. We parted quite amicably.

I had no desire to sell either bike at that time. One of the truisms of owning old British bikes is that you spend so much time and money getting them fit for the road that the notion of parting with them seems an unspeakable treason. In the end, I finally sold the Ariel in order to pay for some essential Norton parts. Why keep the Norton rather than the Ariel? Well, sheer prejudice, I'm afraid. In all my youthful motorcycling years I had coveted other people's Nortons, never having the necessary cash to own one of my own. When at last the Fates smiled, even in the form of my humble sidevalver, I knew my duty. A more rational being may've taken the following into consideration before deciding which to run...

The OHV Ariel went further on both petrol and oil. I would usually top up the oil supply on the Norton with a half pint every 500 miles. A dry sump machine by design, the 16H had the far from endearing habit of acquiring a very wet sump if not fired up for more than a few days, resulting in clouds of white smoke. This is a common problem with old Nortons, as is a leaky primary drive chaincase cover. I tried replacing the seal with a new one (Russell Motors of Battersea are an excellent source of spares) but I never succeeded in curing the slow escape of oil.

None of this matters, of course, providing you remember that regular attention is necessary. A little pampering gives peace of minds and miles of carefree travelling. The Ariel sported a sensible alloy chaincase made leak-proof by a fibre gasket and many bolts. Perversely, the Norton's gearbox was oil tight whereas the Ariel's wasn't. Easily remedied by using a solution of mixed grease and oil.

Brakes, tyres, chains and sprockets are very slow to wear on this kind of machine, providing they are in good condition and set up properly to begin with, there being such little strain placed upon them by the available power. Fuel worked out at 45-50mpg for the Norton. The Ariel managed 55-60mpg. Top speed was 70mph on the newly restored Smith's chronometer on the Norton. The Ariel managed an indicated 74mph.

Just the once in each instance...Achieving these speeds required serious determination and once reached you are left with a horrible sense of guilt for having wilfully abused such pleasant old engines. For everyday use, the Norton felt absolutely sound and unstoppable at 45mph - up hill and down dale. It would find its own way to this terminal speed irrespective of my input...if slowed down, a few minutes later I'd find we were doing 45mph again. If I accelerated, a few minutes later a quick glance at the dial would show - 45mph! You get the picture.

The Ariel with its freer revving engine was a little more flexible but happiest at 50-55mph. Pushing these old bikes is disrespectful and only results in awful levels of vibration and discomfort...that does not end when dismounting. Let them find their own pace and the ride is a joy. Incidentally, if you acquire a bike with a faulty chrono be prepared for an expensive repair bill - they are built like watches used to be, very complex!

Perhaps one of nicest things about riding old Brits is not having to compete. There is nothing to prove. Leather clad gladiators on carbon clad bikes will nod respectfully to you at red lights, the swarm-like hum of their own motors eclipsed by the industrial plant impersonation of your own. For the same reason certain kinds of motorists who equate sound with power give lots of space, expecting you to roar past at any moment. Of course you don't... the only thing you will beat other vehicles at is making noise.

One reason to be very careful when passing horses! Give them lots and lots of space. I often found myself in deep conversations with both bikes; perhaps apologising profusely for doing something daft on the road or cheering them on enthusiastically as they grumbled up a particularly steep hill: on occasion, a consoling word during a workshop or roadside repair.

Once you've sorted out any running problems, and they are generally only small ones with such simple machines, you will be impressed with how tough and reliable these old four stroke singles are, even as everyday transport. Also no need to worry about thieves when shopping; chances are you will be the only one who knows how to start it...

Even the Norton has gone now! I sold it to a friend and neighbour for reasons that must've made more sense at the time than they do now. The upside of the transaction was that I knew the bike was going to a good home. The downside has been that I still see and hear the bike regularly...but I'm not on it!

Never mind, there will be more old singles in the future, of that I'm sure. I quite fancy a Panther. I run an MZ Silver Star at present, the Rotax powered 500 is a natural successor to the old British singles. It is light, robust and reasonably frugal. It has reliable 12 volt electrics and starter motor (not that either old Brit was difficult to start...once the knack was mastered and you'd had your three shredded wheats). The MZ has bags more power and sustainable speed, excellent brakes, a sensibly enclosed chain...need I go on? But (and I'm sure you are already way ahead of me) it's not the same.

Steve Hall