Having been inundated with mail from my many admirers following my riveting account of not passing Part 1 of the test, otherwise known as Cone Kill or how to disappear up your own exhaust pipe without really trying, I shall proceed to continue the saga.
There comes a point when either through boredom with making the repeated trek to the blasted heath which passes for a testing ground, or a reluctance to go on contributing to the examiner’s welfare fund, you decide to really try to pass. This is what you do.
Go out and buy a good paperback, of which there are many, all with titles roughly the same — Pass Your Test. They are all written by the same man under different names. They are full of vital info -— keep to the left in general, if you find the bars digging into you back you have got on the bike wrong, go round rather than through roundabouts, etc, etc. The really fascinating stuff is that referring to a thing called steering geometry, and you learn with horror that at speed — whatever that mean: - you steer the bike to it. left if you want to go right and vice versa. Bit of a bugger, that one. However back to the cones.
If you can master that everyday manoeuvre of the eight, everything else is a doddle. You need six small stones and a friend’s hard tennis court. No friends with same? Find a school playground — they are empty for most of the time. You distribute the stones in such a way as to — ah bollocks to it — throw them at the nearest window and just go out there and pass.
Flushed with success and pleasure at meeting again the examiner whom you look on as an old friend, you spend loads more money and book in for Part 2. And who should be there but Mr Ex again. Things like, ”Hiya, wonder how many times this one will take,” will probably not go down well.
Especially if it’s raining which, of course. it is. The first hurdle is the most difficult, the eye test. My vision starts petering out at about 10 yards so it is useless to ask me to read a number plate at 25 yards. Mercifully, l have a good short term memory and l recommend the following procedure. After you have clocked in, clock out and check out the number plates of nearby cars.
Leaving a sheet of paper under the windscreen of any likely car with a warning that the car has been booby trapped will ensure that the car stays there and that the attention of the examiner will be absorbed by the antics of the constabulary for the next hour. If, as has happened, the driver takes no notice, all is not lost because it is just possible, by coming out with an entirely fictitious number sufficiently confidently to convince the examiner that his own eyes need testing, which he is obviously not going to admit to you.
He then looks at your machine — why can’t he call it a bike? — with the sort of look that only a confirmed cynic can achieve, and says something like, proceed down this road and take the first left by the newsagents, carry straight on until you come to a T junction and turn left and then immediately right at the phone box, turn right at the second crossroads and join the one way system for 354 yards and take the left fork signposted cemetery and turn right at the traffic lights which will bring you to the end of this road. Then carry on round again until I signal you to stop.
Bloody hell! Of course, with a limited size brain, most of which is still largely taken up with registration numbers, there is simply no way you can take this sort of thing on board. You have two options: bugger off home and take your test after moving house.
Apologise profusely and take out of your pocket your false hearing aid, available free from pharmacies, explaining that you can't get your helmet over It. You get on - it is probably best, even allowing for the degree of intimacy which you will have established after so many hours together, not to offer him a ride on the back so that he can better judge your skill - and spend a tense 10 minutes or so starting the engine, which is suffering from nerves, into life, throwing sickly apologetic Tom-type leers at him. He won’t be interested since by now the police and bomb squad should have started to arrive. Go around the first corner, stop and have a smoke.
Ten minutes later, en route once again, you will pass a furiously gesticulating figure — one mightily pissed off examiner. Now this is possibly the most crucial part of the whole proceeding, save for the Highway Code. You have two options in reply to his barely constrained, "Where have you been?” If you carried off the imaginary number plate episode successfully, there is no problem — you just swear blind that you have been riding around all the time. If you didn't need recourse to that then select any or all of the following: You fell off; you stopped for a pee; you had to tighten up the mirrors/bars/wheels; you got held up by the funeral at the cemetery (the best one). He will be longing to be finished with you by now, and the emergency stop will be as cursory and foreseeable as expected. Back at base, the dreaded Highway Code awaits. For the average UMG reader born in the seventies this is no problem, but for members of the BOF society it is a very sweaty experience.
We hardly knew what motorways were let alone what you did on them. Multi coloured studs, filtering lights, pelican crossings, all a closed book. But we, the elders, have one big advantage, a refined knowledge of psychology. Never commit yourself to an answer unless you are dead sure it’s right. You can safely deal with the, ”how many lanes has the left-hand side of a dual carriageway got?” type of question, and even with tricky ones like, ”how many lanes has a dual carriageway got altogether?” But more awkward is, ”What is the sequence of lights at a Pelican crossing?" You have no idea at all, so first of all play for time either by asking him to repeat the question or repeating it yourself, thereby acknowledging the skill of the questioner.
It is important that there is not too much silence, so you can begin by speculating out loud: "red... green... orange" a subtle one that since he is probably as old as you and similarly was not brought up on amber. If you got the wrong order, he will say ”Yes, but what order?” which will give you another go. It’s crucial not to look him in the eye as this will be seen as a defiant challenge to his authority, but you must glance at them at critical moments the disbelieving twitch of an eyebrow is hard to disguise. The more you can involve him, the better, as he will feel wanted for the first time that week.
And, finally, I really enjoy riding my Moto Guzzi V50, and can't understand the periodic blasts of criticism from UMG readers. It has been, for a year, super reliable, ridden throughout the year in all weathers and we get all weathers in Wales. It looks dead smart (V reg), makes a lovely noise, handles brilliantly — what more can you want? Yeah, OK, 100mph plus, but remember I’m a BOF. Thank god they didn't have the pursuit type test when I was learning.
P. Station
Colin was showing off, not a feature of his normal behaviour, but encouraged by the prospect of a picnic on the shores of Lake Vyrnwy. It is in his upbringing, you understand. His parents took him, at a far too tender age, to Australia (not something to inflict upon your loved ones, but maybe times were hard) and I suppose memories of billabongs and girls called Matilda had stimulated some sort of instinctive calling in him and, there he was, at the side of the lake with the full kettle boiling over the fire.
He was laid out with an arm supporting his head and the other moving languidly from his mouth as he smoked his roll-up to the middle distance where he gesticulated to embellish some finer point of his argument. The subject of the discussion was whether one needed to explain to people precisely what one meant by the rather vague word cold, or whether bleeding hell or geeee was in fact succinct enough for most of the assembled company. His mate with whom he was having this discussion of semantics was, I thought, in a somewhat better position to make accurate assessments about the situation, as he was at that moment up to his Y-fronts in Lake Vyrnwy itself.
"Don't piddle in that,” someone said, ”it supplies the whole of Liverpool with water.” I said. ”My aunty lives in Liverpool.” ”Well, there you are then.” 'I'm not going to piddle in it," he replied, but all doubted him. It was rather cold and that seems to have an adverse effect upon one's holding capabilities, besides I sensed he was rather ambivalent about the people in Liverpool.
Colin’s kettle slowly boiled and a great lumbering group of men, each looking like a fat old walrus with their moustaches and shiny black leather rumps, lay like a beached colony, contentedly watching Dave as he continued to stand in the freezing cold water. The ruder parts in his Y-fronts slowly receded into some warmer part of themselves and the prospect of his peeing grew more and more remote with each passing moment.
They were at peace The bikes were on their stands, gleaming in the light up above us at the roadside. No one had had a moment’s trouble and everyone was in fine humour. Colin made the tea. i tried to think what it was about the runs that I enjoyed, tried to pin it down. Enjoy was the wrong word for a start. The riding was exhilarating, throwing my leg over the bike and just knowing that I'm off gives me a special thrill, a sort of revenge on the commonplace.
The ride, that was like going on a ghost train, one minute caught in reality — job, house, routines, bills — the next a ride into an adventure, but not like a ghost train with the frightening faces and creepy cobwebs. On the bikes, round corners, infinite sky then suddenly a marvellous vista, a glimpse of the countryside with tiny villages clustered like sweets in the palm of your mother’s hand when you were a child.
Then on, into the depths of gloom, the clouds black, the mountains rising up like tombstones, the excitement, the smell of it (getting stuck behind the Scott and the smell of Castrol R up your nostrils). The thrill of it as the stand scrapes around the bends, that sense of riding round a right-hander where your buttocks lean this way and than that way and you made it. The bike wound open, held in check and then let fly again, the power of it, flipping this way and that.
”if you’ve enjoyed it this far,” said Mike, ”just wait until you see the afternoon route.” And he wasn’t mistaken. The countryside was breathtaking. Along the shores of the lake, dipping and weaving on the narrow roads between the hedges and then riding along the contours of the mountain where the sheep totter precariously on the steep outcrops, watching with their baleful eyes. the valleys below bathed in sunlight.
We rode to Bala and stopped for ice cream, and within seconds old boys were round the bikes, delighted with the opportunity to talk about their experiences on the Beezer or Triumph, glad to be able to identify with what they saw, instead of frightened and intimidated as they were with the modern stuff. You try explaining to some old boy about the Kawasaki racing green and his eyes go cloudy. Bikes were never supposed to be that colour.
Some other bikers came over, their modern bikes standing as proud (and as large) as bulls at a stadium; their power as potentially as lethal. And these macho guys took photos of us. There is always great respect for the individual, doesn’t matter what bloke you meet, if he's on a bike you can bet he’ll be OK.
Admittedly. some of the polish and pose brigade in the vintage movement can seem a bit prosaic, but stick them back on a bike and let them ride it and all the stuffiness is gone as quickly and as suddenly as the houses and towns behind them.
I watched the young guys on their modern Jap stuff and it was so obvious what the fatal attraction was. Then I looked at the guys I was with and saw that they were fifty and sixty. some of them, wrinkled, worn, tubby but only for a little while They grasp those handlebars. kick up the stand, their leg goes over and all you see is those eyes gleaming.
Even with the full face helmets that some of them wear. you can still detect the distinct leer of gratification. the delight of the anticipated pleasure. They are young bucks again and they are the same as any kid on an FZR.
Wendy Oldfield-Austin
Unashamedly I ride an MZ — an ETZ 250. I bought it as a stopgap while searching for a 350 Morini and I wasn't prepared to get deeply involved — the MZ was simply a hack.
As a secondhand bike it was the perfect buy. Standing in the November sunshine with its nipple red paint and huge gleaming silencer there wasn't a mark on it. I knew the innards would be good too, carefully run in and never thrashed. It had to make sense so I bought it.
But I certainly was not prepared to let this bike convert me to two strokes. I can't make any kind of sensible case against them, it's just that I like to listen to the throb and beat of a good four stroke, preferably a big single or a vee twin. Compared with those, I've always thought of a two stroke as a terrible load of mechanical diarrhoea.
Also, I want a bike you can do things for, like cooking its chain every 500 miles in velvety molten graphite (and the kitchen stove — Ed) or adjusting its tappets. The MZ's chain is protected like a dog's dink and apart from points nothing needs adjusting. This makes a two stroke something of a mechanical eunuch. Sure, there are many advantages in owning an undemanding machine, but if you have time for maintenance I think it is useful in strengthening the bond between rider and bike.
I hadn't researched MZe at all, I just had a vague impression that people complained that they had gripless tyres. The MZ came with brand new Pneumats. Being both lazy and thrifty I left them on, taking extra care on shiny surfaces. That was a mistake, I wasn't getting to know the bike. Adverse publicity and adverse camber had me riding around like an old tart on a penny farthing. Next to a good rich beat from the exhaust, I want a bike you can lay over, but travelling about on iced pigshit, even correctly inflated, does not encourage this.
I could have been wrong, I heard later that only the early Pneumats were really frightening, and I managed to wear out the rear tyre in 7000 miles so it couldn't have been all that unyielding. An Avon on the back much improved my confidence.
Grudgingly, because I was still fretting for an Italian thoroughbred, I began to enjoy the ETZ. l whacked it around for 14 hours one day, screeching along Cotswold straights, then twisting around the dream roads of the Welsh mountains. Back home. as I picked pheasant feathers out of the front wheel spokes and pushed the corpse of a poor little bat out of the cylinder finning, it occurred to me that I hadn't an ache or stiffness anywhere, and with 425 miles on the clock for the day's run that was quite something. So much for fairly gentle touring. Once. on a shorter run, fifty miles went into the hour without straining anything or frightening myself, and that is good enough for me.
I came across a Morini at last and the owner let me ride it over the weekend. And I did like the Morini. What a bike, I thought, I could worship this. But at the end of an hour I ached fit to scream, and sadly I had to say that the bike was fine but I was the wrong shape or something.
Riding home on the MZ my limbs and back regained their normal sexy suppleness. It seemed crazy that I had to forgive this bike for being an MZ. It had never failed to start easily nor let me down at all, apart from that metal plug cap which really should be slung out anyway. it's so damned ugly. If anything went wrong it wouldn't cost a bomb to put right and after 4 years use it was still so unworn I even skipped an MOT.
It only really scared me once and that was my fault. Impressed by bike theft statistics, I decided to use the steering lock. I clean forgot I'd done this. As my initial take off was to the right, nothing seemed amiss. Then it rapidly became a case of help... aeaargh! Never make this mistake, it’s most unpleasant, I can assure you.
I'm not bothered about street cred or posing capability, but it seems most people feel the MZ is not blessed with an endearing appearance. So saying, one doesn’t have to leave it at that. I kept it clean and tidy, a dirty MZ looks very uninviting, and there’s some truth in the old adage that dirt hides defects and a clean bike is a safer one. Beyond that. I took a long hard look at the ETZ and decided to make some improvements. l polished up the casings such as the cylinder fins, which had a very rough finish, removed the grotty paint on the forks and polished that up as well, and did the same to the levers.
Apart from cosmetics I've only changed one thing — the horn button. This was inspired by coming around what should have been a perfectly safe corner to find some nerd in a Merc towing a caravan trying for an impossible U—turn. Shit, I cried. True, blowing the horn in these circumstances would not have helped very much, apart from adding to the initial expression of my feelings.
As I braked, I aimed at the centre of the caravan, feeling fairly sure that I would make a tremendous mess of it whilst not hurting myself too much. But I was amazed at the way the MZ went from 70 to 0mph in an incredibly short distance This enabled me to select my words of reproach with great care as l swung round the front of the Merc, seeing behind the wheel not a frightened girl, as you might expect, but a full grown man with a sulky look on his face.
I always analyse my near misses, learning from them, This is probably why I am well on the way to dying of a dull old age. I recalled that I had jabbed at the horn button and missed, so I amused myself making up a separate switch based on a car flasher switch (80p from all good car shops) and a pair of Fiamms (£3 from all good breakers).
I made a fair bit of progress learning to live with an ETZ 250, but could I be reconciled to a two stroke? Certainly I’ve had them before, from spluttering little Villiers to the now legendary Scott. One advance is Champion G type spark plugs which cost so much that you can only buy them direct, but they last much longer and solve the oiling up problems on some two strokes. If your engine doesn’t work with a G type plug throw it away but keep the spark plug as it's probably worth more!
I never found a G type necessary on the MZ. though. Mine smokes briefly after standing for a week or two, though that seldom happens, or trickling along in heavy traffic, but that is quickly burnt off and I’ve never had a fouled up plug. I can't even complain about the noise I'm not conscious of spluttering and normal running produces a steady drone, not at all unpleasant, whilst acceleration gives a good mean snarl that goes nicely with the kick it gives.
To sum up, I have to praise its comfort, reliability and a lot of very enjoyable riding. I’m not in the big bike league, that’s obvious, though if I wanted a bit more poke there's always the 300. It’s too easy for a good thing to come and go without being recognised for what it's truly worth. but I hope the ETZ is around for a good long while yet.
Ben Fleetwood
One of the more amusing tasks in throwing together this rag is phoning up people who advertise motorcycles for sale, pretending to be a potential purchaser, eager to buy their pride and joy. My voice, I am told, sounds particularly cynical and disinterested, so apologies to any readers who have been subjected to a harsh interrogation. A few quick thrusts (ie how long has your name been in the logbook and failing to mention the actual name of the bike) soon sorts the dealers from the genuine vendors... the most astonishing fact to emerge from these late night dalliances with BT (if not the Special Branch as I’m sure my telephone is tapped) is that there are so few low mileage one owner jobs on the market.
Even bikes just a few years old have often had three or four owners, the last of which invariably seems to regard maintenance with an even greater lack of enthusiasm than myself — with remarkable honesty exclaiming that, no, he hasn't changed the oil in the last eight thousand miles as per the maintenance schedule.
That so many people should be dumping nearly new middleweights, that by all reports, even including cynical UMG contributors, are the business, is an interesting phenomenon.
Actually asking vendors why they are selling their machines is like asking a breaker if a particular crashed bike has a straight frame. Maybe they are caught up in the horsepower race. desperate to buy the latest hyperbike, maybe they find the bikes too damn fast to ride or just maybe the ridiculous running costs are too much to bear after expending so much dosh... who knows?
Certainly, people I know with seventies and early eighties Jap fours tend to stick with one machine once they have found a good ’un - perhaps another reason for the current paucity of good, used tackle. it is much cheaper and safer to upgrade suspension to more modern spec, stick on a decent 4—1 and give the old beast a yearly overhaul than to venture into the buying and selling game, which might see you off the road for several months waiting for an elusive bargain to turn up Prices over the past year for old bikes have remained stable.
With new bikes going up in cost, double digit inflation and more and more riders opting for the used option, bikes that have aged a year and put on 10000 miles are still commanding the same price as a year ago, even going up in value in quite a few cases.
When playing games on the telephone, i occasionally come across what appears to be a genuine bargain and I am tempted, as I did in former times. to rush a few hundred miles across the country, with a bundle of cash in my pocket and motorcycle lust in my heart, but as there's a 50/50 chance of a bike described as near immaculate turning out not to have enough tread to/get out of the street without risking arrest and insufficient engine life or braking power to avoid a dose of gravel rash, I generally desist, although anyone out there with a nice sixties CB450 going for a few hundred notes...
And the dealer scene has become a real shark hunt. I know of many cases of people buying one or two year old bikes from dealers and having a hell of a lot of problems. Before the various motorcycle institutions send the men with shotguns around, i should point out that what follows doesn't apply to those nice professional dealers who only want to make the world a better place for hard pressed motorcyclists Honest! If you do buy from a dealer, ask around amongst local motorcyclists if you want to find out who the good ones are.
One CBR600 was proudly displayed as having one owner and low mileage, which was true enough, what the dealer forgot to mention was that its one owner had written it off and the rebuild job included such niceties as straightened frame, wheels and forks... the guy who bought it complained somewhat bitterly that the UMG had failed to inform him about the 120mph speed wobbles and it wasn’t until he ripped the plastic off to see the tell-tale rippled inner frame members that he believed that they didn’t all do that, mate (the dealer's explanation). Even an engineers report and solicitor's letter failed.to move the dealer from the stance that the owner must’ve fallen off and had it straightened after he bought it.
Another example, even stranger, concerned an apparently excellent Suzuki GSXR750. The test ride had confirmed the appearance, it went like any low mileage example should. The purchaser bunged down a deposit and came back the next day with the cash. The bike he rode away on seemed completely different with a rough engine, loads of vibes and not so much go. The engine number checked with the logbook so that couldn't be the problem, could it?
Well, yes, this particular dealer specialized in GSXRs to the extent that he kept an immaculate engine from a crashed bike out back, which he put in well clapped machines for the test ride and then swapped them over in the evening. The machines were tarted up cosmetically and clocked back to a nice low mileage.
The owner got his own back, though, he bought a good engine from a breaker, bunged it in, let another dealer have a test ride and then came back the next day with the docs and the dog of an engine installed. He later bought a GSXR with a wrecked engine and overall came out of it quite a few quid ahead. Call it learning from experience.
Tales of engine failure on apparently low mileage, secondhand bikes are even more common. Conversely, the number of problems on brand new bikes bought from proper dealers are small. Given that the price difference when buying from a dealer is often minimal between a one year old bike and a new 'un, it might just pay to buy a brand new bike if you're going to keep it for a long time and can’t be bothered to save 20% by spending a month or so tracking down a bike in the private market. Such an admission from a magazine devoted to used bikes is perhaps strange, but no more weird than what is currently going on in the used market as we get sucked down into the recession.
Bikes that go in for a full service, as part of the expensively purchased warranty on used bikes (even big dealers are still only offering a month's guarantee on many machines unless you stomp up with some extra cash), come out with the original oil untouched —- although given the mechanical dexterity of some mechanics it’s probably just as well that they don't try to service the machines. This is hardly anything new. it's been a common practice amongst the less scrupulous dealers almost since motorcycling began.
I have heard of car dealers who are just as bad, if not worse, than those flogging motorcycles — whilst a natural result of running any business in the nineties, be it selling motorcycles or publishing magazines, is a large degree of bullshit, the limitation of such corruption should surely come when actions begin to endanger the lives of those involved. It is not a joke, but a tragedy, when a seized engine or cracked frame causes an accident.
Bill Fowler
The machine that had been the unattainable pinnacle of engineering in my youth was to be mine.
The BMW R100RS. There was just one small problem, however, new boxers were still way beyond my meagre means. However, everything I had read extolled the robust reliability and capacity for high mileages of the boxer engine. I embarked on a search of the MCN classifieds. Several months of fruitless phone calls and visits later I found her. A one owner, immaculate example of the original 1978 model in silver blue. The owner lived 50 miles away, a time was set to view the beast in a small village near Derby. Part of the A38 was more like a car park than a road so by the time l arrived it was both dark and foggy.
I felt like a weary traveller in a horror movie, fully expecting the door to creak open by Lunge the butler. Fears were unfounded as the owner, in his sixties, a life long biker, expressed utter amazement that I'd found the address at all and thrust a steaming mug of tea in my hand before showing me the boxer. There stood a pristine R100RS in unblemished condition, 61000 miles recorded. the full service history ran to two box files even including a receipt for topping up the battery acid. The bike was fitted with the original Krauser panniers and supplied with a spare flip-up screen, which would prove invaluable to my 6'2” frame.
The owner had been persuaded to sell by his son, declaring him too old to continue his dangerous lifestyle. The price asked was £1500, which although lower than some similar machines in MCN was a little above my meagre budget. Luck was with me, the owner had received a number of offers from young kids looking for a cheap performance machine, but the R was his pride and joy he signed it over to me for just £1250, as l was the only one he felt would give the old girl a good home.
The ride to Wolverhampton was unremarkable, save for the fact that it was the first time I had ever ridden a boxer and that it was completed in mist and pouring rain at nearly midnight. My desire to have the machine being so total that l had done the deal without even the shortest of test rides.
On arrival home I was struck by the realisation that this was the most perfect machine I had ever ridden. The protection from the fairing, the position of the bars and footrests, coupled with the sure-footed handling meant that I had ridden 50 miles without any thought for the fact that l was on an unfamiliar bike. Other machines may have better components but the BMW is the most together package that I have yet come across, and surely deserves the reputation it built at its launch in the late seventies.
Initially, the bike was used for the daily commute to work, through some of Brum‘s busiest traffic. Despite the width of the motor, the overall slimness of the package made easy meat of those crowded roads. The motor gave out great gobs of torque, the machine could trickle along at tickover even in second gear, and the balance was so good that I didn't need to dab down with my boots even at the most minimal of speeds.
The original horns must‘ve been sourced from British Rail, as they were so loud a quick blast was enough to have cagers jumping out of their skins and pulling out of the way in fear that some lumbering artic was about to take them out. Weather protection was so good that waterproofs were only needed in the most torrential downpour. The rain only hit the rider m a standstill, the air whipped off the fairing usually carrying the water away. in winter the fairing trapped the engine’s heat; not so lovely on a summer's day! The switches were a bit odd at first but easily adapted to.
The engine does try to escape at tickover unless the carbs are balanced. A strange wet sensation on my leg turned out not to be the neighbour's dog but just the carbs ‘Binging’ although it's cured the same way, with a sharp kick to the nether regions. Torque reaction from the engine is noticeable but never intrusive, like the much vaunted rear wheel lock up on down-changes with the shaft drive, it is rarely a problem and disappears after a few days acclimatisation. The gearbox does indeed need a positive action; treat it with typical Teutonic firmness and like the other idiosyncrasies they all blend into the character of the machine.
During the first year, journeys to work were regularly supplemented with trips to the north to visit family and friends. The Beemer was a laid back and smooth cruiser returning about 45mpg, always allowing me to arrive relaxed. By November of the first year 8000 miles had been covered and a new set of tyres became necessary. The slightly oversize 100/19 front and 120/18 rear Roadrunners, as fitted, were replaced with the same as they had been reassuring in both wet and dry conditions, giving a good mixture of grip and mileage.
I have always serviced my own machines, the Beemer being simplicity itself with car type points, screw and locknut tappets. and, of course, shaft drive. Servicing was done every 2000 miles with oil changes every 1000 miles.
All went well until the accident. Whilst filtering between lanes of rush hour traffic a cager decided to change direction without warning. Despite grabbing a fistful of brake the old Beemer’s ATE calipers could not stop the beast in time and we hit the side of the car with a glancing blow. The protruding cylinder head gouged a long groove into the driver's door before ripping out the front wheel arch.
At this point the cylinder head hit the back of the car's front tyre, mounted it, crashing into the bonnet before finally, slowly, sliding to the floor with me still seated. By then the cager was holding his head in his hands in a state of disbelief. The car looked as if it had been hit by an express train, the Beemer had simply gained a new coat of Ford paint on to its cylinder head.
Following a quick check over the next day, both rider and bike continued through the winter, reaching 15000 miles and another set of tyres in April of the second year. At this point a friend and I decided to fulfil a lifelong ambition and experience the Le Mans 24 hour race in late April. The Beemer by now had nearly 80000 on the clock and had increased its oil consumption from 800 miles per pint to nearly 300mpp. The Beemer behaved impeccably until we reached the fast roads between Rouen and Le Mans, when following a large Merc for a number of miles with a speed in excess of 120mph, the old girl decided to slow up dramatically, causing me to hurriedly back off from the chase. Better safe than sorry. The bike was an early model, which didn‘t benefit from an oil cooler or larger oil capacity of the later boxers, suffering from overheating when caned relentlessly. I didn’t stop but held a steady speed of around 40mph until the temperature returned to normal, upon which the running became as good as usual.
The overheating manifested itself again in the summer in similar circumstances, at which point I fitted an oil cooler and new rings (the bores were still well within service limits) which cured the problem. The return journey from Le Mans was completed in one go, the bike never faltering for a moment despite taking 14 hours to reach home, only being switched off when on the ferry.
Upon return home I found that I had been moved to another work depot and that my daily commute would now be 30 instead of 8 miles. Finally, at the end of the summer of the second year, having done in excess of 20,000 miles, I took the decision to replace her with a newer, lower mileage machine. A decision helped along when the dealer offered me £2500 against the cost of a new Yam XJ900, almost double what i had paid for her two years before.
The Yam’s undoubtedly a good bike but it does not have the character of the Beemer, or attract the interest when parked, and l bet it will not pay me £600 a year to ride it.
Howard M Bond
A fairly weird sequence of events forced me to focus my mind on the delights of vee twin motorcycles. First, was a cross country trip on an aged, tired XV1000. To be honest, this was the kind of effete machine into whose petrol tank I'd normally be quite happy to throw a lighted match.
Still, the need to cover some miles but the time to amuse myself meant that I was in the right frame of mind to enjoy its relaxed engine, which apart from some shuddering below 2500 revs had enough guts to dump it into top gear for most at the time. There were so many things wrong with the overall design of the bike, though, that it was all more surprising, down purely to the nature of its engine type, that I arrived in one piece at my destination with a reasonably large grin writ across my face.
Soon after that little sortie I once again blagged a ride, just long enough to whet my appetite, on a Ducati 900SS. A lovely device but the clutch was already complaining (just as well it didn't go during my brief tenure, I would doubtless have been beaten to a pulp) and the back light worked only intermittently a sure sign that the old electrical malaise was showing up the Italians' usual lack of attention to detail. A great beast to ride but only when some favourable. 50000 mile reports reach the editorial desk will I be tempted to run around like a headless chicken attempting to raise the dosh.
Then things became seriously strange. I actually managed to convince a long-time contributor that it would be a good idea to let me have a blast on his beloved Vincent vee twin. 1000ccs of pure, brutish British engineering. It took all of my resolve to keep the manic grin hidden. The Vinnie's an incredibly compact machine, feeling much smaller than the Ducati, even my own GPz.
It doesn't feel that way once the engine's running. It sounded like someone had filled a washing machine with nuts and bolts, whilst outside half the Slav army was slaughtering each other with machine guns.
The clutch was set up to deter thieves by either stalling the engine dead or lurching the machine forwards so violently as to give the unwary a heart attack. I'm sure it's an acquired art and that my left hand would soon become accustomed to the massive force necessary. The gearchange was on the wrong side and so heavy that my lightweight boots ended up deeply scarred after a mere half-a-mile's canter.
Once in motion, the minimal suspension travel gave so much feedback from the ancient tyres that the bike felt very twitchy, although in retrospect, apart from a low sped wobble, incredible effort needed to turn the bars and a bit of back tyre hopping, it kept to a fairly true line on the deserted country road. The only place the owner would let me ride.
What excited, once main, was the nature of the power delivery, that even on a forty year old motorcycle, impressed with its immediacy and its depth. The Vincent, though, showed its age and the basic flaw in its design, with loads of vibes that buzzed through the tank so violently that I suspected sustained exposure would turn the rider infertile.
These rides came at a time when some of the journalists in the glossies were wetting themselves at the prospect of being forced to test new machines limited to a mere 100hp by mad European bureaucrats. I have to admit that the prospect of buying a bike with only 100hp worries me a hell of a lot less than having to pay extortionate insurance or being forced to ride around on nice sunny days wearing a crash helmet.
lt could come to pass that the 100hp limit will force manufacturers to design more into their bikes than mere speed; or design them so that with the same horsepower they go faster. The only way to achieve the latter is to improve the aerodynamics and lower the mass. The limitation of a mere 100 horses also means that the almost ubiquitous across the frame four can die a thankful death; it will simply be too heavy and wide to fit the bill.
Which brings us to the vee twin. Narrow, compact and naturally biased towards the production of excessive torque. Its only limitation is the speeds that its large pistons can sustain. Not the problem that it used to be with lighter and stronger alloy and steel available, these days. With a ninety degree layout combined with a forked con-rod on one cylinder to keep the bores in line. vibration and torque reaction are minimal even at huge cylinder displacements. With the emphasis on torque rather than power (as long as it makes a 100 horses) there‘s no reason why, say, 1300cc can‘t be used.
Water-cooling the engine, to stop the back cylinder overheating, allows the motor to be placed in the most convenient location for compactness, the idea being to make it no longer in wheelbase than something like a Vincent. Naturally. with such a large chunk of alloy engine taking up most of the space, and perfect primary balance taking care of the vibes, it makes good sense to use the motor as the main frame member. Yes, just like the Vincent.
Major improvements in modern casting techniques mean that rather than having lots of different crankcase and barrel castings, the whole lot can be cast in one large casting, which would include the swinging arm mounts. This is important because the frame would consist of two completely separate front and rear sections. Were engine castings lots of separate bits the tolerance build up in the frame would be large. Because one part of each frame is located on the main casting there is a direct link between the swinging arm and steering head.
The rear shock would be located under the engine, although there's no real reason why ultra traditionalists couldn't be catered to by a more conventional twin shock arrangement. It's just that the former is lighter and that lightness is next to godliness in the superbike limited to 100hp. I would guess that such a vee-twin, designed by one of the Big Four with their vast knowledge of engineering stresses (no over-building just to be on the safe side), would weigh in at 350 to 400lbs.
The traditionalists would enjoy the finned barrels and heads (with a small, high-flow radiator located below the steering head), and the single carb. The hoodlums would be equally impressed by the tyre churning torque, fantastic acceleration and ease of chuckability.
With a mere two cylinders it might even be cheap enough to incorporate something thoroughly modern like variable valve timing and with so few moving parts they could be made from the highest quality materials for longevity. The vee twin engine has long been neglected, Ducati apart, as a serious sport-bike motor.
Now where did I put those two XTZ660 engines!
Bill Fowler
I’d owned the XS400 Special for five years. Rumour was that it had started out as a 250, but both models were basically similar, sharing most chassis parts and the same OHC twin cylinder design.
It was still a neat looking bike but the clock read 63000 miles, about half of that under my own hands. At this point in the bike's life I decided it was an ideal hack on which to tour Britain for a month or so, a tent strapped on the back and a song in my heart. I wasn't to know it at the time, but this was going to be the XS400‘s final journey.
The little Yam had proved a worthy rather than remarkable motorcycle. Mild use, which included cruising at 70mph. gave 65 to 70mpg, even thrashing the thing turned in 60mpg from an engine that'd been rebuilt just before I bought it. The previous (and first) owner had gone on at length about the modified electrics non-standard coils and leads, and some still sticky black gunge over every exposed bit of electrical hardware. All, apparently, necessary to ensure consistent starting.
As usual. that early June morning the motor chuffed into life the first kick with its distinctive off-beat note only marginally muted by the 2-1. It was a nice friendly noise that became a hard snarl at 6500rpm, the point where the power flowed in. Reports have accused the XS400 of being gutless, and it's true at lower revs there’s not a lot at torque, but the engine was clean running and quite capable of keeping ahead of the cages without entering the power band (worth doing for the 70mpg economy).
The motor will rev to ten grand but I usually changed up at around 9000rpm, when power in the taller gears was beginning to tail off and there were a few safe revs in hand for when the gearbox found a false neutral... the box had worn as the miles piled up and only an experienced foot could control it.
Roadrunner tyres and tightened up suspension, along with a complete new set of chassis bearings at 48000 miles, kept the Yamaha in shape on both fast main roads and down the back lanes. Weighing only 375lbs meant it was easy to control. Worn tyres, bearings or suspension could make it flap around a bit and I even had the odd tank-slapper, which was mind blowing the first time it happened. It made sure I kept the bike up to scratch.
With lots of camping gear compressing the rear shocks, the bars felt loose in my hands as I pushed the XS up to an 80mph cruising speed. I used to happily cane her along at 90mph but age, vibration and a slight loss of high rev power precluded such excess. I could take it to the ton when necessary for overtaking, an engine in excellent fettle capable of pushing her to 110mph. This loss of top end go wasn't the end of the world, the riding position was mildly cruiser and the motor offered a relaxed feel at 80mph. It wasn’t one of those engines that insisted you cane it to death.
A 200 mile drone up the M1 came and went, with just a quick stop for fuel. Every gas stop I had a quick glance at the oil, the motor had always gulped it down and could half empty a sump in 500 miles of hard riding. Leaks, except when the gearbox seals went (every 8 to 10,000 miles), were marginal smears on some gasket surfaces, so it must've been burnt off, although the exhaust was never overwhelmed with black smoke, the odd putt on the overrun the only evidence that the valves were maybe on the way out.
The XS250/400 engine was a relatively simple design, lacking the balancers of either the GS450 or CB400N. Having owned an ancient Superdream I cant say that this was any great loss. patches of vibes afflicting the XS but not to the same extent as a CB400N with a worn balancer chain (which given the poor tensioner design was pretty much every one on the market). Even when the bars or pegs thrummed away it wasn't too intense and I very rarely ended up with dead feet or hands even after a 500 mile jaunt.
l was a bit surprised, therefore, after taking the A-road to York after getting off the motorway near Doncaster, to find the pegs trying to come undone at 7000 to 8000 revs. It seemed like a good time to head for the camping site, about a mile east of York. I checked the valves over, the exhausts a little too tight, and balanced the carbs. The vibes hadn’t gone away, but the XS got me into York for a drinking session with some mates suddenly made at the camping site (they were on 350LC’s and spent more time on one wheel than two).
I made it back to the camping site without falling off, but then the front light blew. Dip beam still worked, so I reckoned it was the vibes and made a mental note to buy a spare bulb the next day I wasn‘t too popular, some jerks had erected a similar tent on the other side of the bike. In my drunken state I wandered in there, Iet out a massive fart just before leaping on to the sleeping bag. This contained a young couple who were suitably enraged at this apparent attack but my mates came over and explained that I was a mental retard and a bout of fisticuffs was avoided. They gave me some nasty looks in the morning, though.
Naturally, that trauma had put the light incident right out of my mind as I set off for Teesside, where I knew someone who'd put me up for the night. The vibration gradually spread right through the rev range until only 55mph in top represented a region of relative calmness. It was the longest 50 miles of my life, as the route seemed blocked up with caravans, weaving across the road at about 25mph.
Once installed in my friend's house, I gave some thought to the engine's imminent demise over a couple of cans of Newcastle Brown, In the middle of Coronation Street it suddenly dawned on me that I should check the engine mounting bolts. Aha! One was completely missing, the others were loose.
My friend had a shed full of bits and we soon found a bolt of the required length albeit of a smaller diameter “Torque it down with this," my friend suggested. handing me a yard long bar to put over the end of the wrench.
The next morning I was much relieved to find that the vibration had diminished to a tolerable level, although it wasn't as smooth as it’d been at the beginning of the trip. I was hoping to do the 200 miles along the east coast to Scotland in one go. A rather fierce gale howled in off the sea, leaving me banked into the wind at an extreme angle. It didn‘t seem safe to do more than 30mph and the strain on my arms began to tell. I was pretty relieved to hide out in Alnwick for a couple of hours until the wind died down, Even with the increased speed allowed by the diminution of the gale, I still didn’t make it to Edinburgh before darkness fell.
That was when I recalled that the main bulb had blown and the vibes decided to come back. At the best of times the XS doesn‘t have brilliant lights with dip only safe for 35mph cruising on unlit roads. Even then it’s a great strain on the eyes for more than ten minutes. Three hours later I gave up, pulled off the road and slept rough for the night.
My problems didn’t end there. Fuel was flowing through the engine at a staggering 45mpg, which meant I ran dry way before I expected and ended up pushing the hack for three miles. The single front disc dragged all the way (it’d always needed too much attention for my liking) and l was tempted several times to dump the heap and hitch-hike for the rest of the holiday, but the thought of carrying all my gear dissuaded me.
Fuelled up, vibrating like a pile-driver, we headed the remaining 30 miles to Edinburoh. where I decided that I needed a proper bed for the night. I'd tightened up the engine bolts again, but came to the conclusion that they were coming undone because of the vibes. rather than the buzzes being caused by their Iooseness.
By the time we entered the great city of Edinburgh, the engine knocked away furiously and smoke poured out of the silencer. It was quite embarrassing to stop at junctions, the peds not sure if they should cover their ears or nose! With a sudden shudder and clanging noise they were spared the choice, the motor died a death and a ghastly silence ensued.
That was the end of the XS400. I sold the seized bike to a Scottish breaker for eighty quid. Despite this pathetic ending, I think the Yamaha was a good bike. Were new or new-ish ones available then I would be very happy to buy one. The old ones available now are too worn.
Eddie Jones
A tén year old (1982) Suzuki GSX250 for £400? It seemed OK, there was only one owner and just 17000 miles on the clock. I knew someone who'd owned a 40,000 mile GSX, who‘d regaled me with tales of burnt out valves, quick rot cycle parts and terrible starting problems. But he did admit he’d never changed the oil, touched the engine or even cleaned it.
I had a quick test ride, that revealed more performance than I'd expected, and handed over the money before someone else turned up. It was that kind of bike. Believe me, I'd spent a couple of months looking at overpriced dogs until this one turned up via an advert in the corner shop.
A new MOT was part of deal, so all I had to do was sort out third party insurance. Being only 19 I could’ve cried when I found out how much they wanted but what can you do? They say they don’t make any profit out of motorcyclists but you don't see them slashing salaries or benefits (low rate mortgages for employees etc), do you?
I was full of enthusiasm and joy at my new acquisition, but it wasn't shared by the autumn weather, which consisted of cold drizzle. I rode through it regardless, but after the first couple of days my shining machine was reduced to rat status and I had doubts about the half worn Japanese rubber. It seemed a little too easy to slide the back wheel, although the drum was quite sensitive. A panicked braking session had the back wheel locked solid, waggling from side to side. I felt like throwing my guts up but kept control of my bodily functions.
I didn't much like the single front disc either in the wet. It was powerful enough, but there was a bit of lag and a bit too much haste in looking up the wheel. Engine braking was so-so, although there was a lovely bark out of the 2-1 exhaust on the overrun. That might have been the cause of the stutter at 6500 to 7000rpm, but I didn't really mind, it emphasised the way the power flowed in strongly at the latter revs.
The bike would run well enough at low revs but there wasn‘t much power, it felt more like a 12hp 125 than a full bloodied 30hp 250cc twin. To make the little Suzuki fly, the six speed gearbox and throttle needed to be worked hard, the revs kept between 7000 and 10000rpm for maximum performance. Fortunately, the gearbox was sweetness itself, both clutch and throttle light and precise. In short, I found the GSX highly amusing to hammer along the roads, at least in the dry.
After buying the bike and paying for the insurance I was right out of cash, no way could I afford to replace the tyres. They were OK on dry roads but felt like they had 60psi in them on wet surfaces, incredibly sensitive to white lines, manhole covers, and the like. Slides were all too easily encountered, pushing to the limit my reactions on this, luckily, light and responsive motorcycle.
There is nothing revolutionary in the cycle parts, direct descendants from the fifties with twin rear shocks and gaitered front forks. This was orlginal fare, with only a few inches of travel and a paucity of damping, but the tubular frame's strong and the steering predictable. I suppose if my second vehicle was a CBR600 instead of an ancient pushbike, I'd be horrified by the Suzuki but coming from a rat RS100 it felt pretty damn good!
I'm a slim 5'8", the dimensions of the GSX suited me down to the ground, the layout of the bars and pegs so natural it was as if the designers had knocked them out just for me. This instant rapport did much to compensate for the choppy ride resultant from the worn suspension; encouraged me to hustle along at quite indecent speeds for such an old 250.
Maximum speed, on the clock, down a quite steep hill was 101mph. That had needed the engine rewed into red in all the gears. Top gear was too tall for normal use, only really making sense with more than 85mph up. Fifth, or even fourth, was much better suited to the real world of fast A-roads. I often ended up playing with the red zone, when snarling up hills or agalnst fierce headwlnds, in fourth gear! The bike would weave a little but never shook its head even when bumps were whacked coming out of corners.
The real test of a machine's handling occurred when I screamed up to bends 10 to 20mph too fast, only realising my mistake at the last moment. Then it was down to losing speed on the brakes and taking a wide line through the bends. The old RS used to try to throw me off under that duress, the GSX was appreciably more composed and,somehow, we always avoided falling off.
After a month of getting to know each other. we were great friends. I did about 1200 miles in that time, would've done much more if it hadn’t been so cold. Decided it was time to do an oil change and carb balance. The manual reckoned there was an oil strainer hidden behind the sump plate, so I pulled that out but there was only a little bit of gunge — a sure sign that the previous owner had been meticulous in servicing the GSX. Essential for long life with these high rewing twins.
It wasn’t until the spring that I had the money to put on a new set of Avons. The GSX wasn’t expensive to run, turned in 55-60mpg despite my abusive right hand. The only real hassle was keeping the rear chain oiled and In adjustment, it needed attention every few hundreds miles. Chain life turned out to be about 8000 miles, not that bad considering it was the cheapest available and the sprockets were far from being brand new.
Over the winter I’d had two chronic problems. The straightforward one was keeping the alloy (both engine and wheels) in nice condition. That was just hard work. More perplexing was erratic starting on ice cold mornings. Sometimes it’d growl into life straight off, other times I had to persuade my brothers to give me a push the whole length of the street. WD40 didn't help but it became impossible if I didn’t put in a new set of plugs every three weeks.
Apart from that, it never failed to get me to work every day, take me for short evening runs (all I could do in the winter) and generally impress with its friendliness and ruggedness. Come the spring it was obvious I’d have to get into serious touring. The GSX could cruise at 80 to 90mph all day (with a bit of gearbox work and quite comfy mild racing crouch). The seat was something else, good for only 75 miles before the cramps started and thereafter I had to move around a lot as well as pull over every 50 miles. It you every saw some lunatic standing up on the pegs at 70mph on the M1, that was me trying to relieve the crippling cramps in my thigh muscles after 200 miles of self-abuse.
The seat so spoilt the touring ability of the GSX, that I tore the cover off, put in several layers of high density foam, them compressed it down with the old cover and half a mile of adhesive tape. The finished result was far from elegant but good for about 150 miles before my bum started complaining. Perhaps I‘ve got a sensitive backside, on the RS l was in agony after 30 miles!
By the end of 1993 the clock was reading 33000 miles. True, the carbs were so worn that they needed balancing every 750 miles and it was very hard to put more than 95mph on the clock, but the little twin still whirred away with stunning reliability. Our relationship was such that the GSX let me cane it relentlessly and in return I kept the machine beautifully polished. Rust would occasionally break out on the frame but I cleaned it off, proofed it and painted it gloss black.
With the winter, the poor starting returned. My brothers had both left home and I couldn't bump-start the Suzuki on my own. Several times I ended up frantically pedalling into work on the pushbike. This pissed me off no end, a massive loss of face. I took the GSX to the local dealer who charged me £75 to tell me there was nothing wrong... that’s the problem with sporadic faults, they never turn up when you want them to.
A nice GS550 for £600 turned up, too good a deal to miss. The GSX would have to go. £500 richer, my happiness lasted just a day as the insurance company took most of that for the new policy. I wasn't all that overjoyed with the 550, it was so much heavier that it didn't seem any faster until I got to the open road.
As the next step up from a 125, the GSX250 is a natural. There are quite a few rats around and some nice ones. If anyone knows a solution to the winter starting, let the world know via the UMG. That aside, I’d happily buy another.
Fred Cummings
