Selling a pretty good Norton 850 due to terminal financial constrictions was bad enough, but the prospect of being without a bike for the first time in 15 years was not one I could face squarely like a man.
Despite impoverishment, action had to be taken. A couple of frustrating weeks later, after some fierce bargaining with shady characters, I had procured, for £50, the essentials of two Honda CB200s, an MOT certificate and a bit of road tax.
l made something that ran out of these bodged and mis-shapen remains, and persevered with the resultant soggy, gutless heap for a month, during which lunar phase my experience of roadside breakdowns and mindless rage increased a hundredfold, coming perilously close to mental derangement. The only positive feature of this misbegotten Honda was the unbelievable racket its somewhat less than perfect exhaust system produced.
In the absence of any other enjoyment I derived perverse pleasure from pretending to be sixteen again, crouching low over the wildly leaping bars with the throttle against the stop and rending the air with a noise like a demented chainsaw. A colleague, aside from the usual comments regarding my sanity and parentage, remarked that on the Honda I resembled a soldier ant trying to mate a gnat.
7.30am is not an advantageous time to welcome one large uniformed policeman at your back door, and two is a severe shock to the still half asleep system. They were quite relaxed with me, considering that one of the Hondas was almost certainly stolen in its murky past. I kept a low (and much quieter) profile for a few days, then quickly passed the anonymous remains on to someone else.
Bike-less again, I wondered if the CB200 had been better than nothing. I concluded affirmatively, in much the same way as meths is better than nothing if you can't afford the real stuff.
Next week there happened to be a Yamaha XS500 for sale in the local rag. It was far, far more than I could afford £400, but I went to have a look anyway, hoping that a test ride would at least give me a bit of fun.
Gleaming red and white, with gold cast wheels, it was sparkling and nearly immaculate, having been cherished by a fairly mature, mainly weekend rider. At the time it wasn't much over three years old and had just eleven grand on the clock. Electronic ignition and Cibie headlamp apart it was standard.
Out on the test ride my resolve to be sensible and grown up evaporated after about ten seconds. As soon as I returned the hot and clicking Yam to its worried looking owner, I heard myself saying, as if from a great distance, Right, I'll have it. I didn't even bother to haggle the vendor was too genuine and there really wasn't anything wrong. A week later, I'd begged, borrowed and grovelled my way into possessing £400, and the XS500 was mine.
The last 500 twin I'd had was a Matchless G9, so I was half expecting a docile but self-destructing machine with minimal brakes and indifferent handling. My first few days with the Yam 500 did little to dispel these suspicions.
After the vile Honda 200 it was pleasant to be on something which at least felt like a motorbike. But I was disappointed by the performance, which felt weak for a 500. Eventually, a couple of pennies dropped. One, the previous owner had raised the gearing with a rear sprocket five teeth smaller than stock.
Two, I'd been trying to ride the Yam like the Norton, which had serious power at low revs. With the standard sprocket and a revised attitude to throttle use, things took a change for the better and I was happier with the way the Yam shifted.
Performance over six grand was brisk enough to be exciting (the bike is red-lined at nine grand). Once the rear shocks were replaced by a couple of Sebacs which restored the damping (for a while), handling was stable enough to make the whole package fun, even if it wasn't a tarmac blistering road burner. In the UK (with breakdown assistance relatively easy to obtain) I have to admit that I tortured the motor wickedly whenever road and traffic conditions allowed. Further afield in Europe, I mostly kept the engine below six grand, making for a comfortable if not particularly economical tourer (45mpg).
When I first had the XS I couldn't afford to do anything to it beyond putting petrol in the (too small) tank and checking the oil. Luckily, in those early days it didn't use more than 1/2 a pint every thousand miles. with twenty grand on the clock the performance lost its edge and the motor felt and sounded a little rough. It was time to see what was behind the engine's rapidly tarnishing exterior.
The first surprise was four valves per cylinder, the second that they had conventional screw adjusters. Twin cams were driven by a duplex chain, which I replaced for peace of mind's sake. I tightened down the head as hard as I dared, set the valve clearances and put the cover back on. The only worry was that the plugs had come out of the head with a significant amount of alloy stuck in their threads. Very carefully, and offering up a prayer to the gods of motorcycling, I put in new ones with a dollop of Copaslip.
Another surprise was an odd chain behind one of the side covers - a chain driven engine balancer. The chain was far too slack and once adjusted the smoothness of the motor improved considerably. I thought the little spin off filter was neat, and I spun a new one on. I also changed the fork oil and went around the bike checking and tightening. Having spent a whole day on the Yam, I reflected that the Yam had, so far, done quite well and deserved to be cared for more conscientiously.
As though spiteful of my new attitude, both front fork oil seals went about 1000 miles later. The chore of fitting new ones became depressingly regular as the fork tubes became more and more pitted. Another pain was the brake caliper, which spent most of its working life binding or seizing up completely.
The brakes were, in fact, the most serious single restriction to properly spirited riding. Charging up to a series of fast bends and banging on the anchors at the last minute was courting disaster, resulting in wild cornering on the centre stand with the rear wheel several inches in the air... heavy braking had to be thoroughly discussed by a committee and signed in triplicate hundreds of yards in advance. Pad wear wasn't bad, though, because the brakes were so ineffectual.
Given these brakes, it was fortunate that the frame and steering weren't too bad. Even with someone as inept as myself at the controls, the bike could be cornered fairly hard without taking over from the rider and propelling him through hedges. On wet (no, not greasy....) roads, the XS500 could be ridden with more confidence than most Jap bikes of the seventies, something I proved to my own satisfaction when hurtling along almost flooded back roads after the 1984 Bol D'Or.
Apart from forks, brakes and regular oil changes every couple of thousand miles, the Yam needed virtually no attention for the next 20000 miles. More used to British technology (?), I could never quite get over how the XS500 engine could be caned for mile after wailing mile - and that at the end of the run it would still tick over at a steady 1000rpm, with no oil leaks or even misting.
Various people told me that the head would warp and crack; the cams would seize; the big-ends would go and that the valve gear would implode as soon as 30000 miles was up — but I made a point of seeing 40000 come up at full throttle in fourth. It was on the main road between Lincoln and Sleaford, and apart from running out of petrol a few miles later nothing dramatic happened.
It has to be said that by 40 grand the motor was tired and drinking too much multigrade. I gave it a service, obtained a new MOT and took stock of the bike situation. The whole machine was wearing out, I had premonitions of imminent mechanical disaster. Apart from the noticeably rattly motor, I was fretting about the cylinder head. When I had last taken out the right hand plug there was another and alarmingly substantial coil of alloy adhering to its thread - fingers crossed and eyes shut tight in supplication, I had slowly screwed in another plug. It seemed to tighten and hold, so I whacked on the HT lead and vowed never to go near the plugs again. It was July, nearly August, and I hoped to ride around France in September — would the bike cope? Doubtful.
A couple of days later found me in an Oxford dealers intending to trade in the Yam for something newer, faster and generally better - a low mileage GPz750 on hp? It was August 1st, which was a mistake as I was in a queue of new reg. punters flexing their one piece leathers.
What I took for a schoolboy and his mother waiting, I thought to pick up a moped until the kid pulled on flash red and white leathers, and mother signed hp forms and cheque with a gold Sheaffer. The salesman didn't tug his forlock or bow, but I distinctly heard him call the young master Sir. Goggle-eyed, I watched Sir take delivery of a brand new, bright orange Laverda triple. Jealous? Sick? You bet.
I explained my needs and a reluctant salesman looked over the Yam. It suddenly looked ancient, dirty, disreputable and clapped. After a few subtle insults the salesman said he might just see his way to allowing me £50 if I was definitely going to have one of their selected secondhands.
I went through the motions of looking at a cleanish Kawa GT750 on offer for 2 grand, worked out the monthly bill and dived out for some fresh air. The poor old Yam suddenly looked a lot more attractive - at least it was 100% mine.
That afternoon I did much the same thing at several London dealers. By the end of the day I was tired, humiliated and angry with myself for having been brain washed by consumerism. They could stuff their hp. As I thrashed the Yam home I counted my blessings, felt pleased with myself for having escaped endless debt and worry, decided to run the XS500 until it died, then buy something similar.
About two weeks later, overtaking a couple of combine harvesters and a tractor, I needed a bit of extra speed to finish the manoeuvre safely. No problem - drop a couple of gears, full throttle - then some strange noises and a sickening loss of power... oh, bother.
The driver of the last combine gave me a cheery wave as he roared past. Had the valves fused into the pistons? Had the big-ends cracked up? Nope - the right hand spark plug had finally stripped its thread and gone into orbit (probably around Mars). 41069 miles No doubt I could have found another head, or a less worn engine or even repaired or rebuilt the existing one. But by this time I fancied a more powerful bike.
Prices of XS500s are even less now. You could probably pick up a reasonable one for, a couple of hundred quid. Maybe I was lucky, but I had a lot of good, cheap fun with mine.
Chris Quayle