One of the wild wonders of socialist Britain, cheap used Jap bikes. Okay,
this has little to do with Blair and his cohorts, more down to the opening
of world markets and rampant capitalist. But are we going to complain? Short
answer, nope!
Thus into my grimy hands fell a 1991 Yamaha XJ600. The last of the breed,
only 9000 miles, in excellent fettle and mine for next to nowt. In fact,
the dealer was so exasperated with the whole used scene he demanded I make
him an offer. The tag read a pound off a thousand quid, so I tried half
that. This almost gave the old chap a heart attack, but after his face lost
the purple hue he agreed to take 700 sovs. A year, or so, ago, it would've
cost at least twice that. There's progress for you!
As a nineteen year old with a long criminal record, third party fire
and theft almost cost as much as the bike. Living in Hammersmith didn't
help, even after I explained that I would be parking the bike in the hallway
of the parental council hovel. The first ride on new bikes are always fun.
Coming from a 12hp 125 that weighed little more than 200lbs to a 70hp, 450lb
four gave an added twist to the game.
The usual heavy use of the throttle had the four wailing up the street
whilst my brain tried to sort out the minor fact that all these cages appeared
to be reversing up the road at warp speed. A gentle tug on the bars had
little effect, needed some serious muscle to make the gap between the cars.
The riding position was easy going on my youthful body, everything came
together as naturally as it could get. Even the switches had an unknown
precision.
I arrived home in one piece. Concerned parents rushed out, almost went
hysterical at the sight of such a large motorcycle underneath their only
child. My wide grin probably didn't help, neither did my tales of doing
the ton through the town centre. Only joking officer. It was hard going
to fit the bike through the doorway and the tiny gap left in the hallway
meant the parents could now only exit the house by the back door. After
they'd calmed down, they at least accepted the fact that leaving the bike
out in the street I might as well just put a match in the petrol tank and
get the agony over with quickly
The next morning the bike didn't want to start. The old man was persuaded
to give us a push, the bike burping into life after about 20 yards. He almost
fell flat on his face when I whacked the throttle open! Don't know what
caused the reluctant starting, it was fine after that - perhaps a bit of
grit in the fuel line or something. I headed for the open road, wanting
to do the obligatory speed testing. The XJ ran out of steam dead on 120mph,
but would slowly creep up to an indicated 132mph!
At this point no less than three cop cars appeared out of nowhere. Sirens
wailing, I was pulled. The XJ didn't have the legs to outrun the porcine
ones. Didn't they have anything better to do on the M1 on a Sunday morning?
It appeared not. I was duly cautioned and told that I was going to lose
my licence and if they had anything to do with it would end up in the slammer.
They obviously missed out on their sessions in the police charm school.
As I was foolishly legal, as far as doc's and insurance went, at this point
I couldn't think of any easy escape. They'd just scowled when I mentioned
something about rushing to my granny's bedside as she was minutes off dying.
Shit!
One of the peculiarities of English law, despite breaking the speed limit
by an outrageous amount, I was still free to ride the Yamaha until the courts
had dealt with me. The obvious solution to my dilemma was to do a disappearing
act before the summons hit the doormat. For some reason, the parents actually
looked quite relieved when I muttered something about moving out soon and
even offered a few hundred notes to set me up.
London's infamously nasty for expensive bedsits but I had a couple of
mates who were doing building work in Brussels who'd said I could doss down
with them. Not that I fancied doing heavy manual labour, even if you could
earn twice the UK's going rate. As the police couldn't do any more damage,
I rode down to Dover on full throttle most of the way. Couldn't fault the
handling or the 75 to 110mph power punch in top gear. Fuel worked out at
40-45mpg and the oil level didn't budge. Comfort was good, just the odd
bit of arm and neck strain when riding flat out.
Running the bike on the wrong side of the road across to Brussels was
another kind of fun and games. Quite hard to adjust for the first half hour,
then I switched over to the Continental way of doing things. Brussels, itself,
jammed pack full of totally mad cagers who wouldn't give way for the world.
Several went out of their way to try to knock me off; the only survival
route was to ride with all the aggressiveness of a Skinhead on holiday in
Africa. The XJ wasn't in the least bit fazed by all this stress, going where
it was pointed and leaving a layer of black rubber when I went wild on the
throttle in first gear.
Not even the odd bit of cobblestone road threw it off line and I felt
quite happy to ride over some grand dame's poodle which had foolishly waddled
out into the road. The Yam pulverised the little beast but groaned to a
halt when the carcase became jammed in the front mudguard. Judging by the
reaction of the ped's, killing canines is some kind of hanging offence -
I managed to free the front wheel just before the plod turned up, armed
with guns and batons, and scarpered off through the traffic before they
had a chance to get their hands on me. If there was any justice left in
the world, I would've got a replacement for my battered guard out of the
deal.
Turned out, a basic studio apartment in Brussels could be had for less
than 200 notes a month, if you didn't mind sharing the district with disparate
Algerians and Africans. I didn't, and it was a lot better than putting up
with my mates who were heavily into flash cages and fat Belgium women. The
XJ600 was a touch heavy to be a perfect city bike but I could put in the
muscle to get it to do what I wanted. Belgium back roads were a blast -
not too wide, but straight with a clear view of what was going down up ahead.
I ignored the speed limits and played the bike through the gearbox, a nice
mechanical song and excess of speed resulting. It was so easy to ride that
I ignored the police cars and had a real fine time.
The despatch scene in Brussels wasn't anything like as intense as London
but
I found one back street company that wasn't interested in an excess
of paperwork and put me to work. The lack of people willing to do the DR
hustle easily explained by the homicidal nature of the drivers, the often
ice-rink road surfaces and sudden rainstorms that I could barely see through.
Dead easy to make 400 quid a week, though. The Yam's finish suffered to
a far greater extent than the engine's mechanicals. After six months and
22000 miles of abuse it still started easily and would pull 130mph. Maintenance
consisted of changing the oil whenever I felt guilty, which wasn't that
often.
As the parents had told the cops I'd gone off to live in Oz, it was finally
safe to return home, richer and wiser. The XJ600 was cleaned up and traded
in for a new, heavily discounted, 1200 Bandit - yes, even after all that
abuse I made a profit out of the deal. The parents were newly dismayed when
they found I'd taken a jig-saw to the doorframe in order to allow the Suzuki
into the hallway, but they soon got over it. The Bandit makes the 600 seem
like a moped but that doesn't mean the Yamaha isn't a brilliant middleweight.
I'll always have a soft spot for mine.
Stuart Paine