This is a story of high hopes, big dreams and worse nightmares. A story of life, love, horrors and death (dead bikes are always the best investment an adventurer can make). This is the tale of Indiana Hipkiss and the pursuits of a GT750 (lovingly known as the bike of doom).
The machine in question was originally purchased for its worldwide reputation of long life and total devotion to their owners, made to be as reliable and dependable as man's best friend. But even the pet dog will crap on your floor once a year. It was meant to be un-blow-up-able, and it never has actually blown up.
Bought for 910 notes after haggling in the gutter with its previous owner. I wanted something that I would never clean, spend hours resurrecting from the mechanic's pit of my kitchen and could carry my holiday bags on it without concern for the paint. A basic workhorse inspired by fond memories of an XJ650 which I put 30,000 miles on in one year.
After buying the bike, I left my friend at the bloke's house while I went to fill up with petrol. After putting in the juice it refused to light up, later found to be a worn ignition switch. Thoughts filled my mind of 'oh no, not another dead bike to be put in the graveyard of my garden.'
Anyway, it made its jolly way back from Leeds. The bike ran perfectly for the next three months including a trip to the Island of Skye and back where it rained every day. Apart from a reluctance to start some mornings, soon solved through syphoning some petrol on to the airfilter, it never missed a beat.
Shame my user of a girl friend wasn’t as good, but I think the desperation of the Scottish weather got the better of her as we parted company once back home. The next few months I was impressed with the bike and the new girlfriend Scary-Bird. Sat at the traffic lights with Scary-Bird on the back bouncing up and down, engine revving through the knackered exhaust we caught the attention of Mr. Shiny-Red-Porsche!
Eye contact was made and the challenge was on. The lights turned to green and the Porsche was off with a happy pilot. Imagine the look on the starship driver's face a 100 yards down the road as we went flying past, engine screaming and shouts of encouragement from me and Scary-Bird. We were both that surprised that we had to praise the almighty GT.
With two weeks off work, some money to burn and a desire for adventure, the aim was as far into the Moroccan desert as possible. Whether this was a result of working with young adults with behavioural problems I don't know. I reckoned I needed enough spares to take with me to solve any potential hazard.
All of the parts came from a GPz550, which I bought for £100, a pizza and a bottle of whisky. It was nice to see the old bike back again, I’d sold it about nine months ago in perfect condition for £850. He sold it back cheaply due to the exploding con-rod and basically shagged condition of the bike (but that's not bad for Colin, they usually last half that in his capable hands).
Nevertheless, I extracted a pair of coils, complete set of cables, inner-tube, tyre and an ignition switch, none of which were actually needed until I got home from Morocco. The trip consisted of 4,000 miles from Hull to Plymouth, boat to Santandar, ride down to Gibraltar and as far south in my two weeks off work as I could get before turning round.
Basically it went like this. The 350 mile ride to leave on the noon boat started badly due to the very late night packing and final goodbyes to Scary-Bird. The ride through Spain was bliss. I met a pair of brothers riding down to the same area of Spain. They’d just spent £13,000 on their Harleys, I’d spent bugger all on my bike and I could leave them for dust, hands down, (that’s what budget bikes are for). Despite the ton cruising speed and lots of luggage, range was always better than 150 miles.
The only problems so far, a weeping head gasket now heavily torqued down, and overheating after four hours non-stop in the saddle. At Flamorage my lodger's Dad had a pub where I spent one drunken night and did one oil change. Next was the adventure on to Moroccan soil. Down to Gibraltar for the ferry to Cuta.
A port with a large shanty town built on a rubbish tip with herds of goats, sheep and camels living on a diet of cardboard and plastic. Not the most encouraging sight. Anyway I’d met Iona and Rick who were off to Cape Town in their Renault 4 on the boat and by that stage I needed the moral support. So I spent a day or two with them.
The GT might be a good touring bike but on Moroccan roads it's got problems. Too heavy, poor suspension, too hot. A combination of ridiculously steep hills, impossible road surfaces and cliff top falls either side of the road had me bleeding the brakes by the time I arrived in Fez. As luck would have it, it resulted in a broken back brake nipple. Either the result of poor metal or my mind going from too much heat and smoke, suitably fixed with a self-tapping screw into the nipple.
The ride back to Cuta was the most hostile I've ever experienced throughout all my travels. Riding through the Riff mountains, which unknown to me was the natural growing area for hash. If the locals weren’t pelting stones at you, they were trying to get you stoned, with their offers of hash by stopping you by almost any means on the main dirt track road.
The locals had perfected a combination of menacing and friendly gestures, attempting to get any bag off my bike if I slowed down to give them the opportunity. The only way to cope, right wrist used with big smile and no fear attitude to get to the next police road block. Taxis and small bikes were all sent in pursuit to get me to pull over!
Only once did things become overtly physical when a tree branch, plank of wood or something was thrown at the spokes of the GT. The bike shook heavily as the wood rather than the wheel broke. I had concerns over the wheel bearings or whether it had in fact buckled, but this was only down to my paranoia. Adrenaline pumping, I made it back to the port.
Anyone having made that crossing with a vehicle knows the paperwork and bribe money for the officials needed as well as patience to get through the border. I found it averaged 3 hours and a three pound bribe for the officials.
Once back in friendly Spain, the beer flowed heavily, happy to be somewhere safe. Exhaust blowing, brakes minimal and the lights only working when they felt like it, I set off for home. Only 1500 miles to go. Thinking I’d done well to drag the bike back to Santandar for the ferry to England I managed to miss the boat.
With very little money left and needing to be back at work I had to cover the whole of France by 7 pm the next day. Sadly I had to ride by daylight due to the lights (later found to be the ignition switch), I spent a night in a toilet on the Spain/ France border, due to my finances. Thinking I’m almost there, safely at the port, I paid the toll for a motorway and set off with the side-stand down...
A quick tussle with the barrier and pick the bike up off the hard shoulder. Some idiot had phoned 999 or the equivalent seeing me come off and the cops turned up for a laugh. Haggled down a 700 franc fine to a 200 franc parking fine, leaving me with enough money for one tank of petrol, I made it to the port.
Exchanged a few stories with some Ducati owners who’d done an impressive 100 miles. By then I’d simply had enough. Once on British soil the thought of the 350 mile ride home back to Scary-Bird's arms and legs on a bike with twisted forks, blowing exhaust and no brakes in British rain didn’t inspire. Time to phone the AA which I’d joined earlier while in Spain thanks to a phone call to a mate Steve at mission headquarters.
Once back in the mechanic's pit of my kitchen, time to uncover the damage. Several broken fins on the barrels, the forks soon twisted back into line, after loosening the yokes - much to my joy - worn out front tyre, replaced from the GPz550's (a good old Avon DeathMaster) - for any one else with a GT don’t ever fit one as it produces speed wobbles at a mere 95. The only reason it's on my bike is it was there and next to free. An ignition switch cured the lights; an indicator and headlight fitted from the same source.
The exhaust was removed to find the previous owner had welded the collars to the pipes. Through excessive engine braking due to no brakes etc, they’d come loose. By this time it was winter, time to dig the Z400 out of the graveyard and retire the GT to the warm climate of my living room. Christmas came and went, the GT just losing out to the GPz550 for pride of place as the Christmas tree bike (fairy lights, tinsel and everything), with the promise of fixing it next week.
January soon passed, frenzied fixing took place in order to make the bike worthy of a winter (well late February), trip to Prague. Planned to go from Rotterdam, to Amsterdam, have a night of fun, then do the Amsterdam to Prague run in as little time as possible. Plans were made, routes worked out, thermal clothes bought, we were ready, just a case of fixing the bike.
The exhaust was the major mechanical problem. On taking the headers off, one of the studs came out, not only taking the thread out but the alloy surrounding it as well. Despite Pete’s (our wonderful mechanic friend), every-thing-must-be-done-properly attitude and his frustration concerning working on old dead bikes and frequent choruses of 'For Christ's sake why can’t you get a newer bike,' the offending bolt was glued in place with chemical metal and another promise of love and attention.
Only the brakes to fix, plus the indicator and hope that it starts. With the bike back in the kitchen it's time to start it up. Yes it still goes but only when the bars are turned to the right. The indicator's bandaged up with a splint acting as insulation tape by a student nurse from the local hospital, and things are looking good.
With itchy feet to get back on to continental roads again, aiming for Prague, just a set of rear pads to fix the morning before the boat. Not even a one ton vice was having any effect with the brake caliper's piston, which was refusing to move in, so Pete's three ton fingers were called for. All bodged back together, right let's go!
The time's 5:15pm, jackets on, bags packed, the bike keys were still in the house and I’ve posted my house key through the neighbour's door so they can feed Roger the cat. After a quick panic we were at last ready. Two-up, loads of bags and a bit of a wobble, we make it to the port and settled down on the ferry. The bar, of course! After a rough crossing and getting only a little lost coming out of the Euro port we get well on our way to Amsterdam.
The journey's almost over (well the first part of it), and after battling with a mental lorry driver on the motorway we begin our approach to Amsterdam (centrum), a few miles away from warmth, coffee, beer, etc. A loud metallic clunk caused us to pull up 100 yards from the traffic lights to discover a front brake caliper flapping around. A quick game of chicken on the motorway looking for the missing brake pads turned out to be a fruitless pursuit. With the front caliper taped on with sticky tape we rode very wearily to the city centre of Amsterdam.
By the time we found accommodation, bought new pads etc, Prague was just not going to happen. The exhaust's collector box had by now rotted, upsetting the carburation and sounding like Concorde. Stopping in Amsterdam seemed fit. Going against the advice of the people in the hotel, the bike was parked on the pavement. Partly due to not wanting to waste any beer money on the car park and the perverse hope that someone might actually steal it.
After a couple of nights of fun it was time to go. Giving ourselves plenty of time to get lost, break down, etc, we set off for home. An uneventful motorway journey saw us at the Euro-port three hours before check-in, five hours before departure. After a quick drink in the only bar we could see, we go back to the port to have some food and sleep. Rotterdam is the armpit of the universe, later confirmed by the large number of men dressed up as cowboys.
After a bit of a mental struggle we soon realised we had booked our return crossing on the line-dancing spectacular (oh joy - not), most comical to watch a dance floor of coy boys and girls trying to stay inline on a moving surface in the North Sea.
The bike of doom, or better known as the GT 750, has proven a very useful and reliable tool if only a little boring. However, maintenance has been very regular oil changes every 1000 miles, (buy your oil in 25 litre drums as it works out very cheap), carburettors needing balancing every 6000 miles. Other than a couple of brake shoes, it has been very cheaply maintained.
If you're after some serious wheels for a long trip needing minimal maintenance so long as there is tarmac and roads you’ve got no problems. However on rubble, sand etc, as I found out in Morocco, the bike struggles. By the time this article comes out I’ll probably be in Russia as the hopeless tales of Indiana Hipkiss and the bike of doom continue. We take these risks not to escape life, but to stop life escaping us.
Greg Hipkiss
Welcome to our little corner of the WWW! We offer real motorcycling stories rescued from Interweb oblivion for your enjoyment, edification and reading pleasure, with horrible layout and questionable grammar as standard since 2010 ;)
"Russian warship... go fuck yourself"