Everything was fine for the first 75 miles, then 20 miles down the M6 the heavens opened. I was young and brave (read daft), so did not even consider slowing down from my 80-85mph cruising speed. I approached one of those motorway curves that are normally great fun and found myself gliding from left to right across the three lanes towards a fearsome looking armco central barrier.
This was my first experience of aquaplaning; I was scared shitless. All the time I was doing nothing not knowing what to do - the barrier was getting nearer and nearer and the ground was zipping past rather too fast for me. I ever so gently shut the throttle, bit by bit until my tyres (T100s) regained their grip with the tarmac allowing me to point the damn thing in vaguely the right direction.
Three fags and two cups of coffee soothed my shaking body enough for me to leave the service area. As soon as the sun shone again, I was able to venture back up to 90mph without fear and loathing setting in.
The bike was basically a good handler and could be piloted through A-road bends with great elan, perfectly stable up to 90mph. It was such a nice bike to ride that I was always willing to find an excuse to go for a trip.
I had a whole summer when all I did was change the tyres (rear 4500 miles, front 8500 miles) and fit a Piper 4-1 that upped the power throughout the rev range and sounded really naughty in the upper reaches. I took it off the road in winter as I don’t like falling off, and was working locally.
In spring it wouldn't go at all. My dad came to the rescue - "Drain the carbs, petrol on and belt the carb bowl with this big wooden handle screwdriver.” I gave him a strange look but could see he was keen. The colour of the gunge was reminiscent of the time I had too much Pernod and blackcurrant one night. I kept tapping until real petrol appeared. The bike worked well after that.
I started a holiday in France really well. I'd put in some new brake pads for the occasion and forgot about pumping the lever. I ran into the garage door smashing an indicator off. I fixed it at a Suzuki dealer en route. I really enjoyed the trip down, the bike, as ever, was running sweet as a nut. I did not think much of London (who does? 2018 Ed.), but then I’m a country boy at heart and, anyway, was soon on the Dover to Calais ferry.
Once in France I had great fun until I hit the Paris ring road. It has a rather quaint drainage system whereby grooves are cut in the road at right angles to the direction of travel. This took me by surprise and rather upset the GS. It was behaving and wandering in a most uncharacteristic manner, so I tried 50mph, no good. 60mph was a bit better; 70mph, mmmm, 80mph, no! Eventually, I found that the bike was stable with about 67mph on the speedo and was much relieved when we were on the autoroute proper.
It was the French holidays and it seemed like all the Frogs, er, French were going south on the same day as me What an eve opener, never knew 2CVs could go so fast; mad! All the southbound lanes were chock-a-block, all doing 90mph. I had never experienced anything like it in my life. I knew it wouldn't last and sure enough, twice on the way down our chosen form of transport came into its own when we used the hard shoulder to run past miles and miles of tailed-back, overheating traffic caused by the usual motorway carnage.
I stopped every 100 to 150 miles for a smoke, petrol and to avoid cramp (flat bars and forward placed footpegs are not ideal). Apart from that and the ferry, I'd been on the bike for 25 hours and was feeling a bit knackered by the time I was closing in on the campsite. I reverted back to riding on the left side of the road (throttle hand in gutter is a good motto - Ed.), ending up in a vineyard when a big red Porsche came screaming towards me and I had to take swift evasive action. That fazed me a little and I was well glad to crawl into my doss-bag that night.
There were a dozen or so English lads and bikes in our part of the campsite. We used to have drag races and burn outs until some Wops decided to dampen our spirits. Every time we went past buckets of water (at least that’s what I hoped it was) and cans of Coke would be hurled at us. We restricted our fun and games to quieter parts of the area, outside the camp.
The weather was fabulous, I did all the touristy things - Monaco etc, got drunk, scuba dived and sunbathed. But all good things come to an end and it was soon back toe the road to Calais. About 100 miles north from the Med the heat was intense, it seemed to bounce back at you off the road but the GS never missed a beat and I was really pleased with it.
It took 28 hours to get home and in Britain I was suddenly frozen to the bone; all that sun must've made me soft. I discovered far too late, that service areas in France have a garage with a pot of oil and brush so that bikers can keep their drive chains oiled. Once home I had to spend £62 repairing the damage.
It was later that same summer that I was shunted from behind by a mate on a T140V from a minor junction into the middle of a major road. Luckily, nothing was coming and the only damage was a broken number plate. The best bit was when we were pulling the bike back onto the side of the main road. A few cars that we had passed earlier on were having a good look to see if any of us were dead or something, when one of the cars shunted another. Laugh, I nearly paid my road tax!
That was 1982 and the GS was showing a few marks of a well used bike. The Piper header pipes had gone a lovely deep blue/purple colour and apart from one or two scratches on the casings, it always came up shining with a bit of Solvol, Turtle Wax and elbow grease.
In '83 it went to the South of France again this time in the company of a friend on a Laverda Jarama. He was envious of the way my little bike could keep up with him and even outrun him on occasions. He could go faster but vibes put an end to any long distance throttle action. The time he ignored it in the night, the headlamp fell out! No, the Laverda had class but the Suzuki had practicality.
By late summer '83 my bike was definitely getting slower, losing its sharp edge but as I am no mechanic I just kept polishing and riding it. I junked the chrome front guard about this time for a short plastic one to no ill effect, and that was how it was until I swapped it for a GSX1100 plus £250, which put the tired GS engine in its proper perspective.
In three years and 22000 miles I just changed the oil, plugs and filters once a year and it did me proud. Loved it even; wonder where it is now?
Stephen Ashford