Market Forces: Bummin' Around Breakers

You’ve all seen me, I hang out in the back of those grimy shops, purveying items of dubious quality to naive and shame faced punters - I'm the one who looks knowledgeable when you ask me if I've got the left-hand side panel for a H2 Kawa Mach IV. Sometimes I actually tell you, “I don't actually work here, pal, ask Pudger." Other times I smile indulgently and nod in the direction of a fat bottom poking out of a pair of C & A denims...

The owner of said bottom prompted this article when asked how he could justify £120 for a dubious GPz305 motor. responded, “Well, it's like market forces, innit? Some mug will buy it because a new one costs more than his bike's worth." Market forces in a nutshell, as explained by Pudger, who drives a 7 series BMW and bites the heads off chickens when stressed.

It started when I bought the MZ125, got worse with the 250 Superslug, followed by a rather nice Z250 Custom, then a wild RD125 arrived. My social standing nosedived with the total nut and bolt rebuild of a Z400 twin, rapidly descending to the present stable of MZ field bike, Z250 belt drive Scorpion, a rusty BMW R80ST and a drawer full of a Yam SR250 in 2000 bits, all ready tor that long term project we know and love. I am the victim of an urge to run cheap and ugly bikes.

I hang out in bike breakers always on the lookout for that elusive SR500 tank and matching panels. My stock in trade is recycling the reviled and the cheap: GSX400s that run a bit hot, wobbly CB900s and MZ250s with no gear return spring.

It all started when I read a story in the UMG several years ago. I’m sure you’ve seen similar ones: “...and I went to the breakers and picked up the new front end for a CBR600 for £35.34 (plus VAT), bolted it on and toured France for six weeks with a 17 year old nymphomaniac on the pillion.”

In search oi both the aforementioned front and rear ends I ceaselessly comb local bike breakers for interesting tackle to rebuild or tour France on. Bike breakers, like sharks, have an essential role within bike society. They remove the greedy and gullible who would otherwise block up the trade counter at Halifax Kawasaki and recycle large amounts of resources back into their own pockets. Crashed and bashed bikes, not to mention those whose owners can‘t quite remember where they left them, are deftly represented to the punter who can‘t contemplate the cost of a new crank but will indeed shell out 300 notes for that RD bottom end...

It’s Saturday morning and my weekly task is about to begin. Crucial equipment will be the lack of a cheque book or credit card - where I venture only hard cash or gold teeth are acceptable. I wear stout boots and carry a heavy wrench — I’m about to enter the den of thieves, vipers and charlatans, otherwise known as motorcycle, breakers. Here we will engage in market forces the likes of which poor Norman Lamont never dreamt of. The sharks of Zurich would be as fluffy bunnies to these denlzens. GT750 clocks? No problem, £275 to you, pal, plus VAT, of course.

The simple operation of a bike breaker — buy it cheap, break it, into as many separate parts as possible, flog it at prices of one third less than new; buy it back and flog it again. If it’s not available in dealers then whack it out so high that only the Jap classic brigade will see its true value. RE5 rotor assembly? £995, plus VAT of course. Simple, but all the best ways to make money always are.

It would be erroneous of me to suggest that all bike breakers are hard-hearted exponents of the seamier side of capitalism, but by and large they are the true descendants of the mill owners that made West Yorkshire rich, if not tight-fisted. A cracked CB125 rear light lens? £5.50 to you pal, plus VAT.

Here, in the alternative dimension we shall encounter the cackling toothless gnarled hags who control the cash desk together with the filthy coffee machine, and the desperation of the newly-thieved still sobbing uncontrollably whilst glazed eyed counter clerks deftly add VAT to improbable prices for a used set of DT125R clocks.

Essential information for those wishing to forgo the learning curve of being sold MZ bits for a CZ (“it’s all the same stuff, innit?") is to understand that all traders are really quiet shy retiring types who prefer to use initials rather than names that may enable the inland Revenue to discuss their nonpayment of tax for the last nine years. Hence the oft used dodge of “FUA Motorcycles — parts for every bike ever made." Except the bits that you require, of course.

A further requirement of the customers is the patient air of one who has a guaranteed life expectancy of 104, together with a detailed knowledge of the particular GPZ500 brake caliper you wish to bolt rather than Blu-Tak on to your pride and joy. A dubious but reassuring expectation would be a receipt of some description, preferably not written by the dog on a Ferodo brake box in writing worthy of Guy Fawkes (after the rack).

This may come in handy at a later date when the men in blue come to visit you regarding the bike you inadvertently sold to a CID man turning out to have a similar frame number to one stolen three weeks ago. Yes, it happened to me. I felt lucky to lose the frame rather than six months for complicity — the CID man had bought the bike for his son's birthday.

Yorkshire is in many ways a biker's paradise. Twisty roads, lots of bike shops, the famous cafe at Sherburn-in-Elmet, the Lakes via the Skipton run every Sunday and getting well shafted by various breakers every Saturday...

Never try to short-circuit the system by ringing first. Breakers find this attitude most irritating as it robs them of the pleasure of luring you into their lair. Sadly they are forced to admit they have every single part you could name as a feeble attempt at entertainment. My last trip to Holmfirth (Last of the Summer Wine country) to view an immaculate, as in conception, H100 revealed an FT500 in two sacks. I had misheard his accent over the phone.

A strong grasp of your wallet is necessary as we enter a building reminiscent of Dickens. Dogs foul your Derriboots, a midget covered in SAE 20/40 scampers from under your feet and the smell of despair settles over you in yet another back street breaker. Awaiting your turn behind the chap with a Step-thru that needs a new screen... “Not much call for them, how much did the dealer quote you?" Only a fool would admit dealer prices; he did and was done.

You ask haltingly for a set of Z400 forks, the three wise mutants behind the counter grin, scratch their bottoms and tell you that a set of Z250 ones will do... possibly with a bit of work, dead cheap, they smile disarmingly, leaving you stranded in mid-conversation as they discuss Michael Jackson.

Your brain reels with the possibilities then reality takes a hand and you mutter an apology that you really wanted Z400 ones because the welding, machining and rechroming necessary with their option outweighs the cost of your house. They ignore you. Another punter arrives to break into the conversation on sodomy. “Have you got a set of carbs for a FZ600?" As you leave staff have been galvanised into action, banks of Mitsui’s finest appear as if by magic. The punter looks like he‘s been hit with Sam Fox‘s mammaries, he is smiling the smile of the shafted to be, you hear the sound of market forces and leave quietly.

Several more of the same, the staff seem cloned, the smell of old take-aways mingles with sweat and WD40. You become confused as to which breaker you’re actually in. if you have several projects in tea chests then you could try asking for the more obscure parts of an MZ250, such as a tank or a seat. This often produces much scratching of bottoms and feigned displays of deep thought before suggesting that CB250 bits could just fit.

Wearily, you drift upmarket. Nightclubs, wasteland and a new breed of bike breaker. Drifting into a carpeted space with a passing resemblance to a BMW service area, there are bikes, clean ones on neat gravel patches, glass display cases coyly showing exhaust parts as if they were sex aids. Radio 1 simpers in the background, dogs and the vertically challenged are kept out of public view, parts are clean and brought out for your examination on a spotless Formica counter.

You recite the magic words, “Have you got a side panel for a CB750 four?” A friendly nod, a quick flick with the computerised stock check. "What colour would you like?" Cash is proffered and VAT is added, 40p change and a receipt valid for 7 days on headed paper pressed into your sweaty hand. Well, well, you old cynic, there‘s a breaker that can be relied upon — until you glimpse a midget industriously removing a set of clocks from a nearly new DT125R through a gap in the door. You leave as one would ignoring the seventh beggar on the Underground.

Arriving home with the lighter wallet but happier heart, pausing only to smack the kids and kiss the dog, you head for the lock-up, pull back the door and whisper softly to the grime encrusted hulk that folks in the Dog & Duck know as the project. Well, then my beauty... Arrgh! The bastards had sold me the wrong side panel, it's left instead of right! See you on Saturday. 

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