It was March 5th, 1982. The place was the Globe Pub, Bedfordshire I'd heard rumours that the pub was frequented by bikers. This was the sole reason for being alone in a strange pub miles from home on a damp, cold night.
As it happened, the rumours were just that... rumours. The place must’ve been the fore-runner to the classic yuppie bar of today. Having arrived, I decided to have a shandy before the 20 mile ride home, when I heard another bike turn up outside. A friendly looking chap entered the bar in full leathers. A couple of sips went by and I could wait no longer. 'Er... what was that you just arrived on?” The ice was broken.
I can’t, for the life of me, recall that biker's name. I wish I could, though, so I could thank him for the fun I’ve had on the bike he sold me that night in that yuppie paradise. The bike in question was a P reg, 10000 mile DTI75. By the light of the pub sign it looked pretty fit.
The vendor told me no tax but 12 months MOT, all for £110. We rode to my house to dump the Yamaha and then, after noting frame and engine number (very important if buying off a stranger in a pub), to his place on my ailing Honda CB500/ 4 (blowing head gasket).
One or two things quickly became apparent in daylight the next day, and some were to remain hidden until my IQ reached a level a little above that of the average house plant or the fault went for me like a rabid Dobermann for the throat.
The fork seals didn’t, but that was no problem because when they ran out of oil they stopped leaking - genius, pure genius ('til you hit a bumpy bend too fast -— Ed). The paint on the frame had flaked off and been reapplied by a finger painting playgroup — probably an Improvement over the original stuff but still a mess. The bottom of the exhaust pipe was devoid of both paint and metal — very thin, indeed, it seemed like a fancy shaped iron oxide durex. Oh, and the left handlebar grip moved ever so slifiatly when you pulled hard enough.
The following weekend was spent exploring the bike's capabilities at the nearby industrial estate. lt was dark, so no-one but my mates would see me riding up and down the steps outside the offices. Great fun! Down the steep stairs was fun. Up the steep stairs was k... k... krunch! Oh dear, let's try that again. Down... OK; up... k... k... krunch.
Was that the gearbox? Oops, no teeth on the rear sprocket. Steel belt drive on a Yamaha. It didn’t matter because earlier in the day 1 had found the bike over-geared for trailing. Fitting DT125 sprockets reduced top speed from 75 to 60mph, but made the bike brilliant over the trails. The lower gearing also had its effect on the bike’s road manners. Riding around town on a bike with 15hp and gearing to suit 9hp is great fun.
Wheelies are the order of the day. On one occasion l was following (chasing) a mate through town, and he made a right turn at a T junction without stopping. I almost came to a halt due to a car, made my turn, then gassed it hard in second... it was the nearest I’ve ever come to really flipping a bike on a public road. I mean, this thing was evil, worse by miles than a Kawasaki H1B I was later to own.
The experience left me with a feeling in my legs similar to what you would expect if you picked a fight with someone twelve inches taller and wider than yourself. I never forgot myself after that.
Although the bike was running fine from the day I acquired it, I decided to immediately (four weeks later... ) give it a good service — oil change, spark plugs, etc and attend to all those little things like the loose handlebar grip on the left. The air filter had been so dirty that it had, evidently, become blocked. Someone had cured this by cutting holes in the filter. Off came the carb to check if it had been rejetted.
It had, two sizes up according to the Haynes manual. An S&B filter was half the price of the real thing, and the air box was impossible to remove unless you either removed the swinging arm or got creative with a Stanley knife. it took so long I didn't have time to secure the handlebar grip.
l’d only done around 1000 miles on the little devil when the exhaust broke above the bend. A mate of mine spent an hour of his time and an hour of his boss’s welding it back together. Every time he fixed one hole another appeared. Whilst refitting the exhaust I toyed with the idea of fixing the grip. On the other hand, why waste valuable drinking time?
The bike was quite a handler. Through the 20 million roundabouts in my area it surprised a number of friends, who were undoubtedly impressed with my skill and dexterity but not aware of how much was really down to the bike. It loved bends. The tyres performed miracles in the dry, even though on crazy nights three or four of us could be found going round, over and through roundabouts and trying to scrape the pegs without mishap.
The brakes weren’t so hot. The DT had the slowest top speed of any bike I'd owned it until then. The lower speeds fooled me into thinking the brakes were OK. One day I had the jump on a friend mounted on a Kawasaki 400 triple entering a bend - l braked late and hard, and had to suffer him ride up the inside as he was able to hit his brakes much later. I knew for a fact that his brakes were useless as they had nearly given me heart failure on the day when he let me have a go.That put things into perspective, and demoted the brakes from brilliant to adequate.
I never used the bike on the rough in the wet. There were two reasons — I disliked having a two inch covering of mud from head to toe, and the bike had a similar dislike, neither of us liked falling into puddles or anything remotely connected to mud. And besides, it always, without fail, clogged the front mudguard.
Used in the dry it was quite good fun. The gearing and smallness of the bike meant interesting tricks were possible, like 180 degree turns off the sides of trees. It also prompted new ways of falling off a bike that I had hitherto only imagined. When dropped, rider and bike usually both got up smiling. The one real vulnerable spot on the DT was the rear light that stuck up in the air and was oft destroyed when wheelies were attempted.
The rest of the parts rarely got broken. just the usual assortment of bent levers, footrests and gear change and rear brake lever. The alloy hand levers could be straightened by smearing with ordinary soap and heating until the soap goes black. Whenever I had to fix the levers I always thought about fixing the hand grip.
One day, after a morning of rain and an excess of adrenalin, a few friends and myself arrived, at night, at a town centre car park to do naughty things like wheelies, donuts, etc. I was getting the hang of wheelies after four months and 6000 miles. I was developing a trick whereby I stood on the pegs whilst mono-wheeling. The bike came up smoothly and the act began. I travelled for all of about one metre when suddenly my trick turned into a rodeo act. The bike came up and the grip came off. If mono-wheeling, standing on the pegs with one hand suddenly let loose on the world looked good, it didn’t feel like much fun when I fell off.
The bike was on its side, and I landed heavily on the end of the bars, bending them beyond repair and winding myself. Everyone thought it was very entertaining and asked if I would repeat it so they could take photographs. I took a bow and informed them that they could all fuck off. A pair of second-hand DI'175MX bars went on with plenty of glue under the grip. I wasn't going to be caught out again.
Another month passed and the DT started to give up the unequal struggle for existence under the rule of my right hand. The abuse heaped on the clutch, via the ridiculous gearing and my desire to be the first world drag race champion aboard a DT175, took its toll. It started to slip, but initially could be adjusted at the cable. Finally, this wasn't enough and I tried to adjust the clutch via the engine adjuster. It had been mashed. A strip-down was required, to remedy the situation, but the gaskets would cost more than the bike was worth so I opted for the automatic gearbox solution.
About this time another fault appeared. l hadn’t given the bike any real stick on the rough. Some of my mates had acquired some later motocross styled bikes which meant I had to hammer the DT down various tracks to keep up at speeds in excess of 20mph. Every 100 metres or so my engine would die as if it had run out of fuel. The problem turned out to be the non-standard air filter that failed to provide any support for the carb. l stopped the carb wobbling by adding a metal bracket.
Six months after buying the DT I had a stranger approach whilst I was parking. £120 richer and a rat bike bereft was the result of that conversation. I later learnt that the brother of the new owner was the head of a motorcycle theft ring I'd wondered why he'd paid so much! l've always regretted getting shot of the DT. It was a tiddler of a bike with a heart of a lion. The seat height was a good three inches lower that the newer model, which helped inspire a lot of confidence off road. The weight was virtually non-existent. Antf above all, it was a simple bike, with things like flywheel generator ignition. It's one of those bikes that makes me wish that they still made them like that these days, but l don't usually admit that in case people start thinking I'm becoming a BOF.
If you're looking for a fun bike, and someone offers you a half decent one, snap it up even if they're over 13 years old these days. If you hear of one for sale, but aren't moved to action, then let me know. I might just be interested.
Philip O'Hara