The road ahead straightened for half a mile, beyond that it ran for some six miles of bends and if I was ever going to pass the three slow moving cars ahead it would have to be now. A glance at the speedo showed just 40mph, it suited me and in another second I had snicked down from top to third, ready. A glance behind and another cursory check ahead, all clear. time now to go for it! I had no way of knowing but in just a few short seconds the Yam would be a write off and I would have been reduced to a bloodied and unconscious accident statistic. Life can be truly beautiful, it can more often be a real fucking bitch.
I'd bought the little 250 over two years previously, more out of necessity than by choice. It was 1984 and I was at the time struggling to eke out a living of sorts working up in Keswick. I desperately needed wheels to see my better half at weekends, 130 miles away. Fortunately, I'd met a guy some months earlier who ran a neat RD250LC. Money and bike changed hands.
My first ride on the bike brought back memories of a Suzuki GT380 I'd owned some ten years earlier. The smell of two stroke, the burble from the exhausts, but there the similarities ended. The Yam was lighter, slimmer, almost elegant in appearance and it handled. It also went like shit off a shovel which is something the ponderous triple never did. The W reg Yam had covered just 20000 miles in its three years on the road and had obviously been smothered in affection. It was clean and operated in that smooth, fluid way that only well maintained bikes do. I didn’t know it at the time, but this was the beginning of a love affair that would last for over two years and totally enamour me to the little stroker.
The plan was simple. Use the bike as essential transport during the week and for the trip down to the wife at the weekends. Spend as little as possible on the machine short of neglecting it, then trade up to something meatier once the bank manager stopped punching me each time I met him. I'd always hankered after a Harley. but that’s another tale.
The Yam’s character meant I could use it for mundane jobs as well as for having fun. it was also totally reliable and needed very little in the way of regular attention. Consumables seemed to last forever and spares. should I need them, were everywhere. At low revs it would lope along quite inoffensively and without fouling its plugs, but could easily frighten old ladies once into its powerband and given a modicum of stick. It was at the time the best of both worlds, and l congratulated myself on a slick purchase.
Every Friday morning I'd check tyres, chain, brakes, cables and top up with oil and petrol, then it was off on the ride I’d grown to love best - the scenic A5951 down through The Lakes to Kendal, then skirt off to Sedbergh and The Dales. It covers some of the most appealing scenery in the north of the country with some stunning views along a good proportion of the route. The Yam was at its searing best in this environment, short straights, every configuration of band imaginable and well surfaced roads combined to make it a scratchers dream. I loved it.
I had on one occasion to make a detour from my usual route to the Dales and pop down into Bowness on Windermere. It was then that I learnt of the Yam's unique ability for humbling much more powerful machines. It happened to be one of those ethereal biking trips when all sensations combine to give you that feeling of elan. The ride down from Keswick had been leisurely, it had been raining and the roads were slippery but nothing that the sure-footed Yam couldn't cope with.
Nearing Bowness, I felt my spirits lift as brilliant shafts of sunlight swathed the road, drying it quickly, and, as if in answer to a silent prayer, I saw another bike ahead. My curiosity threw aside the need for the diversion as, gently increasing speed, I narrowed the distance between us. At first I could not distinguish the bike but as I drew closer I noticed the fat back rubber, squared off exhaust and flying wheel motif: it was a BMW. More precisely, it was a K100. I didn't know it at the time, but I too was being inspected by its pilot.
Ha glanced back at me than accelerated off. Bowness was just two miles away. I gave chase. This particular area around Bowness is not renown for its fast straights or well surfaced roads. I also had no idea of the handling characteristics of the K100, but I was fully confident that given the conditions, the little Yam would not drop me in the shit. He had gained a 50 yard lead when Elsie hit her powerband in third. Then, with a snarling wail, the Yam hoisted her skirts, breathed in deep and began to sprint. The front and went very light as 35 horses spat the quarter litre stroker forward in a bursting crescendo of acceleration that gnawed away the distance between us until at last I caught him in the swervery.
Feet separated us as he struggled with the obvious weight and bulk of the pogoing German machine, then my chance came on the exit of a band as his speed dropped suddenly and I noticed his left foot dancing on the gear lever. Funny place to change gear, I thought, as we powered past. I smirked and continued to roll on the power up through the box. Ahead was a short straight that heralded the outskirts of Bowness. Done it! I slowed and glanced in the mirror — no sign of the big four, he must have...shit! With a growl the BMW shot past me on the outside as if I was in reverse.
The one quality that really delighted me was its surprising ability to either gently potter along with that peculiar two stroke whine from its exhaust or really get it on when in the powerband. It was a Jeckyl & Hyde of a bike that moved me both literally and emotionally. Its light weight and agile handling spelt FUN; its balance only ever slipped a little when it was loaded down with a pillion and luggage, of which more later.
Having mentioned its plodding abilities. it must be stated, though. that although I would often start out with little more than a gentle amble in mind, speed would gradually increase until the screaming beast had its own riotous way. Views would be ignored and the grin widen as the howl filled my helmet. All good stuff, even for myself at the supposedly mature age of 33.
Sometimes this became a little extreme... I was no longer in the Yorkshire Dales, I was ahead of a charging pack at the Crag! The works Yamaha snarling in fury as it clipped off divots of earth from the hedges as I power slid the beast to another certain Manx victory. Tunnel vision had transformed the TT course to a narrowing path lined with screaming fans who waved and bellowed their approval as l thundered through their midst. Faster. almost there, just this tight hairpin 100 yards ahead, jam on the brakes and snick down through the box to second gear then power out over the sheep... Oh my fucking christ no!
My mouth snagged in disbelief as reality hit me with a sledgehammer blow. Instinct took over as I squeezed hard on the front disc and stamped the rear drum in a desperate attempt to scrub off speed. The back wheel started to slide as the gap between myself and the straying animals dropped to zero. I felt the bike slew sideways, and in the time that it takes to strike a match, I had been deposited on my arse amid a whole sea of nettles.
I am particularly fond of lamb. Absolutely relish it, in fact. Had I managed to get my hands on those pathetically bleating animals that caused the spill I would have enacted a terrible and bloody revenge. l was, for the moment, in a whole world of shit and in no mood to move let alone club sheep to death, so I just lay there and waited for the road to stop spinning. Elsie lay just a few yards ahead of me, partly camoulflaged by a bush, surrounded by oddly shaped pieces of orange plastic (the indicators). A shepherd had also appeared and was peering down at me from behind a wall. "Them's nettles.” he said. Luckily, the damage to the bike was only cosmetic.
The start of a week's camping trip with the wife on the back was heralded by torrential rain, in which we were both soaked through. although the Yam just burbled along. Despite the weight limiting top speed to 80mph, we still managed a reasonable 50mph average over A roads. We had a great time up around Berwick, the bike needing no attention. Over too soon. an early morning start saw the usual downpour. A terrible trip down the A1 followed that left me totally exhausted. The bike performed every task that I asked her to do. and with some panache. She had wormed her way into my affections until at last I could find no fault, no excuse to get something bigger and flasher.
Until that horrible day that saw us parted for good. The road straightened for half a mile ahead... the revs rose dramatically in readiness for the surge of acceleration needed to propel me safely ahead of the column. I glanced behind — clear, I again checked ahead then slid the indicator switch across. Another glance behind, I fed in the throttle and pulled out to the offside to commence the pass, then gunned the throttle mercilessly as the first of the three cars slipped to my rear. The revs dropped back to the powerband as l changed into fourth, Elsie began her charge to the second car with a wail that accompanied her approach. Once more. I was totally enveloped in the two stroke adrenalin hit — the noise, the unleashed fury of acceleration that only another stroker fan could know and appreciate, pure unbridled pleasure; heaven.
I had, however, failed to notice the driver of the second car start to turn directly into my path. In an instant I knew I was going to be meat. Mounting panic took over as l stabbed the horn button. I could do nothing, there was nowhere else to go. With horrified fascination I saw clearly that in another split second he would strike me side on, even though by that time we were nigh on looking at each other.
With a jolt the car struck at a glancing angle. with a wildly oscillating set of bars I was heading straight for a stone wall. I hadn't noticed the drainage furrow a foot in front of it. Something incredibly powerful shoved me hard in the small of the back. I could feel the forks compress to nothing as they bottomed out in the furrow, 300lbs of flailing Yamaha cartwheeled me into the wall as kinetic energy spent itself on my tender carcass. There was a very loud ringing in my head, my helmet and glasses had somehow come off. My nose didn't feel right and my lower spine was giving several kinds of holy hell.
I lay still for a while and gave thanks that the wife was safe at home and not on the pillion. I could hear the Yamaha whispering into my ear: Fucking got you at last, you simpering pillock, got you at last. Got you. The pain was intense and nothing felt right. My brain decided to duck out and take a nap. Blackness and peace.
About 30 minutes after hitting the wall I arrived at Lancaster Infirmary looking like a rag doll with fractured spine, a partially severed nose and the usual assortment of cuts, lacerations, contusions. etc. That little lot took two months to put right. It was a good day when l was finally released. The Yam was bent and battered, the forks twisted, the frame bent, the indicators and headlamp missing, the front rim dented, the seat ripped out of alignment with the frame... too many bills had built up for me to think about mending it and she went to a local dealer.
It broke my heart to see the way she went, trussed to the back of a trailer looking for all the world like some discarded wreck, which I guess was what she really was at the end... I wonder what a good used RG500 would be like in the Dales?
S Owens
After 2000 miles on my new GPz500 I was well pissed off. My first impressions of the bike had been good. Riding from the dealer it had felt commendably smooth, stable and flickable. Within the constraints of running in revs, I could feel the promise of sixty horses waiting to belt along less than 400lbs of metal. I carefully ran the beast in, so it wasn't until 2000 miles that l was fully able to rev the balls off it. There just didn’t seem enough power to make it really accelerate, even if it went all the way up to an indicated 130mph without trauma.
The gearbox had become notchy, at low revs in top gear the bike made an awful clunking noise like the transmission was about to fall out of the engine cases, the tyres had lost their edge, the bike especially skittish on wet roads, and the front forks dived and twisted under heavy braking — I only weighed eleven stones; god knows what they would do if I was a more typical heavyweight biker.
l persevered. hoping that the 3000 mile dealer service would see things get better. They didn’t, the engine felt exactly the same as when it went in. If l hadn't seen the mechanic adjusting the valves myself I might have suspected they had just dumped the bike in the corner for a day and done nothing. I started looking at 600 fours, but another round of price increases put paid to that particular daydream.
At 4000 miles the engine became smoother and the bike started to move with grin inducing acceleration. By 5000 miles things had improved so far that rather than think about selling the bike, l was convinced I had a good 'un that i should hang on to for the next ten years! When I did my own oil change at 5000 miles and put in some top grade oil, even the slight remaining notchiness in the gearbox disappeared. The bike obviously needs a much longer running in period than the handbook suggests.
The GPz500 employs sixteen inch wheels that are almost perfectly matched to the steering geometry — at least on brand new OE tyres. The Jap Dunlops that the bike came with were fine for the first 1500 miles, then rapidly deteriorated until they were both dangerously inadequate at 5000 miles (when the rear was just legal). The 120/100x16 rear tyre is a real bastard to replace because of its odd size and few tyre manufacturers offer a recommended replacement, although i have seen bikes fitted with Metzs. On new tyres, the GPz is not twitchy. it is wonderfully flickable but still very stable in a straight line. On worn OE tyres, the front wheel shakes its head over bumps (although only once, thank god) and the rear weaves slightly on fast roads. On wet roads a worn front tyre can let the front wheel slip away without any warning, and then seems to have little inclination to regain its grip. This may help explain just why there are so many GPz500s advertised in breakers.
l was sure the tyres were at fault, because I effected a complete cure to the problem by fitting of a set of Avon radials, one of the few sets of tyres recommended for the bike. The fat, 140/80 rear only just fits into the swinging arm and looks very meaty indeed. The set cost £125 including fitting, which is more than many readers will be willing to pay for a whole bike, but in view of the lack of alternative rubber and the loss of money in trading the bike in for something bigger (the only other viable alternative) it’s money very well spent in my book.
Within yards of riding my re-shod Kawasaki, I was a happy man again, instilled with confidence from both the feeling of security emanating, once again, from the machine and years of riding Avon tyred bikes. Although leaning the bike over sharply wasn't quite as progressive as I would have liked (an initial impression that either faded with use or the tyres settling in) I felt able to really lean the bike over at absurd angles — contrary to reports in other magazines I've never experienced ground clearance problems (perhaps those journos ought to shed some of the five stone beer belly and give the GPz suspension an easier time) and nor do I consider the looks of the bike to be at all plain (cast your eyes at the all white job, morons).
Put very simply, if you buy a GPz500 insist on Avon radials as part of the deal. They are that good.
In fact, the tyres are ahead of both the engine power output and the chassis. Not that the frame or suspension are particularly bad. The Unitrack rear end is controlled by an adequate shock with only preload adjustment available (at least after you go out and buy a suitable spanner) that is still usable after 25000 miles and 18 months. The front forks are well damped but inadequately sprung - after 2000 miles it was far too easy to get them down on their stops and they twisted under heavy braking from the single disc. A fork brace helps here. Fork gaiters were fitted after 5000 miles and no problems with the seals have been experienced. I am so impressed with the rest of the bike, though, that within the next year I will be bunging on high quality forks and a new shock.
The square section frame is badly welded and badly designed in that it uses a bolted up section around the engine to allow it to be pulled out, but it is stiff and does have excellent steering geometry —- so I can live with it quite happily for the next decade or so. The swinging arm, also square section, has old fashioned chain adjusters that are the usual tedious pain to operate (although the toolkit does provide the means to loosen off the back wheel). but despite no signs of flex I shall soon be replacing it with an alloy job with eccentric adjusters.
The Unitrack linkages are perfectly exposed to the road dirt, so I cut up an old inner tube and riveted and Araldited it between the space between rear guard and swinging arm when I pulled the linkages apart at 6000 miles. There was no sign of wear, but a distinct lack of grease (as per swinging arm spindle and wheel spindles), so I smeared on a copious quantity of grease and reassembled. The result, still no wear with 25000 miles up.
With the Avons fitted, even when well worn, the bike can be used with equal ease as a fast motorway cruiser or back road hustler. The seat, peg and bar relationship is just about perfect for any kind of riding. In fact, the seat is the most comfortable I've experienced since a K & Q equipped Gold Wing I once borrowed. OK, with the suspension a bit dodgy it can rattle a bit over bumpy going, but I swear on the good book that I’ve never been able to lean a bike over so far before or cruise with such equanimity at ton plus speeds. On back roads I've seen off just-about everything from rabid LCs to newish hyperbikes.
Braking is about as good as you're going to get. The single front disc is wonderfully powerful and controllable, works without the slightest hesitation or worry in the wet, and once a fork brace was fitted to help out the front forks, just couldn't be faulted. The original pads lasted 13500 miles and I was so impressed with them that I stumped up for a pair of Kawasaki originals rather than venturing into the dubious delights of aftermarket suppliers. The rear SLS drum was equally excellent.
It is still on the original shoes, rod operated it has such excellent feedback that I’ve not yet locked up the back wheel, yet it provides more than adequate stopping power. Either brake can be applied mid corner without upsetting the machine. I really can’t think of any way of improving on the brakes — and the front's still on the original brake fluid!
If the riding position is the perfect compromise, there are a few niggles that upset me after paying £2700 for a bike. The neat fairing does nothing to protect my hands, my leather gloves are still soaked through in a downpour. Had Kawasaki fitted conventional bars instead of the cast alloy jobs, I would have lost four or five inches off each end by fitting narrow, flat bars, thus putting my hands out of the wet and cold. Equally annoying is the stock screen that fails to throw the air over my head. Easy enough to cure, i thought, fit a higher, flip-up screen. Very clever, at 90mph the wind blast deflects the screen downwards to the height of the original bit of plastic. Also, if the petrol tank was a few inches narrower it would have put my knees out of the wind blast. Oh well, can’t have everything. At least the seat height is very low, a factor with the large tank, that makes the rider feel right at home within a very short distance The bike can be ridden for more than 200 miles without worrying about filling the petrol tank or any discomfort from the riding position — and it can hold 100mph without any problems.
At such speed there was none of the annoying secondary vibes so prevalent on four cylinder machines. My initial impression of the machine was that it was a little rough at certain revs, but once the initial 5000 miles were over I either became so used to the machine that it no longer bothered me, or the engine became a real smoothy. I had assumed the handlebars had some kind of rubber mounting, but on disassembly (when l was trying to work out how to replace them with a more conventional set up) found that they were directly mounted to the yokes, so for a vertical twin the GPz really is smooth!
There is little that is stunning in the basic engine design. save that Kawasaki are the only factory to apply such concepts to a road going vertical twin. Based on the EN450, itself half a GPz900R, I really only have two complaints. The camchain should have been placed on the end of the crank rather than in the middle — to be fair, Kawasaki’s camchain and auto-tensioner design is one of the better and I expect long life. The eight valve head has screw and locknut adjusters for valve clearance, despite being served by twin cams, instead of shims which could have been left alone for 20000 plus miles.
Maintenance, as far as i am concerned, consists of changing the oil every 1500 miles and giving the bike to a dealer every 10000 miles for a major service (£75). Getting at the valves to adjust them means a major disassembly job — I couldn’t even get the petrol pipes off, let alone clear some of the plumbing out of the way. At the last service the dealer reported that everything was in good order, so this philosophy seems to work OK. I have great faith in water cooling and regular oil changes.
The bottom end design goes back to the days of Suzuki's mid seventies GS400. with pistons that move up and down out of phase and a single, gear driven (thank god) balance shaft. The GPz engine always feels like it's working unlike the GS, and this is a plus point in my view. Primary drive is via long lasting gears, to a light, predictable clutch and a six speed box. I would have been quite happy with four or even three gears.
Had Kawasaki not designed the gearbox so that only first or neutral could be selected from a standstill, l would've quite happily pulled off in second up quite steep hills. My only complaint was that even with a high mileage up the bike couldn’t be run down to 1000rpm tickover in sixth — below 1750mm the transmission crunched nastily, perhaps a leftover from the EN450 engine which in being belt driven did not need to pay so much attention to the cush drive design.
The GPz is fitted with an O-ring chain that needed minor adjustments for the first 2000 miles and then settled in quite happily, requiring attention only every 1500 miles if given a quick spray every 500 miles. Unfortunately, chain spray technology (or lack thereof) still means that the back and gets plastered in crud. If I could buy a full chainguard enclosure I would. The original chain lasted for 15000 miles. the second is still going strong — I was not amused at the effort involved in fitting endless chains.
The new EN500 Custom has belt drive, as does the GPz305, so it’s a pity that Kawasaki can't extend this design philosophy to the GPz, rather than just changing the paint colour every year. A proper design of belt drive would get rid of the last bit of ancient design on modern motorcycles and also save some weight. I don't like the weight or handling penalties involved in shaft drive bikes.
One magazine had the absurd notion that the GPz500 was buzzy. I suppose any engine that is willing to rev to 11000rpm can be described as buzzy. if you insist on misusing the English language In fact, the 500 is a typical, schizoid vertical twin. Below 6000mm it produces enough torque to waltz along on minimal throttle openings in fifth or sixth gear, and will run along at 70mph all day without a care in the world. Used thus, the bike returns 70 to 75mpg.
However, such fun can be had by revving the engine beyond 6000rpm that it’s unlikely that any owner will achieve such economy. The exhaust takes on a really delightful howl and the power pours in. Harshly applied in the lower gears it’s possible to get the front wheel a foot off the ground, but no more, such is the steering geometry of the Kwak that you really have to push it to impress the LC brigade with wheelies. The power is a fraction short of the arm wrenching, vision distorting nature of big fours but quite addictive in use of excess revs and low gears. As soon as funds provide, I will fit a stainless steel 2—1 Motad exhaust, which as well as hopefully liberating an extra bit of urge will save some mass into the bargain. It is definitely a fun bike to ride, but one quite hard to get into serious trouble upon.
I average somewhere between 55 and 65mpg, although it’s possible to go down to 46mpg. The engine doesn’t like unleaded fuel at all, dropping consumption to a mere 40mpg and making the engine run especially rough. I tried it once and never again. Oil consumption was negligible between oil changes. although there was a very slight oil leak where the oil filter site which was cured at the last fllter swap.
Controls are common to many other Kawa models. The push to cancel indicators are a great idea once you become used to them. The headlight has an excellent main beam, adequate for fast work on unlit back roads, although the dip beam isn't quite up to that standard. The mirrors are perfectly mounted for hitting car mirrors when you filter through traffic but give an adequate rearwards vision, although at low revs they can blur a little.
Finish on the cycle parts is excellent - l have one of the all white bikes, a colour which perfectly complements the lines of fairing, tank and side panels. Mudguards, panels and seat base are all plastic which stops any worries about rust. Every 1000 miles, or so, the wheels need a quick polish to stop them going white and the bike gets sprayed with Gunk (don’t bother with the foam version, it doesn’t work very well) and jet washed. It is still in excellent condition now, despite being ridden in all kinds of weathers. I dumped the belly pan as i like to see an engine and it saved a bit of weight. The stock exhausts are still serviceable and I suspect will last about three years.
I have done no pillion work so can’t comment on that aspect. I do, however, suspect that anyone weighing over 12 stones who rides the bike solo will push the capabilities of the suspension to its limits, and that any three year old bike will need a new set, preferably of superior specification, to maintain the excellent standard of handling provided by the machine from new. Bear that in mind when considering if you can afford one.
I do feel, that for a modern motorcycle, Kawasaki have not paid enough attention to minor details and if they expended a little effort could get the dry weight down to around 300lbs whilst retaining the same motor. After all, Yamaha produce a 600cc four that weighs in at under 400lbs. i also feel that although it is a very practical machine, more attention could have been given to weather protection and access to the valve gear. Overall, though, I am mightily impressed with the bike and intend to improve it as funds allow, sticking with it until the engine gives signs of expiring.
It’s a little too early to comment on engine longevity, but I have seen examples with over 50000 miles on the clock already that seem in good shape. I am hoping for at least 100000 miles before i have to do anything major to the motor. The engine presently exudes a feeling of unburstability and seems to have lost none of its edge. I look forward to many more happy years.
Dick Lucas
I obtained my RD350LC after a succession of big four strokes. it was like a breath of fresh air. Small and light with an astonishing impression of speed when the the rev counter soared above six grand. It was a bog standard ’81 model save for Boyesen reeds and Metzeler tyres.
The next day I decided to take my new bike for a thrash... so headed off down the A2, destination unknown. Not far into the ride another 350LC pulled alongside me. Not being one to refuse a challenge I opened the throttle. The two bikes were dead level until the ton, whereupon my bike steadily pulled away from the other one, the speedo hitting an indicated 120mph with ease. I soon decided that two stroke power was infinitely more exciting than the overweight four stroke, four cylinder lumps I had been previously piloting.
Incredibly loud Micron expansion chambers were soon bunged on. I cruised around blipping the throttle revelling in the reflected ring-a-ding-ding crackling noises bouncing back at me. I soon joined the LC Brigade that used to meet at the Chelsea Bridge to see how much front tyre wear they could save. it was discovered that I had the loudest LC there.
Other high spots of LC ownership were a two up trip to Brighton. all the way flat out with not a murmur of protest. passing many a big four stroke in the process, and an absolutely incredible balls out race through Peckham in South East London where l got involved in a completely irresponsible and lunatic race with another LC jockey which only ended when we want our separate ways.
That’s the sort of bike the LC was. it brings out the absolute worst in you and any sense of responsibility vanishes out of the window. For example, there's a nice bit of winding road near to where I live and because I knew the road so well, was able to show many a Honda CB900 (and the like) a clean pair of exhausts. In fact, it was not unknown for LC riders to lay in wait for some poor Jap multi owner to come along.
Of course, all this was several years ago and I like to think I've grown up a bit since then, though the KR1 in the garage (not yet run in) holds certain possibilities. I was only parted from the LC because some bastard pinched it.
If you're in the market for an inexpensive street racer, an LC should fit the bill nicely. I loved mine — it was light, fast and I never fell off it. I’d have another like a shot, although nice ones are all too rare these days.
Marcus Jefferies
Who said that Beemers were only for boring old buggers and middle-aged professional people living in posh places like Guildford? I mean, look at me. Steady! Still the right side of thirty, just, I'm broke, live in Suffolk and can still recall the days when I could've been a shining prodigy of the Earnest Thrasher Academy of road craft. Put that in yer pipe and smoke it.
Just because I’m an adult now, committed to the task of being a responsible human being, does not mean that I don’t have my little fantasies still. Yesterday. I was Reg Pridmore (remember him?), getting down to some serious stuff at an American Superbike Championship race of the 1970s. The A1-whatsit (can't be too specific for obvious reasons) became the Daytona Track and my race modified, twin plug head R90s... well, er... a beaten up old R80/7 actually, responded with all the grace of a ponderous pudding to my every heave and struggle. Flat on the tank, cramming my bulk behind the petite S type cockpit fairing, at 105mph down the straight, I change down a cog for a bend at the and: kerrrr-crunch, with a spanner tossed in the works delicacy, I'm into fourth and powering out of the apex, With the Beemer wallowing like a fat lady's bottom in a quick walk race. I’m gathering momentum for the ultimate assault on the lap record down the next straight.
I didn't actually win the London to Tiddlepot-Out-in-the-Sticks GP that time. The honours fell to a Ford Sierra, piloted by the sort of prat that hangs his Burtons chain store jacket up on the door pillar peg, who thinks he's Nigel Mansell. What a plonker. Oh well, it was a reasonable day, all said and done; the sun pierced the gloomy damp grey for a brief micro second and I vaguely remember the rustle of crisp ten pound notes in my pocket. It was probably sweetie paper. Still... that was yesterday.
Now, I’m never entirely comfortable functioning in the happy mode; get too pleased wiv' yerself and something is just bound to happen to spoil it all. Today is proof that I've been right in the assumption that it's always best to remain a little cautious.
I thought I had suffered the day’s instalment of dreariness, heaped upon me in one go over the breakfast table. A bank statement, my one and only letter of the week, seemed to suggest that I had less money than I thought - £10 overdrawn in fact.
The accompanying note from the manager implied that they would prefer me to bank with them, not them banking with me. Bloody cheek! To top it all, my girlfriend, who after nagging on about me getting my thumb out of my bottom, took her leave without so much as a kiss goodbye, demanding that l do the dishes before I went to work. Yes dear. I don't know about you lot, but dealing with a ceiling high pile of mucky crocks, encrusted with the remains of last nights lasagna first thing in the morning, just does not turn me on. Sod it... nothing else for it but to slip back into my imaginary world.
The crowd cheer as I walk out across the paddock in my black, battle scuffed leathers, where the mechanic is waiting with my bright orange, race modified, good for at least 145mph, R90s super sex special. I smile as I don my smoke visored helmet, and return a wave to somebody important amidst the crowds of people Journalists, TV crews, photographers, race fans and some very tasty crumpet. It's one of those Le Mans style run to your machine starts. No problem as I'm fit as a fiddle (wheeze. puff, really must give up the rollies one day; and blast those Belstaff nylon suits, don't they ’arf make you ’ot). l leap aboard, my sights set on taking the lead with a good getaway. I jab at the starter button and... let's do that slowly again. | press the starter button in very positively... and... fumble, panic... bloody nothing!
The bitch wouldn't start. As I see my hopes of winning the Superbike Championship gurgle away down the plug hole, I suddenly consider that if I'm late again, so would my chances of remaining employed. Oh hell...
Losing my usual cool and collected composure for a second, I tore off my lid (my earlobes are still red and ringing), and drop kicked it like a rugby ball. Just my bleedin’ luck. it sailed through the air clearing a sizeable fence, scoring a magnificent conversion in the next door neighbour’s garden. With my foot throbbing in agony, l part with rational behaviour again to scream and punch the garage. Aargh!
Okay, I tell myself, heart thumping, foot throbbing and knuckles bleeding, take it easy, I try the dreaded button once more Nothing... dead! Count to ten. One... two... three... four... no good, and as l succumb to frustration once again, I feel something akin to a beautiful pain as l beat the bike with an old leaf rake. Oh, ah. that's so good.
Exhausted and in tears, I slump down on to an upturned lawn mower grass collecting box and light up a fag. The bike remained unmoved, a black blob of useless metal. Time was slipping by my watch seemed to acquire an amplifier in the sounding of its passing. In 15 minutes time I might as well start searching the sits vac page of the drossy local paper. You know the sort, always loads of discount bed and carpet advertising, depressingly expensive houses for sale and its little bit of local lad, young Master Bates, receives award for picking up litter in town whilst balancing a fish on his head, news quota.
The seconds ticked by. tick bleedin’ tock. The good woman had already gone off to work, so I couldn’t bum a lift with her. It always provided her with an excuse to moan anyway. "Well.....it's two seconds out of my way, dear," and, ”look at you... nearly thirty and still messing around with dirty motorbikes..." and. "Couldn’t you at least have a shave this morning," and, ”don't you 'yes darling' me.” So, then, I was a failure and these dirty old motorbikes were the major cause of it. If so, I meant to get even.
l paced around the impassive old Beemer with all the menace of Herr Donald Blitzen, Head of the Gestapo, armed with an evil sneer and a 120 watt flexi handle lamp, which I shine into its one big glassy Bosch eye. Calmly, I mention that if engine systems weren’t go on the count of five, then I’d sell her to a big fat hairy Hells Angel who, less kindly disposed towards the virtues of Teutonic engineering, would thrash her on a cold engine. Still absolutely no response.
Under the Schnicklegrubber Convention. the old bucket was obliged to disclose only frame and engine serial numbers. I wheeied around suddenly, the heel of my boot rolling a discarded fag end into a crumpled ball. Okay, have it your way, I hissed, if you don't friggin’ start you'll be donated to the Gay Christian Bikers League. That did it... instant response, but oh clear what had I done? The bike began to tremble and then rock violently on its centrestand, the handlebars thrashing from side to side. Fearing imminent disaster, I reached out to steady the convulsing wretch and as I did so happened to notice something.
Oh no, how could I be so stupid. What a pillock, shit. etc. Within half a second both the bike and l were fully operational.
After a brief attempt at trying to explain to Mrs Miserable Mug next door why my crash helmet was in her garden, and could I have it back please, we were off. Within a couple of miles everything was forgiven, and even the slight misfire couldn't spoil the pleasure of rippling up the highway, slipstreaming and overtaking a moped mounted granny up on the inside. Slightly further on, move over Clever Trevor in yer high powered Marina, I'm coming past at 95mph and I’m gonna make it through that red light.
The moral of this story is, always check the position of the engine kill switch before you end up giving yourself a hernia.
JKH
The term classic is a bit overused these days. Every ad-man seems to be jumping on the bandwagon, you can get everything from soft drinks to deodorants with a classic label. In the bike world, however, classic has a fairly widely recognised meaning. it generally applies to anything that is post war and isn’t modern Japanese.
Although some traditionalists have trouble with the idea. there is now a definite Japanese class, the VJMCC regard anything over 15 years old as vintage. This isn't as unreasonable as it seems when you remember that the Vintage Motorcycle Club was formed in 1946 and was to cater for bikes made before 1930, then only 16 years old. In any event it makes an interesting exercise to compare models that were vying for our attention in the showroom 15 or so years ago.
By then the 500 class had been overshadowed in terms of sheer power and straight line performance by larger, more glamorous machines, but still held an appeal for those in search of a good, all round bike. equally useful on the urban motorway and the country lane. and capable of topping the ton on a fast A road.
The Daytona was the final incarnation of Trlumph’s smaller unit twin. Descended from the 350 Model 21 of 1957, it was launched in '66 to celebrate Buddy Elmore's win in that year's Daytona 200 mite classic aboard a 500 Triumph. The engine featured a new cylinder head and Bonnie type cam profiles. The cycle parts were also improved, with a new frame and excellent TLS front brake, fitted to all the Triumph and BSA twins in the late sixties.
By 1972, the basic design was 15 years old and could be traced even further back to the original Speed Twin of 1937. It was clearly time for a new model, but Triumph were on the brink of financial disaster and in no condition to invest in new designs. Given these limitations it’s hard to see how Triumph could have made a better job of the Daytona.
in contrast to Triumph, Suzuki were a successful, modern motorcycle manufacturer. A major player in the all-conquering Jap bike industry, they had the resources to design a thoroughly modern machine. In 1967, when the T500 was launched, Suzuki built only two strokes and they had the benefit of the vast knowledge and experience of Ernst Degner, the MZ works rider and engineer who had defected from East Germany in 1961 and joined Suzuki. With his help, they became a force to be reckoned with both on the road and the race track.
At the time, the T500 was the world’s biggest two stroke twin. It had been considered impossible to build such a large two stroke due to overheating problems causing seizure, but Suzuki succeeded in building an engine which has proved to be one of the toughest and most reliable around. The all-alloy motor has very large fin areas on the head and barrel to dissipate heat, aided by an efficient direct oil injection system. Other modern features are gear primary drive and a five speed box. Cycle parts are conventional, again featuring an effective TLS front brake.
On fairly new suspension the Suzuki was a reasonable handler, as it gets older and the damping deteriorates the handling becomes worse — but decent shocks, thicker fork oil and stronger fork springs sorts it out. The Daytona maintains its tautness for much longer, and suspension components are, anyway, much cheaper. Neither bike is particularly kind to swinging arm bearings.
Soon after its introduction, the T500 was rather overshadowed by the Honda fours and Kawasaki triples; for many years it was underrated, perhaps not helped by a relatively plain appearance, although it seems to be achieving classic status as its reputation for reliability spreads.
Both bikes seem happier on old A roads than modern dual carriageways. As you would expect from parallel twins lacking balance shafts, they both vibrate - surprisingly, the Suzuki more than the Triumph Fortunately, the vibration is never unbearable and both can be cruised quite happily at motorway speeds.
Handling and braking is more than adequate on both bikes; back road blasting an absolute delight, thanks to usable power and relatively light mass.
The Daytona’s frame is a great improvement on previous Triumph efforts — Triumph only gained a reputation for good handling in their later years, earlier things like Speed Twins used to waltz all over the place in bends. The handling was good despite the Avon SM on the front. The Triumph is very compact for a 500, more like a Jap 250, and the low seat height is useful for those short of leg.
Despite its apparent high state of tune for a British twin, the Daytona usually started up first kick and had bags of low speed torque. Even freeing the clutch proved unnecessary, a real rarity on a Triumph. This bike was obviously one of the good ’uns.
The bike is quite happy pottering down country lanes, minimal use of the good four speed box necessary. The real power comes in at 5000rpm, although it is a brave or rich owner who goes beyond 7500rpm — vibes and mechanical longevity limit power output from this point on.
It would be nice to report that the Daytona engine was oil tight, but of course it wasn't. It had the usual leak from the pushrod tubes, which has been the cause of more cursing, swearing and expenditure on instant gasket than any other mechanical failure in the history of motorcycling. I can’t take it any more, and when it leaks I just let it happen. The Suzuki was, of course, leak free, but then most of its oil disappears out of the silencers, so there's no excuse for leaks, is there?
The Suzy felt much more revvy on the road, it can be ridden slowly but really begs to be thrashed. It took a few more prods to start than the Triumph, the left side kickstart didn’t help, but once under way was very willing and great fun to ride. The gearchange wasn't up to the Triumph standard and several times I hit a false neutral between fourth and top. It was never bad enough to spoil the bike, but rather disappointing all the same in such an otherwise excellent machine.
Top speeds are similar, both bikes will top the ton ridden by a fat old bugger in a Barbour suit. Slim young blades in racing leathers will extract a few more mph out of them.
The bikes differed dramatically on fuel consumption. around 53mpg for the Triumph and nearer 30mpg for the Suzi. Well, that’s the trouble with big two strokes, especially when they were designed before the oil crisis. if you can live with the fuel consumption, the T500 is otherwise quite a cheap bike to run.
Disregarded for many years, they are still cheap, running bikes can be had for less than £200 and £500 buys a good one. For less than the cost of the Triumph, you can get one nice bike and another for spares. The prices, though, are rising fast as the classic Japanese movement gains popularity.
Daytonas are already regarded as classics, reflected by the asking prices. You are unlikely to get a runner for less than £500 and a good one will be nearer £1000. Excellent examples are often advertised at over £1500. In the classic world, though, these are still reasonable prices and a well kept example will, at the very least, hold its value.
Later Daytonas had. no chronic problems, they just wear out components as they build up the mileage, needing a rebuild somewhere between 20 and 30000 miles depending on how hard they are used — with a straightforward engine this is no great task. The Suzuki. as mentioned, is very reliable, although it’s well known, once 40000 miles are up, for gearbox malaise and leaking crank seals (in turn sucking out the gearbox oil and ruining all its bearings). Bikes with 75000 plus miles are not unknown, although they will probably have had the crank rebuilt at least once.
Spares availability for both models is good, with plenty of Suzukis in breakers and basic Triumph spares available from most British bike shops. Original tinware may be rather hard to find but both bikes can be kept on the read without too much trouble. To sum up, either bike would make a good, practical classic. Both have enough performance to make life interesting and both have the handling and braking to cope with modern conditions. They’re both easily fettled by the home mechanic and there are plenty of examples of each to choose from. As the old saying goes, you pays your money and takes your choice.
Bob Johnson
Things had been going far too smoothly for me and, sure enough, Murphy's Law struck just as soon as we got off the ferry in Caen. I was trapped in the harbour area by a set of traffic lights which had jammed on red. In preference to spending the whole of our holiday stuck in the harbour complex, I waited a respectful interval and then ignored the lights. The rest of the ferry traffic followed my dubious example.
The French pronounce Caen with an exaggerated nasal accent. it comes out something like con in conqueror. Apparently, it you get the accent wrong it means something anatomically rude. Well, I thought Caen looked like a caen of a place when I viewed it from the western ring road during the morning rush hour. I immediately wished that I was at least an hour further away.
The preparations of my Kawasaki GT750 consisted of an oil and brake fluid change. The latter made a real improvement at the lever. It seems that air in the brake fluid builds up slowly, and in secret, to make its presence known at the most inappropriate time; much like flatulence. The suspension was set to halfway between the max and min pressures, a fine compromise for all but the worst roads when softer from pressure would have been more comfortable. My mate was riding his Yam FJ1200 which needed no preparation. Every time that it's wheeled out of his garage it is in mint condition regardless of the high mileage on the clock.
I had been apprehensive about the French rules of Priority to the Right, but in practice their road signs tell you who has priority. At Domfront we made a coffee and sandwich stop and I lost my heart to the waitress at the cafe who made the mistake of smiling at me. The local bike shop had life size murals painted all over the showroom windows. Customised mopeds seemed to be the craze. I think the French permit a lower age for starting out on two wheels.
South of the river Loire everything changes for the better. The weather is less Mancunian, the people are more relaxed and the quantity of traffic is reduced. I guess that it is much the same as in Britain, where the quality of life improves in proportion to the distance you are from the capital. The temperature was reaching the high thirties and the tar on the road was molten, and in places stuck to the tyres like mud but after a few yards was thrown off.
We were supposed to be going to Provence for our hols, and I confidently left the navigation to the FJ owner who in working life flies planes. When we ended up in la Rochelle his excuse was that he had been navigating by the seat of his pants. which had become twisted.
La Rochelle is worth visiting, but not in July/August when anyone under six foot is likely to be trampled on by the crush of tourists. The local cafes do their best to discourage visitors by doubling or tripling their normal prices. The old harbour is interesting and picturesque whilst the new marina is so huge it dwarfs the UK’s puny attempts at emulation.
The two wheel fun starts on Saturday evening. All the bike enthusiasts turn out to preen in front of the cafes that line the harbour. The world's spectrum of posing tackle goes on display. Everythlng imaginable from race replicas, Harlsys, tourers, etc., but alas no British iron. Even the mopeds got in on the act, a lot customised with braced frames, alloy wheels and expansion chambers.
I didn’t possess any camping gear and, anyway, we wanted to travel light. so it was a case of taking lots of money and finding hotels, which are better value for money than those in the UK. We found prices spread from about £14 to £28 per night for a two bed room, loo, bath or shower. All the hotels, with one exception, were spotlessly clean, although the furnishings of the cheapest hotels were well worn and frayed at the edges.
We left La Rochelle in the relative cool of the early morning on a Sunday. This was lucky because yet again I tangled with a set of red traffic lights. Somehow I’d crept into a traffic lane exclusively reserved for the emperor, buses or something other than motorcycles. The only other person awake to witness my embarrassing predicament was a Frenchman on a pedal bike. Alas, he could not resist the opportunity to loudly broadcast my stupidity to the still sleeping city. Amidst much arm waving he shouted in a manner usually reserved for apprehending wanted Nazi war criminals. It was all the encouragement I needed to ignore the lights and with a cheerful wave to the still enraged cyclist I let in the clutch and rode off.
That day we rolled east to Agentat, a picturesque town on the river Dordogne. Its claim to fame used to be barrel making. Since wine is one of the pleasures of my life I took a keen interest. The barrels were despatched in specially built boats down the river to the wine growers of Bordeaux. Because of the strong currents the boats couldn't return up the river and were broken up and made into more barrels.
My idea of good touring is to use deserted roads and head for remote countryside which means that l have to steer away from main routes and large towns. To succeed in this I have to carry a stock of maps. Also, I make slow progress across these maps, however, the quality of the progress is infinitely superior.
From the Dordogne we started to climb into the Massif Central. This is a kind of plateau about 3000 feet above sea level. The countryside is similar to Derbyshire, only wilder. We came across a village whose sole inhabitant was a small dog that was having an enormous crap in the exact centre of the road. This sight stuck in my mind because the place was so poor that it couldn’t afford signposts. Naturally, we took the wrong turning and had to retrace our wheel tracks only to find the dog still there, still crapping. i couldn't get the image of that damned dog out of my mind for miles and miles.
We were rolling along in dense traffic in some town or other when suddenly the van that was behind me pulled alongside and drove me off the road. It is an extremely unnerving experience to have someone try to kill you for no good reason. Luckily, there was not much of a kerb and I was able to get back onto the read without crashing or indeed running over a ped. The creature in the van did exactly the same stunt to some unsuspecting car driver and then turned off down a side street. There was a lot of hooting and shouting. I guess that the driver was one of those jerks that get aggressive after a drink.
Having left before breakfast we were starving by mid afternoon, so stopped at a cafe where we had salted ham sandwiches. The feeling of well being lasted four hours; most of the next 24 hours was spent on various loos. Thank goodness that none of them were of the hole in the ground variety with no toilet paper.
Once we had regained sufficient control of our digestion to permit travel without nappies, we gingerly continued to Le Roziers to see the gorge at the river Tarn. Beautiful scenery with a road that meanders alongside a tree lined river, all set in a gorge with vertical rock faces that tower above for hundreds of feet. It was excessively hot, the Kawa deciding to wind me up by playing the I'm not going to start game. Fuel vaporisation had made an air lock in the carbs. Just when I and the battery were giving up all hope of a successful start, it cleared itself and all was OK again. It then developed an oil leak from the driveshaft housing. It worried me for a few days and than mysteriously cured itself. That night we met an American couple and swapped tales into the early hours.
It pays, literally, to be especially careful in built up areas. All locals speed in town. If you reason that you will be protected by travelling in convoy with them you may be in for an unpleasant shock. Frog plod are reported to enjoy sporting activities, such as taking you out from the speeding convoy of traffic and fining you... besides, going slowly reveals all sorts of details that would otherwise be lost to you.
Most French drivers share the same lack of awareness as their British counterparts. If they are capable of thinking and driving simultaneously they certainly aren't thinking about driving. Even when they have no intention, or chance. of overtaking they drive with their front bumper tucked under your GB plate. One solution is to accelerate away... collecting a £90 on the spot fine. Or you can wave them past when such civil behaviour is so unusual that they promptly miss a gear and the opportunity.
After a week we finally rode into Digne which was our destination in Provence, a tourist trap but the girl at the Tourist Office was extremely helpful in booking us into a superb little hotel a few miles outside town. Our luck was holding because just after we checked in a gigantic and violent thunderstorm unleashed its fury. Lightning was cracking off all around the hotel and during dinner it zapped the local substation. instant blackness. Despite this the meal was the most delicious I have eaten.
Both of us had been looking forward to going up an Alpine Pass, the Cell d'Allos at 7500 feet. The scenery became more and more magnificent the further we rode up the mountains. At 5000 feet we went through a ski resort, boarded up for the summer. The last 2500 feet of the climb became impressively steep and really twisty. The hairpins required bottom gear and the incline was so steep and the air so thin that if the revs dropped below 3000rpm in any gear other than first the engine died.
The splendour of the summit was breathtaking. The storms had washed away the heat, dust and haze of the previous weeks. It was a perfect day with a cool breeze and the sort of pin clear visibility that always gives me hope that maybe I don’t need to wear glasses after all.
There were just rocks and patches of snow, short grass and masses of tiny Alpine flowers of unbelievably intense colours. Eventually we had to leave, the lack of traffic meant we could freewheel as far as the ski resort. Past there I started the bike on the roll down another hill and was shocked to see that the tacho, lights and other electrical goodies had ceased to function. I stopped, turned off the engine and tried again. All worked okay then. That evening we ended up in the Manky Parrot hotel (I don't recall its real name) in Castellanne. it had only half a tarnished star but was very cheap.
The room had a defeated look and hadn't been cleaned in weeks. The manager invited us to eat in his restaurant but we didn't fancy another day on nappies. Next morning we purred off along a scenic route through the Canyon of the Verdon, vertigo deep with sheer drops on one side of a road only one and a half lanes wide. Great when exiting blind corners and meeting huge coaches. Later, I was swinging around the corner without a care in the world when I caught the toe of my boot on the ground. Only when I stopped did I discover that the sole had been ripped away.
The hotel outside Apt was amusing as the staff tried to explain, by mimicking flapping wings whilst simultaneously doing bird impressions, that the main dish that night was a meal of cooked blackbirds or some such. We ate out. Next day we stopped off to see the Fountain of the Vaucluse... a dead loss, packed out with tourists, along walk and no running water at the end of it. All the hotels were full in the town which we had chosen for that night’s stop We rode on to Vaison and found a B at B with a lockup.
Having somehow lost a day somewhere along the traii we decided to use the autoroute to make up for lost time. Less traffic than on our motorways, fewer junctions and less roadworks. The tolls have to be paid after the end of each stretch, a ticket bought at the beginning of the route. Service areas are bleak, selling only very expensive oil and petrol. The days cruising took us about halfway across France to Tours on the Loire, where.the Pizza joint caught fire before our eyes, the chef paying too much attention to his girlfriend.
The final day was spent looking around the Normandy landing beaches, the remains of Mulberry harbour and the photogenic town of Port-en-Bessin. It hadn't rained for weeks but the next morning heading for the ferry at Caen it was bucketing down. The steering went light on every bit of white thermoplastic paint on the Bayeux ring road which is where the town keeps its entire quota of pedestrian crossings.
The journey took twice as long as it should have on account of a road sign that was only viewable from the opposite direction. In spite of these ordeals, we arrived in time to be waved to the front of the queue of cars and eat my emergency supply of croissants.
I love France, despite nearly being murdered by a drunken van driver, and recommend you all go there, whether on an MZ125 or Gold Wing, you'll enjoy it.
Marc Sivrac
Like most motorcycle mad 17 year olds of the time, I was greatly impressed by the new electric start Norton Commando and the Triumph Trident, launched in April 1975. The fact that I could only afford a Puch Maxi had nothing to do with it; I promised myself a Triumph Trident T160V with the long range tank finished in white with a yellow stripe.
15 years on, the promise has been partly fulfilled in the form of a Commando which I bought whilst working in America in 1981. My brother-in-law was more successful — he wanted a BSA Rocket 3 and ended up buying a T160 Trident last year. At last, l would have the chance to really try out the bike I had dreamt of for so long.
It turned out that both our bikes were made in 1975 and shipped to the USA. The Commando — a Roadster — had been mildly customised with six inch over forks and a fat rear tyre, but was otherwise standard. I returned the bike to its standard UK spec, except for electronic ignition and an SU carb.
The Trident was re-imported into the UK in 1988. from California, Andrew buying it from a dealer. Apart from high bars, It could be a UK spec machine. electronic ignition and rubber mounted footrests being the only changes from standard.
The Trident is in good overall shape, but during the weekend we were able to compare bikes it started to smoke a bit (actually a hell of a lot) end dripped oil all over my garage floor. But it ran and started well. The Commando was well behaved apart from refusing to start. A result of wet sumping, an archaic trick performed by many bikes with a separate oil tank... but it doesn't leak, not even from the tacho drive.
Apart from these problems, we were able to go for a good few blasts over mixed terrain, with my sister on the pillion. She preferred the Trident, the saddle a touch longer, the suspension giving a more stable ride. She admitted, however, that the Norton sounded like a real bike should and not like some rice burner... which didn’t go down too well with the Trident owner.
Having got used to the lazy power of the Commando, stepping onto the Trident was a bit of a surprise. Firstly, it needs to be revved up to make it shift and, secondly, it felt so smooth. This image of smoothness was a bit misleading as the bike generates high frequency vibes that are similar to those I experienced on a Honda 750. Not uncomfortable. but there all the same.
My first impression was of the high bars completely spoiling the control of the machine, with rubber mountings making things worse. The bars were quite comfortable at sensible speeds, but I did not like them. I have ridden Tridents before and instantly felt at home with the road-holding. Where the old Commando shakes its head, the Trident just sits there.
In a tight turn or at slow speeds it does take quite an effort to get the Trident to change line. The plus side is superb straight line stability. I remember NVT trying to pass the Trident off as a sportster. No, I think not.
The Trident's gearbox is smooth and slick, with a short throw of the lever enabling fast and sweet changes. As it was not my bike, I used the clutch, but should imagine you could snick through the box without it if you had a mind to. Fantastic. The ratios seemed to be pretty close to me, and I found that I could change up and down and keep the engine on the boil quite happily.
My youthful dreams placed the Trident as a real scorcher — but it isn’t in standard trim. Only someone who knows how to handle the power, claimed the advert for the T160, but I found the bike a touch tame compared with the Commando. Either that, or it is deceptively fast and extremely smooth.
Once it gets into its stride, though, it reels the Commando in and noses ahead with ease But I prefer the power delivery of the big twin, simply snapping open the throttle being enough to overtake most traffic. It takes no effort to get going. either, whereas the Trident does need a bit more care No, not like an RD250 Yam, but you know what I mean.
As my bike is a Roadster, it has a better riding position than an Interstate. The Trident is similar, but the footrests are widely spaced with one peg ahead of the other. You get used to it, but it does illustrate a lack of investment in designing the bike properly. Rubber mounting the footrests, incidentally, seems to be worthwhile as it eliminates the high frequency buzz through the standard footpegs. By the way, I was told by someone who owns both a Trident T160 and X75 Hurricane (a BSA Rocket 3 with custom bits on it) that the Hurricane was the smoother of two. something to do with the different designs of frames.
The Commando has more modern switchgear on the right, but loses out to the Trident which has a working electric start. One up for Joe Lucas over Prestolite of America who made the Norton's starter. Press-to-light is a very appropriate pronunciation, though, as the starter wires get more than hot if you persist in trying to use the Commando’s starter. Dripping carbs, hot wires...
The starter can be made to work if you are that keen. Method one is to jump start from a tractor battery. Method two is to have the motor converted to a four pole design as used by Harleys. Last time I heard, this cost about £90. My solution was cheap, take the redundant thing off and use it to drive a coffee grinder. It can just about cope.
Starting both bikes needs a bit of a knack, with the Trident being awkward rather than difficult to kick over. Commandos tend to wet sump, mine doing it overnight and kicking a cold engine over with a pint of oil in the crankcases requires some effort. It is best to drain the sump. but I only do this if the bike has been standing for a week or more
Fuel consumption on the Trident seems to be about 35 to 45mpg, with some owners claiming a lot more. Andrew reckons 35mpg is a realistic average. A standard Commando with Amal carbs will average about 45mpg, rising to a minimum of 60mpg with an SU. I have got over 70mpg from mine without really trying and have done even better.
Both bikes have their fair share of Mickey Mouse engineering. The oil tanks have both broken their retaining straps after 10,000 miles, and a plastic Dzus fastener is all that holds on the left-hand panel on the Commando. But the basics are sound, with well welded frames, etc. The finish on both bikes is pretty good, with stainless steel mudguards on the Norton.
The Trident is an extremely heavy bike, combined with a restricted lock, it can be a real handful to move about. I thought the Commando was heavy, but it feels like a 250 in comparison. This also helps explain the way the bikes handle, the Commando being a real scratcher.
Since I rode the Trident, Andrew has fitted new rings, a fresh barrel and a new head. This has cured the smoking, and, he says, improved the bike’s power delivery. But I still think the Commando is a more sporty bike, its sheer grunt making it accelerate like a rocket. indeed, Andrew described it as a vibrating bullet.
Acceleration on the Commando is aided by the fact that it came fitted with a 19 tooth sprocket instead of the 21 tooth UK standard. I have kept the lower ratio simply because I don't enjoy dismantling half the bike to change it. As a new set of gearbox bearings will be needed soon, I will switch sprockets then.
Having lived with the Commando for eight years now. I have got to know its many foibles. if one thing breaks, I avoid replacing it because as soon as one thing is fixed another goes phut. In fact, I will admit to having wanted to get shot of it more then once. But it is now running extremely well, and anyone who has ridden a Commando that's going as it should will know how satisfying the bike can be.
Andrew is equally at ease with the Trident, even using it to go to work on when he doesn’t have a load of stuff to lug about. Now he has sorted the engine out, he feels that it should be less thirsty on oil as well. With regards to running costs, both bikes can cost a huge amount. But used sensibly and looked after, they can be reasonably cheap, with consumables like oil filters being the same as fitted to some cars and therefore inexpensive. Every year, Commando parts seem to be easier to obtain, but, touch wood, I have not really needed too many yet.
Trident parts, such as T160 primary chains, are more scarce but there are ways around these problems, and a lack of spares is not going to stop Andrew riding his Trident for many years to come I was always annoyed by road tests back in the seventies not making a clearer distinction between the Commando and Trident, which were always rivals.
The Trident is a more modern bike in the way it rides and looks, but the Commando has a, certain charm that draws a lot of attention when it is parked up. It also goes like stink for a twin of this vintage. As I always wanted a Trident as a lad, I must admit I still find it an attractive machine, but flawed in standard trim. I would be sorely tempted to muck it about to turn it into a better bike to live with.
In standard form, I think the Norton has the edge, and is my personal choice. If offered a Trident in the form of the Legend. than I would opt for the latter, Andrew prefers the Trident and is happy with the high bars. With my sister as a regular pillion, he is not inclined to use its full performance. Used like that, it should go on forever. But there is a really fantastic motorcycle in there waiting to get out, which I hope one day he will allow to come out and show itself.
James de Hamilland
I’m filthy rich now, but, in early 1954 when I was a touch over 18 and desperate to buy the used, two year old 500cc Ariel twin, the £104 I needed to make the local Worksop dealer part with it was as likely to turn up as the Brazilian National Debt being paid off.
It's hard to believe now, but I had to pay off the balance of that Ariel twin over four years on the drip feed system after allowing for the trade-in value of my Ariel Red Hunter 500cc single with £13 still owing on the HP. Those were the days. I now carry more than the cost of a new bike in my back pocket.
I’ve no idea what model the Ariel twin was, but it had telescopic forks, beautifully curved exhaust pipes, chrome and black tank, a rear stand which clipped under the rear number plate when not in use, plus the luxury of a centre stand. Whatever other great refinements it had I can’t recall but I was totally in love with the bike. It was the height of luxury as far as l was concerned. Many a time I had near accident simply because I often rode It just looking down at the shining tank. speedo and fork. gently bouncing up and down. taking all the bumps out of the road. Yes, we had tarmac reeds. My previous bikes had girder lurks so being on a bike with teles was about on a par with having sex.
Teles were only just becoming the norm and rear springing was a thing of the future in those days, so the fact that the solid back end of the Ariel twin caused the bike to bounce about a bit like a pogo stick didn’t cause me to think l was missing out on anything new.
Having been dragged up during the war, I'd always somehow been associated with motorcycles even from the age of ten when poverty was a way of life I used to believe that knives and forks were a form of jewellery. The yearning to have my own bike had bitten well into my brain cells in those early years since going pillion on my uncle's Indian twin when I should have been at Sunday school.
The same uncle always had some old bike to ride on round his allotment, usually without the encumbrance of a silencer, so I had learnt to ride on his bikes well before the legal age of 16, when you could ride anything you could afford to buy. To a young lad with that background, the Ariel twin sounded and felt like a rocket wheeled sewing machine.
For a short time my bike was the moat powerful thing in our village, but the other six in our gang soon had their BSA, Triumph, Royal Enfield and Douglas twins, not to mention Francis Barnetts. They worked at the local pit and brought home huge sums of money, like (£6- £7 for much less hours that I had to do in the building trade to make about £4 per week, so they could afford those modern, faster bikes, but somehow their bikes weren’t as reliable as mine. That could have been due to me having spent the first three months of my working life as a grease monkey at a garage, or it could have been that Ariels were such reliable bikes.
As a gang of bikers, we toured - raced to exotic places like Cleethorpes and Blackpool plus the occasional race meeting, but bikes seemed to attract the opposite sex and we all had active groins, so inevitably the gang went on to better things than motorcycles, like getting girls pregnant and owning four wheel tin boxes. The buying and fitting of a dual seat coincided with me taking a female passenger out regularly. It must have been a good seat, we ended up married eventually.
I once loaned the bike to a friend on New Year's Eve so he could stay at the dance hall after the last bus had gone. He started my New Year off on a downer by knocking on the door at 9am to tell me: "Yer bike's fell over the edge of the car park into the River Ryton.” The stupid prat couldn't balance it whilst he kicked it up. Anyway my fault for loaning it to a weakling.
Three of us went down for the bike in a borrowed van and tugged it out of twelve inches of water complete with weeds and bog roll trimmings. Having decided that the few dents were nothing to worry about I tried to start it. After one kick I decided it wasn't going to start. Without so much as a murmur, it rode back in the van without trouble.
With dry rings and a new magneto it ran perfectly at no cost to the borrower at all — he still owes me the £7 for the replacement mag — being an Yorkshireman I feel I’ll get it off him one day.
Another incident was with a lorry I was following, which having come to halt suddenly reversed. | just sat on my bike expecting the rear end of the lorry to shunt me backwards, being as my little legs couldn’t paddle very fast in reverse. But, no, as soon as the lorry's metalwork touched the front tyre it locked then crushed the wheel into something resembling the letter C, releasing all the air out of the tyre
A sickly feeling appeared in my wallet just as a man, who watched the whole incident from the safety of the pavement, shouted at the lorry driver to stop. The driver came to have a look at what all the fuss was about. He was a nice fellow who kept saying, ”Sorry mate, I didn't see you," as he helped me dump the bike in a nearby garden. I caught a bus home after calling at the garage to ask them to collect my bike and do it up. A successful claim against the lorry driver’s insurance had me back on the road within two weeks with a new front end.
Another incident, from which I’ve never since trusted the young of this world, was when I was travelling home from work on a mischievous night in the dark. I was casually doing 29mph, as usual, in a built up area when suddenly I was doing a nasty 40mph somersault. I remember hearing glass breaking and the sound of a garage bill. Coincidentally, this happened within 100 yards of the reversing lorry, so the chap who helped me up and explained that I'd just run over a railway sleeper type gate post left in the road, could have been the same bloke. If he’s reading, thanks.
I managed to ride the Ariel home with the forks twisted and no front lights. Another week’s wages and a few hours with my tools (hammer and pincers) soon had the bike running straight again. I still dislike riding in the dark even though modern lights do allow you to see what you’re going to hit.
National Service saw me using the Ariel for getting home from Windsor to Worksop at every available weekend off, although my first attempted journey to Windsor had to be called off at Newark after only doing 30 miles when the magneto packed up. I finished the journey courtesy of BR and the following weekend I persuaded my uncle to tow me and the bike back home.
The lights once packed up after only 10 miles whilst travelling back to camp one rainy Sunday night — the remaining 145 miles were very interesting. Have you ever tried crawling along at the side of the road on a bike with no lights waiting for something to overtake, then accelerate like mad to keep behind it with only the back lights of the vehicle in front to show you the road?
I can tell you it's an ulcer inducing experience, particularly when said vehicle does 60-70mph and you're faced with two options like braking quick in total darkness and waiting for another vehicle or staying with it not knowing how much faster he's likely to go, with every oncoming vehicle blinding you with its lights. Luckily it stopped raining after four hours and I rode into camp at 5.30am, just as the daylight started. With a weekly wage of £1.50, the replacement dyno cost nearly two weeks pay.
Without incidents like breakdowns or punctures, the journey from Windsor to Worksop usually took four hours. The M1 was only just being started in 1958. so it was ordinary roads all the way. With petrol still on ration, my fare paying passenger and I used to fill the tank up with low octane stuff from an army Land Rover whenever one of us was on guard.
I finally gave up biking (until recent years) while I was doing National Service because I realised I was riding back to camp like an accident looking for somewhere to happen and was a danger to myself. Many times I’ve sat on the bike, frozen and tired after the usual hectic weekend of drinking, footballing and dancing, then set off for camp at 10pm Sunday night, hoping that I could have an accident and be able to lay in a warm bed and go to sleep. Not conducive to a long life.
Apart from renewing the plugs, chains and tyres, the only engine replacements l carried out were the renewing of the exhaust valves and guides. These probably burnt out because I'd fitted a pair of megaphones which didn’t improve the performance but sounded fantastic.
I can't remember any of the vibration which present day writers are always on about, I used to think my numb fingers were caused by bad circulation:
So, it was goodbye Ariel, and hello Ford van. I got £35 for the bike in part exchange for the van and I'd willingly pay 100 times that amount to have that bike back now in its original condition.
Des Thorpe
