Having crashed two Jap bikes in a ridiculously short period of time, much to the editor’s amusement, I was seriously considering rescinding my previous declaration of no further interest in British bikes by buying a Trident, of all things, when these desperate manoeuvres were brought to a halt by the sudden offer of a 1978 BMW R100/7.
It was what the editor would term a perfect buy. One elderly owner, 33500 miles and a mere six hundred notes. It even came with Krauser panniers and a spare lid, the owner having decided at 75 that it was a little safer to take up knitting, or something, than risk life and limb amidst Rambo inspired auto drivers.
After the first 50 mile ride to my squat in Shit City I was inclined to agree with him. BMW have long blurred the reality of their machinery with an image of quality and exclusivity. Having merely spent a few miles on the things in the past, I was no great expert but had absorbed the stories of great treks across the world on purring twins. What you have to remember is that the pilots are either highly experienced enthusiasts, slightly mad or just drive so slowly that a Raleigh Runabout could cope.
Having come from the terrors of an old Honda CB750, the BMW felt at first quite reassuring. Save for the way the motor shook like a Turkish belly dancer in the throes of a terminal alcohol and speed cocktail abuse and a gearchange that had all the subtlety of the editor attempting to remove a recalcitrant, chewed up engine screw, the thing burbled along quite nicely up to 60mph.
Some idiot decided to throw his Fiesta in front of my path, slamming on all the brakes and trying to hustle my way down the gearbox had the BMW bouncing and buckling in a way that recalled my youthful attempts to ride a pushbike down the steep steps of a railway foot bridge.
Suspension travel at both ends was excessive and damping had the kind of force that owners of CD175s would know only too well. It soon became apparent that the R100 needed lots of pre-planning to avoid any handling nastiness. There was little I could do about the weave that set in as 95mph came up on a piece of very smooth and straight motorway. I just sat there recalling the times I’d seen the way the back wheel of BMWs used to jump about when I’d been behind one in times past. Very reassuring.
In Shit City traffic it was a real pain. The first time I did the usual 40mph overtaking act between two lines of stalled tin boxes, dismissing the poor, misguided souls who were almost tearing their hair out in frustration, I forgot all about the two pots sticking out on each side of the bike and almost tore the side off a Volvo.
I was going back to have another try when I recalled that BMW cylinder heads were rather expensive items and Volvos made from disturbingly thick metal. I became almost as frustrated as some car owners because there were spaces where the BMW couldn’t go, that even a fat old bruiser like a CB750 could manage.
At town speeds the engine shook and the gearchange was, er, difficult. Mismatch the revs with road speed by the smallest amount and the whole heap would leap off the ground like some irate old maid who’d had her bum pinched. The handlebar position hurts the wrists and the clutch is heavy enough to encourage clutchless changes, an event that produces such a frightening lurch and graunching noise that I’ll guarantee that you’d only try it once.
It made the nervous gearchange of the Honda 750 and its driveline slack look positively sophisticated. At least the BMW was easy to chuck about, thanks to a combination of relatively low mass and low centre of gravity. It was possible to sit on the BMW, feet up, right up until the thing came to a standstill. This is just as well because the seat height is ridiculously high for a motorcycle with such a lowly slung engine, another effect, I suppose, of the long suspension travel.
I quickly clocked up 500 miles running about the country in the usual horrible weather, finding that I hardly noticed the low speed tremors from the motor and could even change gear with something approaching the skill of a man with two broken legs who had just taken up motorcycling.
Unfortunately, I could not so easily ignore the machinations of high speed handling. I could push the BMW up to an indicated 115mph, which knowing the accuracy of teutonic engineering is probably a fairly true indication of top speed. At these kinds of speed it weaves like a Triumph T110 at 75mph, which to those too young to have missed such an unfortunate experience means it’ll need a car’s width of road and if you suffer from sea sickness means it’ll amuse you as much as reading Motorcycle International.
The frightening habit of a T110 to suddenly stop weaving and go into the kind of speed wobble that makes motorcycling as exciting as jumping out of aircraft without a parachute, was not quite so common on the BMW but, sadly, not entirely absent. What usually happens is that the thing would hit a bump in the road, shake its head a little and then settle down again occasionally it would decide to start oscillating instead of dying out, when shutting off the throttle and slamming on the brakes was quite an effective way of avoiding ending up target practice for NHS student doctors.
In the 3500 miles I did on the R100 a speed wobble turned up three times, which as it was thrashed flat out whenever possible was quite good going. Better still, I didn’t actually crash it. Despite all my complaints about teutonic wobbling, the BM does have a certain feel to it, a sense of security that comes in part from the riding position (apart from in town), the centre of gravity and some measure of feedback from the tarmac. The latter defies conventional comprehension as the usual use of soggy suspension normally damps out any reality of what the tyres are actually doing to the tarmac.
The BMW was especially at home on motorways and fast A roads. On the former it can be held at 90mph indefinitely, the riding position ideally laid out so that I was braced against the wind, the thing left stuck in top gear so that the dreadful gearchange could be ignored and the engine vibes reduced to a faraway thrum that was quite as pleasant as the exhaust bark. Go any faster, though, and the weaves intrude and the vibes begin to rattle the chassis.
Wide A roads are usually no problem, either. Just so long as the bike’s lined up for the curves well in advance then everything is just dandy, but the sudden need to brake or change direction upsets the bike, and depending on circumstances, could bounce it (across the road or leave the back end waggling around like it was death row time.
I talked to a few owners about these problems, but most of them looked at me as if I should be locked up for daring to suggest such idiosyncrasies in their beloved German masterpieces. If I had the time I would have tried fitting some proper suspension components, with three inches off the travel and much stiffer springing. I did suggest this as a project to the editor, but he wasn‘t amused when I suggested spending £750 on some upside-down White Power front forks and mentioned something about lending me a hacksaw and some valve springs...
BMW’s shaft drive, at least in their early bikes, is quite a direct device and amplifies any rider incompetence quite significantly. If you’re used to , recent Jap gearboxes when you just have to point your foot in the right direction and the change is done, you’ll be horrified by the agricultural nature of the Beemer box. All those stories you ever heard about the shaft drive locking up in corners are all quite true.
The engine produces the kind of power that is well known to owners of British 650 twins with the added benefit that it can actually cruise between 70 and 90mph without falling apart and leaving a trail of engine parts in its wake. Also, unlike British twins, engine maintenance can be ignored with the same kind of impunity as the better Jap bikes.
That’s not to say that it is perfect because it ain’t, as I was to find out after 1300 miles. I was in the middle of nowhere when it happened. I looked down at my shoe to find it covered in oil. Close examination of the engine revealed that the cylinder head gasket had blown. I could feel the air leaking out Out with the spanners, off with the cover, tighten down the nuts and a few prayers.
It was a long ride home, with the minimum of throttle and two stops to tighten up the bolts far beyond the recommended settings. I made it home eventually, more or less on one cylinder. Took the head off straight away and went to Gus Kuhns for a gasket. Had to go home for some extra money to pay for it but it went back together alright. In fact, it was all very easy with those pots sticking out like that. I noticed that the valve rockers had loads of sideways movement and the exhaust valve looked a little pitted and the bore was a little scratched and the thoughts of the cost of BMW parts made me pray that BMW engines didn’t act like British ones — where they run with all kinds of problems until you try to fix one and then won‘t run again until you’ve fixed every other one.
Anyway, the bike ran well enough for the next 900 miles when a rattle started redolent of an early CX500 after it’s decided to self destruct. This was caused by the timing chain, which meant more money and more engine stripping that brought into play my years of training on the British bikes. I went wild, changing all the oil, setting up valve and ignition timing, balancing the carbs and giving the old girl a good clean. I was rewarded 500 miles later with a clutch that started to slip above 5000rpm. I bought a used one from a breaker and spent a weekend fitting it.
My major complaint, re running costs, was fuel economy. Cynics would claim that BMW fit such large petrol tanks because they have such appalling fuel economy; but as this same size tank was fitted to earlier bikes which had much better fuel economy, this can be dismissed with the contempt it deserves. Fuel economy isn’t helped by a pair of carbs that don’t see any reason for staying in balance for more than 500 miles. Cruise the R100 at 90 mph and it’ll return just 34mpg. Going over the ton reduces that to 30mpg, whilst cruising at 70mph returns a slightly more acceptable 45mpg, a similar consumption to that when wandering about town.
I became so fed up with the poor consumption that I tore out the air filter to see what would happen. It made a lot of induction roar and seemed to go a little faster and the average fuel came out at 48mpg against 40mpg. I checked the plugs and they were not too white. The effect on the carburation was minimal, it could be a little hesitant at low revs, but the bike was usually so uncomfortable at such revs that this didn’t make much difference. After about 3000 miles bits started falling out of the silencer. The price of new silencers was even more outrageous than what the Japs try to get away with.
I found a couple of straight thru, reverse cone megaphones in my garage that had once graced a Norton Commando. After hacking off the old system these fitted on quite easily with a little help from a few cut up beer cans to match diameters of silencer and exhaust. It refused to start until I put a new air filter back in. Then the roar rattled windows and had the BMW sounding like a real motorcycle.
Low speed running was a little rough, but the thing could take off above 3000rpm with much more vigour and top speed was improved to 125mph. All the more interesting, then, that I was able to average, 55mpg with a best of 60mpg and worst of 42mpg. So much for all the witterings of BOFs who tell you noisy exhausts don’t improve performance. BMW could only meet the exhaust laws by constipating both performance and economy.
Despite these improvements I decided to sell the BMW. The nasty looks mature would-be owners gave me when I started her up were the things legends are made of, but I eventually found a fellow ex British bike owner who was appreciative of the racket and flush with cash from the sale of his T120 (he muttered something about not believing his luck and bloody mugs). So I was happy with the cash I made out of the deal but a little sad to see the BMW go.
If I’d fitted decent suspension and lowered the seat height in the process, then it would have been quite a useful. device, especially with the open exhaust; but really, a little too slow for me.
Johnny Malone
Your correspondent rides for two principal reasons. Firstly because it is mentally stimulating and secondly because it’s the best cure ever for back problems. All motorbikes are interesting to me as bits of machinery, some more than others, but particularly those which can satisfy an appreciative ear for mechanical music.
Hence, a progression of machinery including a much loved ’47 Scott FS and an International Norton (both requiring full roadside repair contingency plans), some intervening mediocrity and now a Benelli 900 Sei, which is turning out to be anything but the slow, troublesome dog that I was assured it was shortly after purchase five years ago.
The dementia bit comes with age, friends, with the onset of eyeball troubles and having to wear specs that never seem to be the right ones for the job in hand, plus tools that insist on disappearing just after I’ve put them down and because Sod’s Law has begun to assume an important consideration in daily planning. Typically, perhaps, I arrived at the local dealers with the firm intention of purchasing another mechanical challenge in the form of a Triumph trail bike, but departed with a totally different dark horse.
The motorcycle scene has never been so interesting and we are probably very lucky to live in an age which embraces so much choice, especially if you can afford a broad approach and are old enough to take advantage of the low insurance rates. The only honest explanation I can offer for purchase of a 15 month old ex-demonstrator Benelli 900 is that the noise made by a straight six is the nearest I will ever get to owning a straight eight Bugatti.
Realising that there was a considerable manufacturing generation gap between my last mount, a rather dull 350 Jawa ridden in Zambia, not to mention a slight power difference, and that there was going to have to be a period of acquaintance and foot re-education; having the Benelli delivered was a very shrewd move.
It took about three hours on quiet roads at night before sufficient confidence was acquired to mix it with normal traffic congestion. It also took a while to find the balance of the 485lb bike when putting it on the centrestand, it felt initially very easy to drop. I bolted on a handle at the right point which transformed this chore.
As with most heavy iron, handling problems vanish once one gets rolling but one picks and chooses very carefully where to stop to ensure firm and level footing. Even a slightly sloping petrol station forecourt can present logistical problems. I have dropped it twice at a standstill, and it takes a fair dose of adrenalin to pick the bike up single-handed.
Initially, the six cylinder engine appeared very wide, but as soon as I realised that it was, in fact, a lot narrower than a BMW twin, that concern evaporated. My second worry was that if it was dropped at any kind of speed, it’d do so much damage to the engine that there would be little chance of continuing without first fitting a new motor...
Thus I decided to apply very strict riding rules, aided and abetted by the Kent Advanced Motorcycle Group (which meets at 8pm on the third Wednesday of the month at Brands Hatch); well worth a visit if you’re mature enough to appreciate critical appraisal within the general concept of Safety Fast.
In five years of ownership and any number of long distance business trips around the country, there has been ample opportunity to suss out various Benelli problems, most of which have been relatively cheap and easy to rectify, resulting in improved rideability and reliability.
The most immediate problem concerns the final drive chain, a duplex item that costs £70 for a mediocre Regina replacement and runs on sprockets that give a ratio that renders first gear useless and leaves the rider searching for an extra gear all the time. Luckily, the Benelli 654 sprockets fit straight on and allow the use of a cheapo Reynolds single row chain.
Re-cutting the rear sprocket to 36 or 37 teeth gives a new and much more satisfying dimension to performance, giving 70mph top gear cruising at a mere 4300rpm, whilst fourth gear gives a wonderful spread of power between 60 and 120mph. The motor will pull smoothly from 2000rpm right up to and beyond the 8400rpm redline. There is no kick in the pants as it comes on cam, just the right amount of power to suit all circumstances and this contributes greatly to riding satisfaction both in town and country.
Another problem concerns the HT leads that, at night, leave the top of the engine looking like Piccadilly Circus illuminations. The loss of sparks at the merest hint of damp weather betrayed the Honda ancestry of the Sei, but can be cured quite simply by throwing away all the metal HT lead clips, cleaning and smearing each lead with silicone grease and wrapping each lead with nylon tape.
A contributory cause to the exceptionally wet condition of the top of the engine is the design of the front mudguard that allows water to shoot around the side of the guard by the brake caliper which is then whipped back onto the engine, thus watercooling both the brakes, the engine and the ignition system. What else could WOP mean?
Despite the drenched brake which is really quite disturbing to observe if you look down - it does not seem to affect braking performance, thanks to twin Brembo discs. Brake pads have lasted well and still have plenty of meat after ten grand. Braking performance is progressive, reassuring to quite staggering under extremis. The fact that the mudguard has areas where it’s melted after touching the exhausts under heavy braking is testimony to their effectiveness.
The next problem encountered, which is apparently, endemic, is occasional sticking of the slide in the one of the DelOrto carbs, which can make riding interesting; one quickly learns not to take the Benelli for a MOT on a wet day. Polishing the slides makes little difference but application of moly grease does help; such is the performance necessary to get at them that there’s a strong inclination to live with it as an infrequent occurrence.
The dry clutch is somewhat sensitive, especially with worn plates, and is now endowed with a set of stronger springs. Brass impregnated plates should be shunned if weird noises are to be avoided on enthusiastic starts. The latter are difficult, anyway, thanks to the notchy gearchange which is a two part operation. Clutchless changes are much smoother from second gear up. The footrests are fixed and left boot heels have to be cut away to facilitate a comfortable gearchange position.
Another gripe concerns the alternator output and power of the front light, the latter is so lacking that it reduces night riding to a real drag. A lens change might help, but even the stock puny job drains the battery sufficiently to stop the indicators operating in a mere three hours. Heated grips can only be used intermittently.
Despite the poor reputation of Italian switchgear, no problems have been encountered. so far, but everything has been coated with silicone grease. The only smoke to escape from the system so far has been a tiny amount from blown bulbs.
The two sets of 3-1 exhausts are good until the silencers are reached, both of which have long since been replaced with a pair of Escort Mk2 rear mufflers of the Burgess type which produces a law abiding bark and also removed a hint of a flat spot at the same time.
Some of the rubber hosing and grommets are looking tired after six years and is due for replacement, particularly the crankcase breather system. The motor spits out oil above 4500rpm, as did the old SOHC Honda four on which the Benelli is based. The problem is not helped by plumbing the breather into the airbox and it should be redirected onto the rear chain to cut down on maintenance.
Suspension damping is acceptable under normal conditions but it’ll take a more vigorous rider than myself to expose any defects in this department. However, the bike does suffer from a wobble at 100mph which disappears with a pillion on board. This may suggest that weight distribution is not quite right, or it may be due to the full fairing or lack of solo rider weight.
It might also have something to do with wheel alignment, as I am suspicious of the accuracy of the swinging arm marks. Fitment of a front fork brace helped a lot, but I’ve never bothered to push the pace further to see if it clears up or turns nasty. I have other, more important, things to do with my life. The only time that this became really worrying was when I entered a bend too fast when the bike started snaking under heavy braking, not helped any, in this instance, by the linked brakes. Other problems concern the effect of engine torque on the chassis at low speeds and rear shocks that are not up to pillion work, let alone the effect of camping gear.
The rear tyres (Phantoms at both ends) last around 6000 and fronts 8000 miles (not so much tread wear but scruffing of the side-ribs from the amount of work the tyre has to do lifting such a heavy machine out of corners). Both single or duplex chains last for about 7000 miles if well looked after.
With only 3.5 gallons and 45mpg, range is limited but matches the comfort of the seat, anything more than a 100 miles without respite is asking for a sore backside; the pillion is even worse off, especially when they find there’s nothing to hold onto under the rapid acceleration that the Sei can produce.
The motor is nearly vibration free throughout the rev range, only sustained cruising at 5500rpm will produce a high frequency vibration that numbs the right hand. The motor is quite noisy from the cams and the primary drive. Particular attention should be paid to oil changes and quality (Duckhams QXR with a moly additive).
Starting is excellent with a well charged battery but cold mornings need the kickstart as the CDI doesn’t like low voltages. The speedo runs 10mph fast at 70mph, the motor is most happy running at 5000rpm when it returns just over 48mpg with the higher gearing, although city work will return as little as 30mpg. Oil consumption is well under one pint per thousand miles. Some of the running gear is the same as the Guzzi and other parts are available from Speedscene in Huddersfield who provide a friendly and enthusiastic service as well as mail order.
Since the appearance of the UMG and its candid reports many machines I was interested in have been eliminated. There seems little available, save perhaps a Jota or Darmah, that would provide the same mix of parameters as the Sei.
It will potter about without fuss, produce buckets of power whilst being very safe and the straight six noise is music to my ears. One day, of course, there is going to be a phenomenal cost when the motor needs an overhaul and it may well not be worth doing. With a little care and consideration, I may be able to write off my costs over 50,000 miles and 3p/mile will not have been too high a price to pay for the experience.
To finish, my favourite road... the A483 from Newton to Llandrindod Wells, five to eight on the tacho, endless short straights, peg polishing hairpins up in the bills, the echo of the six, minimal traffic, brakes and handling to match the power... It’s said if you can get your lid off quickly enough at the top then you can hear the echoes of your progress up the valley bouncing off the hills...
Chris Morgans
A curious set of circumstances found me with a nearly clapped Kawasaki GT550 and a fairly desperate need to earn some reasonably large quantities of dosh. I'd seen the adverts in the back of MCN for despatch riders to earn up to £500 a week. and thought what the hell, it was only a hundred miles from Brum to Shit City and I knew a girl who would put me up for a few nights.
Things began to go wrong as soon as I hit the motorway. The '83 Kawa had 42000 miles on the clock - it had been given to me in repayment for a debt, the rider having used it for despatching in Birmingham until he fell off and broke his leg. The top end was obviously on the way out, with an ominous rattle and every time I backed off the throttle I could see a trail of smoke in the cracked mirrors. That said, the thing could still struggle up to an indicated 115mph and would race away from jerk-off artists in GTis. It was the end of October and raining like God was angry cos no-one wanted to believe anymore. The Kawa kept switching onto three or even two cylinders, suddenly losing 20mph in the process.
Surrounded by hoodlums in artics that sprayed out huge plumes of water and maniacs in Sierras who hogged the fast lane, it was tough going to keep the speedo flirting with 90mph, even without the misfiring engine. Halfway to London the thing went onto three permanently and l was stuck in the slow lane hoping things wouldn't get any worse.
They didn't, and I eventually made it to London. Unfortunately, the girl I knew lived in Brixton which meant I was pushed straight into the chaos of Shit City traffic. The pace of traffic is at much quicker than more civilized cities and it took me half a mile to become used to the speed. It soon became a ball to rush down the outside of mile long traffic jams, headlamp full on and and finger on the horn button (some Fiamma air horns loud enough to wake the dead - even Morris Minor owners). i even forgot how cold and wet I was for a while.
When I finally arrived in Brixton there wasn’t anyone there, but as it was one of those basement flats I could at least shelter out of the rain and change into some dry clothes without anyone watching me. After half an hour it stopped raining. so I decided to head for Soho to suss out the despatch scene. After visiting a number of companies and more or less (and literally in one case) being told to piss off after my Brum accent revealed my lack of civilization. I found one place off Farringdon Road where the boss, a lounge lizard in a Marks & Sparks suit, told me to start straight away as he’d just lost two lads.
My first run was to pick up some artwork in Covent Garden and rush off to Watford with it. I finally found the place after half an hour struggling with a misfiring GPz, mad taxi drivers and suicidal pedestrians. It was loomed in an unmarked alleyway and, Barbour clad, I felt rather out of place amongst sleek young ladies with cut glass accents.
The run up to Watford was not uneventful as I went the wrong way three times and the Kawa went dead twice; and it started raining again. I finished the job two hours after leaving base and received a full minutes worth of bad language from the boss when I phoned in from Watford. He sent me down to Catford and I almost told him to piss off.
The day passed in a blur from then on, I became too wet and cold to bother and my first day's five hours seemed like years (it probably took years off my life. anyway).
Summoned back to base for a chat with the boss, my riding became ragged as the light faded and I had a couple of near misses when the Kawa failed to accelerate as fast as l demanded and holes in the traffic disappeared before I could take them. I barged into the office at seven o’clock, all the other DRs long gone. The boss had the secretary’s jumper up around her armpits and was fiddling with her bra. He almost threw her on me floor when he saw me. To say he was mad would have been an understatement and he spent five minutes informing me that l was the slowest, laziest, would be despatch rider he'd ever come across, and only the fact that he couldn’t find anyone daft enough to ride bikes in the winter stopped him from sacking me on the spot.
After riding for a week and talking around it became clear that the bosses of these establishments were all of a kind — egomaniac idiots who would shit themselves if they went within a few yards of a motorcycle. Their only attributes appeared to be a bank full of money and enough front to persuade people to give them some work. The boss drove around in a flash car and appeared to have never had a thought more complex than how to screw the women despatchers he was particularly keen to recruit.
l was soon to find that these characters were endemic to London and put in their smiling, suave faces everywhere I ventured to spend money.
My major problem was finding somewhere to stay, along with silly house prices, rents for bedsits had hit the roof. I ended up in an attic room in a house full of out of work Irish labourers, owned by a corpulent ex-public school prat with a cast in one eye and an odd way of walking. A mere fifty notes a week, sharing a bathroom with seven others and no cooking facilities. didn't exactly make me overflow with happiness but it was dry and for the first month I was so tired after my ten hour day that I just wanted to fall asleep anyway. I certainly couldn't be bothered to do anything other than put petrol and oil in the Kawasaki.
It didn't take kindly to this. although the morning ritual of spraying the bike with WD40 stop it cutting out in all but the worst downpour, it had decided that it didn't like fast riding anymore and just gave up after 80mph in sixth and was smoking all the time.
As I began to know London and speed around with some kind of aplomb the boss became a little less nasty. I never did manage to persuade the secretary to come for a ride on the back of the Kawa, though.
The 430lbs of the GPz was a bit of pain to throw around in traffic, especially after a few uncomfortable hours in the saddle. The motor tended to overheat after an hour in traffic and the clutch would drag — I had to hold on the front brake while waiting at the traffic light GP and blip the throttle to stop the engine from dying. But my major problem was parking the bike. After some jerk-off Commissioner of police had wet his knickers over the way DRs were using Shit City streets as an anything goes open air lunatic asylum, the filth were pouncing on DR's bikes and throwing the book at riders for even minor infringements.
Like the majority of riders, I hadn't even told he insurance company that I was despatching, and if the pigs had picked up on the state of my rear tyres, pads vorn down to the metal and a Holy Joe exhaust system, one thing would lead to another and I'd be in deep shit.
The sensible option was to actually spend some money on the bike, but, what with my living expenses and the slow way I was working in the beginning, l was only just breaking even, so that was a definite no-no.
I hadn’t come anywhere near that magical £500 a week. I managed 10% of that in my first week (not helped by the fact that the boss had put me on a lower rate than the experienced DRs), and by my fourth week was on a more respectable £150 gross, which while it was rather better than the dole was soon depleted by the enormous expense of living in Shit City. In act, many riders were despatching and claiming social security at the same time - that way they could get the state to pay the silly rents demanded by greedy London landlords, but it wasn't the kind of thing a law abiding citizen such as myself could ever contemplate.
Oh, the poor old Kawa was suffering, it was like some old codger on his last legs, suddeny coughing and spluttering, the engine tottering on the brink of self destruction. I treated it to a can of the best oil money could buy, a carb balance and an afternoon under the influence of a strong water hose and a couple of tubes of alloy cleaner. I struggled manfully tying to fit a new rear tyre (after hacksawing the old one off), but eventually had to pay a fiver at the local car shop to have it fitted.
The Unitrak linkages were all shot to hell, but it was still quite stable, so that could wait. I decided to stick an ad in MCN, hope that some sucker would turn up and give me a grand for it - I figured it was the only way I was going to grab some money out of London. No such luck, the nearest I came was when a group of bikers turned up, the guy had the money in his pocket but by the time his friends had pulled the bike to pieces all he would offer was five hundred notes - I was tempted but decided to try some of the dealers.
The best offer I had from those toe-rags, was from one gay Kawa dealer who lisped that he might manage four hundred. I made a quick exit and went back to despatching.
I knew my way around Central London quite well and by riding like a lunatic for all the hours that were going, taking enormous risks, I managed to push my income up to £275 a week. The boss eyed me suspiciously when he handed out such a large sum, as if I was cheating him.
I decided that the only way to save some money was to stop paying the rent. avoided the landlord for a week but when he did catch up with me, I put him off by saying I’d have some money next week - as he'd taken a week's deposit he wasn't too worried. If it had been the summer I might have been tempted to camp out but it was still too cold for that kind of thing.
One morning the Kawa would not start. No sparks, I prayed the CDI unit hadn’t gone, but couldn't find anything else wrong. As a last ditch measure I wired the battery directly into the ignition - it worked. was an hour late for work and the boss went into one of his tirades. The fact that he was well sun tanned from a week's holiday in Spain didn‘t exactly endear him to me, either. But I was used to the verbal abuse. I spent the time inventing ways to execute him. Talk about two Englands, this guy was just asking to be taken outside for a good kicking.
Half way through the day, clouds of acrid smoke start coming from the Kawa whilst I'm trying to deliver an ultra important letter. If it isn't delivered two miles away within ten minutes all hell will break loose. I ignore the smoke and race along Edgeware Road. I just manage to get there in time.
None of the electrics work, but the engine still runs. No horn is a bind, and no headlight more than a little dangerous with some of the blind idiots trying to drive their cars and taxis. I really do feel sorry for some of the youngsters who buy bikes just to earn a crust despatching - they hit the chaos of the streets with a few hours training and little instinct for survival. I'd been riding for ten years and like most people who manage to survive that long, have developed a sixth sense that gets me out of trouble before it happens. You get to the stage when you can guess which car is going to do a sudden right turn. Most times, anyway.
I had to completely rewire the whole bike. I stuck a light across the alternator leads and it lit up when I rewed the motor and then blew. Tried the same with the rectifier/regulator and the bulb lit up and didn't blow, so that was OK. Found the light switch was burnt out. so used some toggle switches in the side panel from the local car accessory shop. They looked at me as if I was insane.
The landlord caught up with me and gave me a lecture on morality and responsibility, then hinted that he’d have to send his heavies in if I didn’t pay up next day. I owe him a hundred notes and want to hold out for another couple of weeks. I threaten him with the police and he stalks off, incensed because they're supposed to be on his side not mine.
The next day a silencer fell off the Kawa. It had been a bit loud for couple of weeks but I'd hoped it would last a bit longer. It had cracked around the circumference. This happened ten yards from one of the most expensive breakers in London. You should have seen the grin on his face when he took twenty quid off me for a slightly less rusty stock silencer, but I could have lost more than that running around trying to pick up a cheaper one.
Two days later the front calipers decide to simultaneously seize up. An hours roadside strip and cleaning up job sort of fixed that up, but the pads were frighteningly down to the metal. I had to buy some brake fluid so paid twelve quid for a set of cheapo pads at the same time. The engine seemed to purr along contentedly after all this effort.
I had to take the 'new‘ silencer off and wrap some Coke can around the pipe to make a gas tight fit. I noticed that the other silencer was cracked and wobbled around disturbingly, so determined to buy one cheaply before it actually fell off. With three weeks rent owed I returned to the house to find my stuff out in the street and the front door lock changed. Back to Brixton for the night.
The next day, another DR invited me to stay in a squat in Acton. A whole row of derelict council houses full of aging hippies, old tramps and the odd DR. each guarding their territory against the other, It was not unknown for petrol tanks to be filled with sugar or HT leads cut. A bad scene.
There was a spell of good weather, a weak sun and no rain. Hands and feet were relatively warm and dry for once, and the roads were clear of ice. Only bad thing was that too many kids started turning up at the office. The boss was glowing with pleasure at the thought of cheap labour and had become even nastier than normal to the regulars.
One moped rider sticks in the mind. The bike was about four days old and he was still having trouble co-ordinating clutch and gearbox. On the second day the bike skidded on some oil and went straight under a double decker. The kid survived with a few scratches, but the bike was a total write off. He turned up a few days later, trying to get the boss to let him use a pushbike - the insurance wouldn't pay up because he hadn’t told them he was a despatch rider and he owed six hundred notes on the HP.
When the rain and the cold came back everyone started moaning, the new guys disappeared and the boss became bearable again. These dog days were lightened by the sight of a minor riot in Soho when truncheon wielding riot police tried to close down one of the clubs - fat, half dressed, West Indian women screaming as sweating cops tried to throw them into the back of their vans. Not so funny when one of them tried to clear the gathered crowd and started waving his truncheon in my direction; so much for community policing.
I went through a spate of punctures until I saw some yob putting nails in the back tyre outside the squat. He ran away before I caught him but I managed to bounce a brick off his head - the brick broke but he kept running. Which is more than can be said for the Kawa. With over fifty grand on the clock it sounded like a dozen dustbins full of glass rolling down a ravine, whilst top speed was down to 75mph.
About two hundred yards away there was a yuppie enclave and a brand new GPz550. l was tempted to swap engines but didn’t know if the engine could be traced back to me through the records in Swansea.
There was a shocked silence in work when we heard that the boss was going to increase the rates - things must have been getting desperate. I was able to earn just over £300 notes a week if I really went for it. With minimal living expenses thanks to the squat, I'd actually managed to save a grand. But the bike was on the way out. Over the weekend I took the motor out and stripped the top-end down. Cams scored, valves burnt and piston rings gummed up. I cleaned up the pistons - bit sloppy in the bores but they'll survive a few more miles. New camchain and tensioner spring.
Reground the valves and polished up the cams and cleaned the gunge out of the head. My mate had a couple of spare shims from the time he'd owned one, so by juggling around the new and old ones I was more or less able to get the valve clearances set up.
Started her up, not exactly quiet but much better, I could actually hear the clutch or primary rive rattle. Rode it for another five weeks, but kept falling off because of the worn rear end. Another DR offered me five hundred for the bike, which would have given me three grand - enough to go off to Spain for a couple of months to enjoy the sun. But I decided to hold out for another week as the rain stopped and the sun was shining.
The boss started getting nasty again, with a full bank account I gave him some lip back - he started calling me an ungrateful tool, it he hadn’t given me a chance I‘d be penniless; if I didn't shape up I'd be sacked. I decided another week, then I’d be off to the sun.
With one day’s work left, i almost lost it all, when a taxi did an illegal U-turn on a wet road. The bike swung around, hitting him on the side. Big dent in the car, a few scratches on the Kawa. The taxi driver was furious that l was still alive and his vehicle was damaged. I didn't even hang around to swap insurance details. Sold the GP for £650, took all the money out of the bank and caught a plane.
John Pearce.
The BMW was sulking like mad - we were going on our hols without it and it was jolly cross about the whole business. I think what really rubbed salt into the wound was that we were going on TWO-STROKES.
We packed up the bikes, my RD250LC and my husband’s RD350YPVS, setting off from Dudley on a dark and not particularly stormy night, destination Normandy. Critics may be pointing out at this stage, that two-stroke motorcycles are perhaps not the world’s most suitable mounts for touring purposes. Well, plop to all critics, settle down on your toilet seat and read on.
The journey down through England was dark, cold and beastly. I don’t like travelling at night, and before we were many miles from home was wishing I’d put my anorak, Balaclava and three pairs of thermal undies on under my fast stiffening Belstaffs (this was in July). However, stiff upper lip and all that (stiff lower bottom certainly).
Stopped for fuel at Oxford, being cautious by nature and not wishing to end up stranded in t e middle of nowhere at three o'clock in the morning. One drawback of two-strokes is that they need filling up a lot. Hurtled southwards, getting colder by the minute in some jolly strange places, until we were forced to stop at the English Channel. This is a colossal pain in the unmentionables, and I must say it makes me wonder if human beings were ever really meant to be tourists in the first place.
Anyway the main point about the Channel is that you have to switch off your engine and pay out pots of money to get across the damn thing. If I had my way we’d have another Ice Age, and the whole caboodle would freeze solid and we could just zip across on our sledges.
We booked a crossing from Portsmouth to Cherbourg and back again with Townsend Thoresen through MCN, which knocked a fair bit off the price - we paid £52 for two bikes. The crossing takes about four hours which is very nice and relaxing if the sea’s calm and sun is shining. I expect it‘s pretty awful if the sea's rough.
Arrived at Cherbourg at about two in the afternoon and set up the old Force Ten (a tent not a gale, though god knows it might as well have been with all the vulgar expulsion of bodily gasses that went on).
Met a Dutch bloke going to Donington for the Grand Prix. The swine could speak excellent English - there are few things which infuriate me more than damned foreigners who can speak my language better than I can. However, I kept my upper lip jolly stiff.
Next day we made it to Percy (see map). We discovered one of the major delights of Normandy. Drizzle. Apparently in Western France drizzle is a natural phenomenon and can persist for weeks. We found that out, thanks. Mind you, I’d rather have continuous drizzle than pouring rain - at least you can wander about in it. It was at about this time that my Frank Thomas paddock boots sprung a leak and kept my feet agreeably damp for days, which cheered me up no end.
The rain stopped us from riding around the area as much as we would have liked, but we still managed to explore the place, sometimes even on foot. Normandy’s got some really nice countryside — lots of little lanes and hedges, millions of wild flowers and fab forests. The whole place looks very English - not very surprising when you consider England was under Norman rule from 1066, when Willy the Conk stamped on us and we got Norman churches and castles all over the place.
Next stop Villedieu of the Gruel Pans. No, really, that’s what it was called, only in French. Nice little town. Millions of brass and copper shops; a product of the days when it was a copper working area. It drizzled here, too.
When it finally stopped raining and became merely dull we moved on to St Hilaire de Harcouet, which was the furthest south we went. Nice campsite here — big fields separated by hedges and plenty of room - unlike some campsites in which you are pressed firmly against your neighbours ("Pressed firmly against your neighbours what?" I hear some wag remark). We took a ride around the country lanes, impressing the locals and filling the place with horrid blue smoke. Tried to fill up at a petrol station which had no petrol. Didn’t do too well.
August 1st. Mad Saturday. All the French pack their beastly offspring into their Renault 5s and zoom south for their holidays. The whole business scared me to death, so we stayed off the main roads. Mind you, we were heading north anyway, so although we saw plenty of tailbacks we didn’t actually get stuck in any. There‘s some nice riding country between St Hilaire and St Lo.
The campsite at St Lo was very well concealed but nevertheless we found it. I suspect that the warden had been on the old Vin Ordinaire, as he was particularly cheerful. Also it was a hot and sunny day! Gosh! (Gave me a chance to dry my boots out, anyway.) We took the opportunity to check the oil in the gearboxes, decided it was down a bit, so trotted off to buy some. Have you any idea how expensive French engine oil is? Six quid for two litres! I was cursing and spitting all the way back from the garage, especially as we’d brought five litres of the two stroke oil with us.
Went to Carentan, and visited Utah and Omaha beaches. Had some frites (very nice but very expensive). From there we moved to Cherbourg. There I fell off my bike and blush to the roots even to recall the incident. I fell off because we had parked on a slope at the campsite and I put my sidestand down and began to get off when the whole beastly thing rolled off its stand and onto me. My language was absolutely awful, although nothing was actually damaged.
Later, when I had composed myself, we visited the hypermarche at Cherbourg, which quite frankly was horrid. We had to hand over our crash helmets to some very surly security guards. God knows what they thought we were going to do with them - smuggle sweeties, perhaps. And we had to fork out ten francs — a quid - just for the deposit on the rotten shopping trolley. I was outraged! Mind you, I suppose it does make jolly sure you take the damn thing back.
From sunny Cherbourg-by-the-Sea it was zoom home across the Channel. A cautionary note — never, ever, buy any food on a ferry, the prices are unbelievable, like £2.50 for a couple of cans of pop and a few bikkies. We were stopped at customs where they found it hard to believe we weren’t carrying drink or cigarettes but we were on nice clean bikes and wearing neatly pressed Belstaffs so they didn’t strip search as try turning up looking like a Hells Angel and see what happens.
I must say I found travelling on the RD more tiring than on four stroke machines they’re a bit noisy and twitchy for long distances, and I did a hell of a lot of gear changing to get up those bills. Fortunately, the RD250 has a light gearchange, so I didn’t end up with a sprained left foot.
Didn’t get a sore botty either, which makes a change (and when your buttocks cover the kind of area mine do, a tender bot can be a major problem I usually carry a small supply of surgical spirit and Excelsior Jungle Ointment for this very reason, though I did not require them on this particular trip, much to the relief of my husband).
I won’t bother you with the journey back to the Midlands (ugh), as it was pretty uneventful, although we did pass a filthy bunch of degenerate so-called bikers on a selection of rusting and neglected machinery, with whom we exchanged hard stares.
So ends our epic tour. We covered 650 miles, which isn’t a vast distance, but it proves you can tour on two- strokes, as long as you accept the fact that you’ll have to fill up every 100 miles and that you’ll leave a trail of fragrant blue smoke everywhere. Carrying luggage is no problem — Krausers make panniers for small bikes or you could use throw over saddlebags.
Christine Scorey
After waiting eight issues to see if anyone would report on the Suzuki GSX400F, either favourably or otherwise, I’ve decided to take the plunge and pen an article myself. My own association with this particular marvel of Japanese technology began back in June 1985 when I decided that my little Kawasaki Z250C was in need of replacement.
Anyway, I started looking out for another bike, not knowing what I was looking for, apart from that it would be larger than 250cc, my 9 months with the Kawa having put me off 250s for life - 70mph flat out, wobbly handling and a deal of discomfort did not exactly inspire.
While searching for my new mount I tried a CX500, which rattled on the left pot like a skeleton break-dancing on a tin roof - the dealer suggested that once I’d handed over the money he’d adjust the tappets and the noise would disappear. Big deal, I took my money elsewhere sharpish.
The next day I came across the Suzuki and it was love at first sight - I had to have it. One ten mile test ride later (on the pillion because the large number of thefts in Lowestoft meant the dealer wasn’t taking any chances), I jumped the queue of at least two other people by being the first to hand over the money — £600 plus the Z250C. It was only then that the dealer informed me that it had been rebuilt under warranty after 4000 miles, a mere 500 miles before.
My first impressions were of a bike that was quiet, refined, smooth as silk, and accelerated like a scalded cat (the acceleration is just about on flat with a Kawasaki GPz550).
My first problem came three months later (the bike came with a 2 months parts and labour warranty) when the bike repeatedly blew the main fuse. Then suddenly one night the battery totally discharged itself in about two seconds and then refused to hold sufficient charge to power the headlamp for more than three miles.
A visit to the dealer revealed that the alternator stator had melted. The cost of a genuine Suzuki replacement was £92 + VAT. I obtained one from a breaker for £20, which I fitted in half an hour and which has worked perfectly ever since.
Two weeks after this, I was riding through Great Yarmouth town centre, returning home from a Christian Motorcyclists Association meeting, when the nice muted purr suddenly changed into a deafening roar - both exhaust baffles had fallen out, leaving the bike with a quaint pair of straight thru megaphones. This gave the bike a certain mid-sixties Honda TT racer sound, but did little to promote friendly relations between myself and either the Saturday afternoon shoppers or the local constabulary.
Another visit to my local dealer revealed that Heron Suzuki would gladly swap 195 of my hard earned drinking vouchers for another of their bacofoil exhaust systems, but this time Motad got my order and two weeks and £115 later, a black and silver Neta system restored peace and quiet to East Anglia. Not only is the Neta cheaper, it's also quieter, offers better ground clearance and looks a lot smarter.
These are the only two times in two and a half years that the bike has let me down through its own fault. In fact, the other time the bike was out of action was in March this year when some kind *@*&%£*$ borrowed my headlamp after hacksawing through the wiring harness. This time the necessary Suzi bits would have cost £140 (new wiring harness, headlamp shell, lens, rim, reflector and bulb). I paid £20 to a breaker for a wiring harness and headlamp, although the headlamp actually came from a GT250X7 and only had 45 watts available instead of the halogen bulb I’d fitted to the bike before - a car unit from Halfords costs a mere £4.50 which will pop straight in.
On the servicing side, the tasks couldn’t be much easier. The valve clearances (all 16 of them) are conventional screw and locknut, but they do go out of adjustment pretty quickly (about every 4-5000 miles). The carbs, unlike the bigger fours, go out of balance very quickly, as little as 500 miles between balancing. When they are out of balance the engine makes a rumbling noise similar to shot big-ends, which will disappear above 2000rpm. The local dealer charges a mere £8 for balancing the carbs and setting the valves.The camchain is adjusted automatically (Suzuki seem to be one of the few manufacturers able to make camchain adjusters that actually work!) and the ignition is of the maintenance free electronic variety. Oil consumption varies between half and one litre per 2000 miles (the interval at which I normally change the oil) depending on whether I’m gently commuting or thrashing it all over the country.
I have always used Avon Roadrunner tyres with no complaints. The rear goes for between 8000 and 11000 miles, whilst the front is the one that was on the bike when I bought it (25000 miles ago).
It’s on its third drive chain, but still has the original factory sprockets (with perfect teeth). Brake pads all seem to last 15000 miles. The twin front discs use Dunlopads and the single back disc has Ferodo, a combination that gives the best stopping performance - wet or dry, the brakes will stop the bike on the proverbial sixpence. The battery has never needed topping up in two and a half years and the bike starts easily in the morning despite being left outside in all kinds of nasty weather.
From the forgoing you may think that the bike has a gentle life, but the GSX is regularly cruised at 90mph and run up to 105mph on occasions. Fuel averages out at 55mpg, with a worst of 45mpg and an all time best of 70mpg.
Some bikes have written off their valve gear and top-end in less than 20000 miles, but this was mainly confined to the earlier machines which were fitted with a totally inadequate sump. This often led to overheating problems with disastrous consequences (and the reason for the early demise of the engine - the previous owner apparently exploded the motor at 115mph on the A11 near Snetterton).
The bottom end was modified by fitting a larger sump (as mine now is) which hopefully has cured the earlier engine problems. The modification mark is a blob of weld over the oil capacity plate near the oil filler cap. From Aug ’83 onwards models were fitted with the larger sump straight from the factory and are easily checked by reference to the oil capacity plate.
The bike handles well, performs more than adequately, is light enough at around 400lbs to cause no problems in town or on country roads and is quite cheap to run if you buy a good ’un.
Anyway, there we have it, a bike which I’ve been very happy with over 25000 miles and would readily recommend one to anyone else. Would I buy another one? Hmmmm, probably not, as I have already been bitten by the bug for something totally different I am currently restoring a ’73 MZ ETS 250 Trophy Sports, but I’ll still keep the GSX as a second bike and ride it until it wears out (probably at least another 29500 miles).
Chris Armour
"Nah mate, I’ve never had one of them in. Very unpopular, Yamaha hardly sold any of them," a breaker from Norfolk informed me. This seemed odd as the old Which Bike Used Bike Buyers Guide described it as very popular, and I had bought two of them, myself. Perhaps I had been supporting Yamaha’s 650cc range for the past seven or eight years.
The first XJ I owned was in 1982 when I was a student in London. As the first big four stroke I’d ridden it was obviously superb in my opinion. The second materialised in November 1986, due to my suffering from withdrawal symptoms, having been bikeless for four years - but marriage and buying houses does this to you, I’m afraid.
I am probably different from the majority of UMG readers and contributors in that my motorcycling is purely a hobby - I have a job that requires me to provide a car, so the only justification for having a bike is that I’d go nuts without one Consequently, I have only managed 2000 miles this summer and can’t quote the usual chain, tyres, bits and pieces per 10000 miles, etc (thank god, I hear you cry).
Anyway, last November I was looking for a cheap hack to do up over the winter and was touring the local bike shops. I dropped into R.A. Wilsons of Boston and amongst the shiny rows of GPzs there was a small group of much older and decidedly ratty bikes. Sitting forlornly in the far corner was a XJ650 with a rather nice FZ paint job. It was love at first sight! I asked if it was for sale - it was, said the assistant, about £850 when it’s done up.
Once I had picked myself up off the floor, I found myself saying, well, I’ll give you £500 for it as seen, without letting my brain get into gear. Much to my surprise the answer was yes, but with no guarantee. Thus one week later I was again the proud owner of a XJ650, a 1981 model with 23000 miles on the clock.
On reflection, I was perhaps taking a chance, as the only thing I checked before delivery was that it was a runner with all the gears. I hadn’t noticed the lack of indicators, or the oil weep on the cylinder head or the bald tyres or the dented petrol tank or the but love is blind as we all know. On the plus side, it had the smart paint job, ace bars (if a little bent), a newish Neta exhaust system and Giulari sports seat. It ran well save for brakes that didn’t stop it once it was going.
The bike was stripped down to the bare frame and completely resprayed using cans and cans of cheapo aerosol. I nearly broke down looking at the wiring loom hanging from the ceiling as my knowledge of electrics is limited to joining wires of similar colour and hoping. I wasn't even sure which way round it was supposed to go. The engine was treated to a coat of black heat resistant paint, despite the warnings not to use at a temperature below 70'F - I didn’t have much choice as it was January and probably 0‘F.
Many very rusty parts were sprayed with Hammerite, which gave a good finish and comes highly recommended. The oil leak was cured with a new head gasket, the steering head bearings were replaced with tapered rollers and everything was generally cleaned, greased, etc. The brakes and forks were treated to new seals, whilst the swinging arm bearings were left alone as they looked a real bitch to remove.
A set of indicators were acquired from the breakers for £16 — two from a SR125, two from a LC250. They fitted without any problems but the big test was the wiring loom it only took three goes to get it right. Even the indicators worked after I stopped both sides flashing alternately.
So far the rebuild had cost approximately £80, and all that was left were the usual filters, plugs and a set of tyres. I went to the local dealer and thought I was onto a winner when he said the tyres would cost £55... until he explained that was just the front, the rear was an extra £60. Eventually, I traced a set of Avon F2/R2s at a local tyre depot for £89 fitted, which consisted of bashing the tyre as hard as possible with a rubber mallet.
After the usual necessities - tax, insurance and MOT - I hit the road mid April. My first impression was to try to stop revving the nuts off it as I wobbled away, but I was ashamed to see the tacho had yet to reach 4000rpm. Talk about being rusty, more like complete corrosion. The motor, however, was very smooth and the gears quite positive; memories of five years back came flooding in and the bike certainly didn’t feel six years and 23000 miles old.
The handling was OK, but as I was a complete idiot after four years, I wouldn’t have been able to separate it from an Asda shopping trolley (fitted with Marzocchis of course, which, fortunately, had been fitted to the XJ). The engine felt strong and willing but was a lot peakier than the first one I had owned, with a large flat spot at 4000 - 5000rpm. When changing into top at this point the bike actually decelerated unless powered into the power band.
It was very similar to a LC I owned back in ’81 — no power until 5500rpm and then it would try to pull your arms out of their sockets. However, I like engines with these characteristics as they tend to make for entertaining riding so I proceeded with a suitably manic grin on my face.
Once I was back into the swing of riding the beast, I soon found that it tended to wallow around bends at anything over 60mph with a vague feel to the steering, and a wobble in a straight line above 70mph even with the tyres at the correct pressure. Fitting of new front wheel bearings sorted out the latter problem, and the handling has become pretty respectable, taking into account the 19 inch front wheel and ace bars.
The shaft drive is excellent it doesn’t have any effect on handling and obviously has virtually zero maintenance requirements. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for the brakes — the lever often used to come back right to the handlebars, making clenched buttocks a far too frequent necessity. A new master cylinder and Goodridge hoses cured most of the braking problems.
The hoses were cadged off a friend’s recently deceased Z550 for a small sum. The brakes now have plenty of feel but do seem to fade alarmingly (especially from 100mph) when I’m trying to keep up with a friend on his GPz550.
The bike will do 100mph anywhere (but I won’t), but anything over 110mph would require considerably wider and straighter roads than those that exist in East Lincolnshire. Acceleration at mid range speeds is terrific in third or fourth gears with fifth (top) used purely for cruising at 5000rpm or around 80mph.
I am glad I bought the XJ — it has provided large capacity performance for an overall outlay of around £900 including running costs spread over a year. The only maintenance required in 2000 miles was to keep the petrol tank full (35-40mpg), the oil level correct and tyres inflated. The rear tyre is already half worn and will have to see the year out.
I have toyed with the idea of getting another bike and repeating the rebuilding process again this year, but FZRs and 500LCs are still more than £500 even when very tatty. I am still in love with the XJ and probably couldn't bring myself to sell it anyway. It does seem to be what Which Bike described as bullet proof. Maybe this will inspire other armchair enthusiasts and prove that two wheels need not be too expensive even when high(ish) performance is demanded.
Gary Parsons
My conscience had been niggling me for ages ever since taking up biking I had thought about buying a British bike at some stage. I followed a familiar line of graduating up the ladder through various small capacity oriental ironmongery, passing a test at the appropriate moment. About three years into my biking life I was reasonably happy with my lot, which consisted of a reliable Honda CB250RS. I wanted something bigger, but bank managers and insurance premiums prevented me from doing so.
One day, leafing through the MCN Smalls, my eye stopped on an ad for a Royal Enfield 350 Bullet. I must admit that I didn’t know what one of these looked like, but it seemed to me a good way as any of getting in with the Ruff Tuff Brit biking bunch who hung out at the local, as well as being covered by my existing insurance and being a bit different.
A word with a few mates seemed to confirm that it was one of the most reliable bikes ever made on this fair isle, so I went to see it. The owner was an engineer by trade and had an impressive workshop in his back garden complete with lathe. He started telling me the trouble he had obtaining spares for it and how he had knocked the odd part up himself when he couldn’t , buy it. Oil changes every 500 miles - this was too good to be true. Out of all the used bikes I’ve bought, I have never felt so confident that here was a bike that had been pampered and looked after by someone who knew what they were doing. 350 notes later the bike was mine.
It took a bit of getting used to - gearchange on the right, one up, three down and a small lever on the gearbox which when given a hectic kick would put the bike into neugtral straight from 2nd, 3rd or 4th gear. The electrics were the usual sick 6V joke one expected to find on a 1957 lightweight, which meant that night time riding just wasn’t on unless it was an emergency. The horn sounded like Donald Duck on a bad day, and was usually drowned out by engine noise, anyway.
The engine made a lovely noise, there is some indefinable magic about a big single cylinder engine; a combination of power making itself felt throughout the bike in big thumps and a noise that was music to my ears, backfiring on the overrun an’ all. Actually, it was quite easy to get the bike to backfire deliberately which was quite fun at traffic lights and the like - just wind the throttle up, close it quickly and it’s there.
The Enfield looked to me like one of those bikes that appear on the cover of one those mags that claim to represent that time in motorcycling history when the best bikes were British, when men were really men and an inability to kick an M20 into life would get sand kicked into your face.
The men who posed on these bikes were nearly always the retired colonel type complete with pudding basin helmet and genuine imitation leather Biggles flying goggles. The bikes were in pristine condition, kept in an air conditioned bank vault and taken out once a year to the owners club meet, where their owners would lie outrageously about how they rode their bikes into work every day, went to the South of France on it etc.
I was not that type, my bike was going to be a workhorse as well as posing tackle. I loved the bike’s looks - everything seemed so solid compared with my plastic Jap bike, it was very, very heavy and pumped out something like 18hp when new. That was the manufacturers claim, so god knows what was actually getting transmitted to the rear wheel. This power or lack of it didn’t bother me, ’cos the bike would plod along at an indicated 60mph quite happily.
Higher speeds were best left to the brave and foolish, because the Avon Speedmaster tyres had a square section design with only the tread on the flat section hitting the road fine on the straight, but cornering was an acquired art of picking the right line in advance and keeping the power on smoothly. Any attempt at fast cornering quickly resulted in the back stepping out, the ancient shocks attempting to keep the whole plot from pogoing, with the bike sliding on the edge of its tyre.
Seriously folks, the back tyre had corners on it. I would have been interested to see how it handled on modern tyres. The SLS drum brakes worked, after a fashion, but it was a good idea to plan ahead because stopping power was pretty pathetic compared with modern discs and the engine braking was often more effective than the brakes.
I changed the engine oil every 1000 miles and used 90 weight oil in the gearbox every 2000 miles. The final drive chain snapped on me, but it looked like the original so I wasn’t too put out at lashing out a tenner for another one. The chain I bought was the cheapest I could find, and it was interesting to compare it with the old one, because the side plates on the new one were about three times as thick as the old one.
The tyres didn’t seem to be wearing out at all. Petrol worked out at about 80 to a gallon of four star which was very reasonable. A constant oil weep never became worse than a slow drip. Oil consumption varied, but probably used up about a pint between 1000 mile oil changes. Gearbox oil consumption was nonexistent.
The bike did about 12000 miles in six months of reasonable weather, despite my resolve to use it strictly for posing at weekends. The Honda was pushed to the back of the garage and the Enfield was used all the time. Its strange behaviour was easily forgivable, counteracted by its noise, looks and sheer charisma. Before I get the editor of this esteemed rag shaking his head and thinking there goes another fool, because he thinks I should put away the rose-tints and face reality, consider this: I used the bike for six months and put over 12000 miles on it, apart from the oil changes and odd leak from the cases, and the drive chain, it didn’t break down, never needed any spare parts and never needed or appeared to need any servicing other than oil.
I am not a mechanical wizard, and have reliable chaps to back up this seemingly outrageous claim. Pressing financial circumstances forced me to sell it, but I got what I paid for it, and only had to put petrol and oil in her.
While I read tales of other people’s misfortunes with Triumphs, Beezers, etc. and would probably agree with the vast majority of what the Ed says about people paying too much money for a piece of mechanical mayhem, I can only count my blessings and say if the unsuspecting punter wants a reliable British bike which is dead cheap to run and insure, then this is the business. It certainly attracted a lot of attention wherever it went, from the don’t make ’em like they used to brigade, through to spotty adolescent stroker boys, to one old lady, complete with shopping trolley and hairnet, who summed up the bike very ably with a genuine, ’cor, isn’t it beautiful'.
Philip Blunt
I would have preferred to turn over and go back to sleep. It was six o'clock in the morning, I had to get from Salisbury to Hereford. It was December and my only means of transport was an old Suzuki GS400 twin. I turned over and went back to sleep for two hours. It was bloody freezing in the bedroom and it became much worse when I poked my head out of the back door. I cursed God and whoever invented the motorcycle.
There was nothing for it but to dress up. Two t-shirts, three pullovers, a heavy pair of jeans and several pairs of socks went on first. Then Barbour waxed cotton trousers with a waist up around my armpits and legs a couple of inches too short. I’m not sure what you’d call that kind of style, but the i were warm and waterproof. A pair of Wellington boots were the only way to keep my feet dry. The next part became awkward, I had to pull my pullover sleeves down over my hands then shove on some gloves and then pull on my heavily tarnished leather jacket - all to make sure that there wasn’t any gap between my gloves and jacket. Full face helmet and a couple of scarves around my neck took care of the top end. Over all this I pulled on an old woollen overcoat that was very thick.
Any kind of movement in all this gear was very difficult and any exertion created much sweat. I waggled out to the garage, hoping the GS would refuse to start. but it purred into life first caress of the button. My breath froze solid in front of me, and the engine’s exhaust was white in the brittle atmosphere. I already felt cold deep down in my bones and I knew if I were to stop on route I‘d never have the heart to keep on going.
I live out in the country and the council never bothers to salt the road so my eyes are peeled for black ice. Reports on the radio had confirmed my worst fears. A pile up on the motorway when an artic had gone sideways didn‘t inspire optimism. I had a choice of taking a series of motorways or going down the back roads.
The thought of those endless motorways where there would be nothing to concentrate on except for the cold decided me on the latter, a route that was shorter in mileage but rather longer in time due to its twisty nature and the odd traffic jam. As it was near to Xmas I hoped that there wouldn't be too much traffic on the road.
The first fifty miles were well known, I could hustle through all the short cuts and make good time, save for the presence of the dreaded black ice. I’d hardly gone a mile when the first slide happened. As has been chronicled in these pages before, the GS400 has a very remote ride, although it is basically a reasonably good handler and doesn’t speed wobble. I’ve improved the feel of the bike by sticking on forks off a T140V and Koni rear shocks. Those, combined with the latest Roadrunner tyres (8000 miles and the rear still has loads of life) improve feedback. When it hit that first bit of ice the back wheel spun out a good yard and my heart stopped for as long as it took to shut down the throttle. Luckily, that brought the rear wheel back when the tyre found some tarmac to grip. I proceeded very slowly until I hit the main road which had been salted.
Ten minutes into the trip my fingers have become frozen. I warmed by left hand on the camshaft covers whilst bowling along. The throttle hand was a little more difficult - stick the bike in top and let her run along at fifty, hand off throttle and quick warm on the cylinder head, then grab throttle and wind her open. Oh for a cruise control.
I started counting the cars by the side of the road. There was a Roller that had spun off the road into a telegraph pole that hadn’t given an inch despite the car’s obvious build quality. At one point there were three cars all mashed up, their crumple zones well, er, crumpled. I didn’t gloat, exactly, it just passed the time, if a little frightening to think how easy it was for four wheel devices to lose control. Perhaps I should buy a sidecar and one of those massive fairings, or perhaps I should live in a warm country.
Half an hour into the journey, my right foot began to feel the cold and both my knees, stuck out in the airstream, are complaining. My left hand is almost permanently clamped to the cylinder head (clutchless gear changes are a cinch on the GS) whilst my right hand has gone past the point where it can feel. I begin to love traffic lights because I can embrace the engine with both hands. Despite the layers of clothes the wind has found its way in. The way the velocity of the bike increases the effects of the sub zero temperatures is frightening. The wind chills me right down deep into my bones. Jesus, I’ve only done 20 miles so far...
The GS400 engine seems happy with the temperature, the thing just runs and runs. I sit on the machine repeating and occasionally screaming to myself that I’m warm, I’m warm. But it doesn’t seem to work. I increase speed to get the business over with as soon as possible, one way or another. The effects of the cold seem no worse at eighty than fifty. I feel most reluctant to back off for slow moving cars. The road is wide enough to overtake with no great problem and there are some nice long straights.
In an hour I manage fifty miles, including a stretch where I was down to a miserable crawl because of the sudden descent of a thick fog, so thick that I had to tailgate a lorry for five miles. That mist was so cold I was shivering for a good ten minutes. I knew I was in a dangerous condition, that I was at the point where I really didn’t care if I fell off, I just wanted to knock off the remaining miles.
Ten miles to Gloucester, the stretch of A46 between Bath and Gloucester is usually one of my favourite roads, a lovely combination of straights and curves, only spoilt by loitering police cars, but my usual joy was dissipated by the misery of the cold.
Three miles out of Bath there was a long queue of traffic and no easy way of overtaking it. Then things turned really nasty when it started pouring down. One thing I’ve noticed about that area is that if it’s going to rain anywhere it’s going to rain there. This wasn’t a light drizzle that I could easily shrug off. It was one of those fierce downpours that are just short of hailstones. With the slow traffic there was no way I could ride with my visor down so I had a face full of icy cold water to add to my list of grievances agaist mankind.
Once the traffic started moving I had the choice of riding with my visor down with limited vision or with it up, and still limited vision because I had to screw up my eyes against the force of the cold, cold rain, so I chose the former, with the hope that there wasn’t any black ice around.
It took about half a mile for the water to completely soak through the leather gloves, and I dared not try to heat them up on the engine whilst in, motion; it was enough riding half blind without tempting fate by riding one handed. I guess those ten miles or so to Gloucester will remain etched in my mind, talk about self inflicted agony.
Just before Gloucester the rain stopped and I had to stop to try to revive my right hand which was throbbing like it’d been run over by a forty ton truck. I took the glove off and was horrified to see that my hand had turned black. Thoughts of terminal frost bite were only kept under rational control by remembering that I only need really worry when I couldn’t feel any pain. I wrung out the glove and stuck the soggy mass back on, holding onto the engine with both hands amid clouds of steam and the smell of burnt leather. I had enough logical thought left to work out that the dye in the glove must have run out and stained my hands.
Only thirty miles to go. I shot straight through Gloucester - it’s quicker than the ring road if you know the way. Again the road was littered with traffic. The next ten miles were a bit of a fantasy, the only way I could keep going was to ride on autopilot and send my mind off elsewhere, trying to concentrate on the most beautiful girl I ever met. The pain in my hands had spread to my feet and knees. I just left the bike in fourth gear, rolling the throttle on and off to control speed, finding seventy a reasonable compromise between wind blast and the need to get the trip over with as soon as possible.
Twenty miles to go, the rain comes again in a massive release, the sky turned black over the whole horizon. God definitely doesn’t like me anymore. The machine keeps running on the edge of going out of control, all my actions have become clumsy - too much throttle, too much brake, progress degenerates into a series of near misses. Fifteen miles left, too near to stop, I’m soaked through and the engine has started missing. Five miles later I turn on reserve and it runs OK again.
The last ten miles were hell, but I kept going because I could feel the warmth of a heated room and a dry set of clothes. I arrived a soggy, shivering mass that waddled into the front of a gas fire, threw all the damp clothes to a far corner of the room and wrapped a dressing gown on.
Then the real pain started. My fingers and toes began to thaw out and I was near screaming with the pain of it. I leapt round like a madman to distract myself. As the circulation slowly crept back into my extremities I wanted to take a hammer to that damn motorcycle. Never again I thought. Half an hour later I had recovered and full of a job well done. The TV said snow was due soon...
Al Culler
