The great thing about being a BOF (boring old fart) is that it is comfortable and cheap. You don’t fall off very often, the insurance is only slightly unreasonable and you get as much pleasure at Iegal - weII nearly - speeds as you used to get from topping the ton on a Triumph when you were a SYB (work it out yourself).
So there I was, a born again biker of fifty plus with a BMW R100RS, in my fourth or fifth year of reborn biking. The Lake District was my destination via Blackpool to see an old wartime friend. There is a clear attempt by Blackpool to discourage visitors by pretending to be only a car park, albeit the biggest one in the country. I thought that I might ride along the tram rails but the labyrinth of interconnected car parks caught me and finally spat me out near to the tower.
That was alright because I only had to head east for a few blocks, but then the one way system grabbed me and kept returning me to the sea front - another clever scheme to prevent day trippers from escaping, I expect, but it faiIed because I got excellent directions from a policeman after I explained that l was going the wrong way down a one way street as the result of general confusion, old age and lack of local knowledge.
It was great to see my old friend, Gwen, again and hear about the family; the hospitality was overwhelming but it was time to press on for Langdale where the map said that there is a campsite. The mountains hove into view and I picked my way through the valleys into Langdale, where I travelled looking right and left until I just thought that I must have missed it, there was a very discreet National Trust sign; and there I was. I sat down, brewed up and then looked around and up - what a site and what a view! I just sat there for an hour looking at the hills and crags that surround the site. The Lake District is on a small scale, but it is real mountain country.
The next day I had promised myself a run around the passes. I got away fairly early at around nine o’clock and the climb out of Langdale set the scene, past Blea Tarn and to the foot of Wrynose. At the top of the pass, the view opens out across the valley and towards Hardknott. If I’d been a Roman general I think that I would have turned around and told the lads to go back to camp, but they pressed on and so did I.
The roads were nearly deserted, even in the middle of summer and I pressed on up Hardknott taking the modern, easy route. The Romans just went straight up and made no concessions to the landscape - they must have had legs like tree trunks. At the top I greeted the lone exhausted cyclist, parked the bike and walked up the lump of the Lake District to the north. The view was all that Wainwright had said and I needed a rest anyway, so I sat and looked and was amazed by the silence.
Back down the hill, a quick look at the Roman fort which deserves much longer, a glance at Wastwater, down to the coast to see Windscale, which they seemed to be taking to pieces, and then up towards Whinlatter, staying inland as far as possible along the roads where grass grows along the middle. The Whinlatter pass is pretty boring until a couple of miles from Keswick, where the views of Skiddaw are worth a stop. but I pressed on over Newlands Hause to Buttermere and into the Honister Pass.
This one is quite different, it is bleak, black and brooding, scarred by old slate workings and tracks. The slate must have been of immense value to make it worth the enormous effort to extract it and carry it down. The run down into Borrowdale was OK, but by now the visitors in cars were doing battle with the locals in lorries and the narrow roads were becoming too busy.
My wrists were beginning to ache a bit - at eighty on the motorway the wind pressure makes the riding position very comfortable, but at 20mph down the one in three hills there is a very considerable weight on the wrists, and they were beginning to protest, so I found the A66 and had a high speed blast to Penrith and soon after stopped for a snack beside Ullswater.
Kirkstone was the last pass of the day, and the worst. Plagued by visitors who had stopped in the most unlikely places, I pressed on and came up behind a convoy of police bikes who towed me into Ambleside from which I returned to Langdale. Food. kip and a walk up to Syickle Tarn to watch the idiots dangle from ropes finished the first day, and I followed it with a couple more of pretty relaxed looking around. The greatest find was the black pudding in the chip shop in Keswick - it defies description.
The next day I struck camp, as they say, and headed for Kendal then over Shap to Penrith. Shap was a disappointment and the bike was getting a bit loose at the front, so I pressed on towards Alston. If I think that anything is going adrift with the bike. I always seek to avoid stopping to find out until it becomes impossible to continue - I suppose that the pessimist in me always expects things to be worse than they really are.
A cup of tea and small black flies at Hartside gave me time to consider, and I came to the view that either the steering head bearings were breaking up, or the front wheel was falling out, and whichever it was it was getting worse, so down the hill into Alston. which is essentially an agricultural community and should thus be able to mend a BMW.
The garage was very helpful and lent me some spanners. The steering head Iocknut had simply come loose and needed but a bit of adjustment. Thank God I had avoided the indignity of a ride with the RAC. Five minutes with the spanners, fifteen minutes with the Swarfega and another fifteen minutes with fish and chips, saw me ready to move on, so I gave my wrists a final rub and headed south.
The Stang is pretty good and Arkangarthdale bears the scars of lead mining. They look spectacular now, but it must have been a hell of a place when they were all working. The road rises out of the west and becomes very open and quiet, until you go over the final crest and see the Tan Hill pub, the highest in England. Very few cars, no coaches, a couple of bikes and hundreds of pedestrians. It sits on the Pennine way, which is a bit like a pedestrian M25 at that point. Two of the bikers were on an RT and I half arranged to meet them at Dent, but I was distracted by the crutches that they had strapped to the rack... they both looked fairly complete, the bikers I mean, and I didn't like to ask if the crutches were because of or in case of!
By the time I had got down to Buttertubs I was ready to give the roads best for the day, so Hawes lured me to a stop. Bainbridge Ings, less than a mile from the town centre to the east is strongly recommended for anyone who wants a quiet and spotlessly clean site. There were Dutch bikers and Midland Robin drivers, so we spent a few hours gossiping and reminiscing then walked into town. By early evening the town is much quieter and there is room to park a bike. The Spar shop opens late, so provisions are no problem and there are lots of pubs. I would not wish to give the impression that my staple diet is fish and chips, but I can heartily recommend the fishcakes in Hawes chip shop, they are a meal in themselves.
The next couple of days were spent riding around small quiet roads. Although it was late July it was still sheep shearing time, and every so often a Land Rover parked just inside a field high up on the moors turned out to be a sheep shearing base. The skill of the shearers and the apparent indifference of the sheep is remarkable, and there is usually the chance of a chat. Haymaking was going on as well, and in some of the smaller fields the grass round the edges is still dealt with by a scythe. It seems a delightful rural existence but as I write this in December there is a search party looking for a farmer who has been lost in the snow in Yorkshire for 24 hours, and I guess that it is a hard life in the winter and a not very prosperous one all the year round. The other regular entertainment in these parts is sitting on a hill looking down on the RAF as they fly along the valleys.
These two days gave me time to relax, and then I had to head south where domestic duties called. I thought a couple of times on my way back to Buckinghamshire that I would have to stop for the night to give my wrists a chance to recover. This tendinitis business is amazingly painful and, as I later found out, persistent. It was still so bad after a couple of weeks at home that l recognised that I would have to change the bike.
Very careful consideration led to the conclusion that an R80RT was the answer, so I embarked on a search but was overcome and deserted of common sense when I saw a K100 with Sprint RS fairing - yes, the bars aren't any higher but I did say I was deserted of common sense, and Boots wrist supports are a great help!
Jon Spencer
Everyone in my family knows about my obsession with motorcycles. That I had worked weekend after weekend to make the money to buy my first bike, an early FS1E and that l was only happy when tinkering with or riding my second, an even earlier Yam 125 two stroke twin. When a distant relative passed away word slowly filtered around the family that he had a big motorcycle stored away in his garage. Eventually, his wife phoned me up, convinced that my love for motorcycling was equal to her dead spouse's, she offered me the machine for nothing if I'd come up and take it away!
Four mates and myself were on the train the next day, for the 100 mile trek across the country to Birmingham. All I knew about the bike was that it was a Norton, hadn’t been touched for ten years and was a big twin of some kind. The poor dear was a bit overwhelmed by five leather clad hoodlums suddenly descending upon her, and quickly left us to unwrap the bike huddled in the corner of her garage.
Jesus, what a sight. It sort of looked like a greased up CD175 only without the style! Huge mudguards, a horrible looking engine and a pressed steel frame that C50 owners would have rejected as too ugly. The whole was covered in a thick layer of grease, part of which quickly covered our clothes. Ugh! After removing the seized up chain, it could be pushed out into the sunlight and studied in all its glory.
The relative came out and handed me the logbook. This revealed the heap as a 1961 Norton Navigator of 349cc displacement. Further study revealed that it was indeed a vertical twin and had a wheel at each end, could therefore be classified as a motorcycle, although looking at it I had grave doubts about that definition. We pushed it up hill and down dale to the railway station, where an altercation with a couple of porters ensued until I handed out a couple of fivers and we were treated like royalty rather than grease covered scum.
Back home, the next day, the machine was pushed to the local jet-wash, sprayed with three cans of Gunk and cleaned off. Some old fart in a big Merc, who kept blowing his horn in impatience at the time it took us to clean the Norton, got a car full of water for his pains. In my garage a long list was made of bits that had perished or rotted away during the storage, oil was changed, rust was removed from the points, a new set of spark plugs and battery installed and various tanks filled with essential liquids.
To be fair to the thirty year old beast, rust was conspicuous by its absence, even the spokes and rims still showed signs of chrome, and the engine alloy just needed a bit of polish to get it back to the state the manufacturer had intended. Kicking over the engine revealed that everything still worked and a nice fat blue spark from the plugs was a sight for sore eyes.
Would the beast start? No way. We formed relay teams to kick the engine into life. After the first hour there was a promising hint of combustion, thirty minutes later it was trying hard to explode into life and then with a tremendous, earth shattering backfire it was running. A huge pall of smoke emerged from the exhausts, as whatever the previous owner had put in there to preserve them burnt off. No rev counter, but the engine seemed to run very unevenly for the first ten minutes but then settled down to a nice even beat.
My mates and I screamed in unison and headed for the stack of beer cans in celebration. It took two weeks to gather the necessary pile of bits to make the machine roadworthy. The total cost in parts came to around £150, so it wasn’t that cheap a deal. I rode the machine proudly down to the MOT station where it passed without the need for a backhander.
My initial impressions were that it ran along well at low revs with little vibration and enough power to keep up with the traffic flow. The SLS drum brakes, despite new shoes, were pretty frightening until I realised the necessity for a gorilla grip. It was as chuckable as my small Yamaha and up to 40mph seemed stable enough. A knowledgeable mate had told me I was lucky to have the 350 version, as it had proper Norton Roadholder forks unlike the 250 which had some very cheap and nasty suspension.
I decided to take the long route home, down some fast country lanes to see what it would do. I knew the roads well, and had buzzed my little stroker up to an indicated 85mph on the longer straights, so expected at least the ton from the Norton. What a disappointment, the engine ran out of power at 65mph and discouraged the usual thrashing to the redline, whatever that was on the Navigator, by production of handlebar and footpeg shaking vibes. Once past 70mph, the tank joined in too and the whole bike started weaving across the narrow country lane. I came very close to dropping the plot into a ditch, only backing off the throttle and slamming on the brakes saved the day.
I was even less impressed when I found the vibes had wrecked my expensive watch. Back in town I hurled it through the traffic, screaming the engine in second, not in the least impressed with the acceleration. I used the bike alternatively with the 125 Yam, one day the Norton, the next the Yam. I could find little in the bigger machine that impressed me, even the fuel consumption was worse. the Norton rarely doing better than 45mpg, whilst the Yam hovered around 70mpg!
I was impressed by the toughness of the Navigator, though. When a car rushed across my path the puny brakes were only able to knock speed down to 25mph. There was a gratifyingly large dent in the car whilst I could find no damage, other than a dented mudguard, on the Norton. Town riding was not too bad apart from the minor problem of the antiquated suspension that allowed every minor bump, never mind the huge craters or potholes, straight through to my spine. Suspension travel was minimal, springs rock hard and damping a modern concept Norton had not yet grasped.
The engine vibrated and rattled like the end was near, but in the 8000 miles I did in 14 months, it proved surprisingly reliable. Only 500 mile adjustments of points and copious oil leaks showed up its age and ancient design. I did not much fancy stripping the motor down, so left it well alone and tried not to thrash the balls off it too much - there wasn't much point, anyway, as power all but disappeared at high revs. It was very cheap to run on consumables, in fact once I splashed out on all the new bits I didn’t need to replace anything.
A local event organised by the Norton Owners Club inspired me to take the Navigator along. Expecting to be welcomed with open arms into the fold, l was surprised to be viciously attacked by old farts who posed on gleaming Dominators and Commandos.
Apparently, the Navigator isn't a real Norton, and I should do the decent thing, keep it locked away out of sight and sound. I got my own back on one particularly vehement old duffer by swapping his HT leads over. Last I saw of him he was red in the face in heart attack country, vainly leaping up and down on the kickstart of his dead motor.
On a few occasions I got into the right frame of mind for Navigator riding, gently pottering down deserted country lanes with less than 50mph up on the clock, the pleasant bark of the exhaust and gentle heat of the sun backing up the sheer pleasure of motorcycling that exists regardless of machine or speed. But as I’m only 19, lust after a YPVS350 and have an image to keep up these occasions were rare.
More usually, I buzzed the engine into the vibration zone as far as l dared or could take, whizzed through town with something near elan and tried pivoting the bike on its stand prongs during fast riding. It was particular fun to scrape the undercarriage in the dark with a huge spray of sparks following the machine. This was probably the only way the other drivers could see the Navigator, the lights were terrible, dimly flickering things... l think most of the generator's power was used up firing the spark plugs.
In the end I sold the Navigator to some fanatic who had a garage full of the various models in the range. He insisted that they were easily the best motorcycles ever produced anywhere in the whole world; I just took the money and laughed all the way to the bank. I did not feel the least bit sad to see the back of the heap.
David Louis
Like most government legislation aimed at curtailing motorcycling, the current necessity for motorcycle novices to take compulsory training has backfired. Numerous training organisations throughout the country are now able to offer bike hire and very rapid instruction in passing the motorcycle test.
Admittedly, having an instructor on your tail during the test is a lot worse than it used to be, but that it is now possible to obtain a full motorcycle licence without actually buying a 125cc motorcycle, makes it only a matter of time before bureaucrats start screaming about the fact that 17 year olds, once the test is passed, can leap on 170mph superbikes with a minimum of on the road experience. It can only be a matter of months until a second motorcycle test for machines bigger than 400cc is demanded.
In theory car drivers present the same problem, able to buy a Porsche 911 after only a few weeks learning to drive a car and passing the test. The difference is that a used Porsche 911 costs a hell of a lot more than some ancient wreck of a superbike. I shudder to think what would happen if I’d made my mistakes on a Z1000 with worn out suspension rather than a CD175, I fear I would have been dead meat pretty damn quick. Current accident statistics are used as a defence against imposition of the 400cc limit, but whether bigger bikes will still show up as safe as their smaller brothers in one, two years time is an open question.
Such is the decay of the superbike market that dealers are desperately flogging off 1000cc sportsters cheaper than they were last year or offering fantastic trade-in deals. Servicing charges, though, have gone up by as much as 25% and HP rates, with the dealers getting a nice backhander, are often over 30%. Asking your bank manager for a loan (to buy a nice little car) if you're still in employment is a much better bet.
Running costs of these litre bikes are pretty prohibitive. So much so that they can take the joy out of running one. An acquaintance quickly became disenchanted with his Honda CBR1000 when he found servicing costs varied between £250 and £300, tyres needed replacing every 3000 miles, pads every 5000 miles and chain every 8000 miles. Fuel averaged 35 to 40mpg. He likes riding motorcycles and regularly does 500 miles a week commuting and for kicks, so mileage built up quickly.
When he sat down and worked out the cost of a year's riding he found that the total was more than he paid for his last bike, a GPz550. When he tried to sell the CBR he found he would've lost an additional two grand. He’s now forced to curtail his mileage to essential riding and the odd weekend blitz. Sad but true.
It is possible to bung on cheapo tyres and miss out on the servicing, but it has to be remembered that these litre bikes are still heavy beasts that hide their mass under a combination of artfully contrived steering geometry and state of the art tyres. They also go out of tune quickly. Neglect and incorrect tyres quickly removes their civilised veneer, their handling goes to pot and vibes are more apparent than scintillating performance.
With the 100hp 600cc motorcycle a reality, the future of bigger bikes looks less and less positive. The prospect of variable valve timing being added to the delights of exhaust pipe trickery (EXUP to you) means that it’ll soon be possible to have your cake and eat it - such engines enabled to produce V-twin torque at low revs and run with the pack at higher revs. A by-product of such technology should be improved fuel economy. About time. too!
The new bike scene is not the only one suffering, classic bikes are becoming much harder to flog for exorbitant sums. Punters still trying to auction them off at 1990 prices are getting nowhere. It has to be remembered that the hallmark of past crashes in prices, be it shares, property or whatever, is that the value in a depression is merely 20% of the inflated value reached in the euphoria of ever increasing prices. This may seem extreme, but pricing any motorcycle at £50000 appears even more ridiculous. If you can now buy a Vincent for under ten grand it merely places the machine more in line with its value as a motorcycle rather than an investment vehicle.
There has always been a small market for British bikes that are still used every day on the road, working machines changing hands at between £500 and £1500. These big singles and twins are rarely standard, never polished to a pristine shine and usually feature upgraded electrics, bearings and tyres. They are unusually cheap to run, so much so that the savings in consumables more than pays for the frequent rebuilds. Long may they keep going.
There is absolutely no need for any motorcycle that has in the past been mass produced to be stored away as a priceless investment. There are several excellent museums in the UK where British bikes have been restored to their former glory and where the misty eyed can reflect nostalgically on their youth. Those who bought old British bikes solely as investments and can’t sell them for a fraction of the price they paid, can take one of the new training courses, pass their tests and jolly well use the beasts on the road. Eventually, prices will begin to rise and they will be able to sell them again, but hopefully by then they will have come to like motorcycling and will help swell the ranks.
The one sector in the motorcycle industry doing well are the breakers. People are holding on to their machines for longer and longer, unable to afford the ridiculous cost of new spares, they have to salvage what they can from bikes that have been crashed or blown up. Unfortunately, the increased demand has sparked off price increases for used spares, up anything from 10 to 25% over the year. If you can find a breaker who rides a bike rather than driving some hugely expensive car you've found the exception rather than the rule.
This new found wealth among breakers does not bode well for civil behaviour. I wandered into one Welsh breaker only to be met with a snarling, drooling canine, which rushed out of the back room like it was meal time and the Fowler frame constituted a tasty morsel for the massive brute. In between a reflex retreat, the speed of which I have only equalled when a Pattaya beach vendor shoved a live snake under my nose, and a hurried command from its owner to halt, I had time to mutter "Fuck that.”
The dog was some cross breed that was evidently produced with the intention of gaining a starring role in some particularly frightening horror movie. Not the first time this has happened, and probably not the last, I didn't stay around to swap insults with the owner and took my not inconsiderable business elsewhere
Another canine problem, at least in the city of Cardiff, is roving packs of dogs that try to attack motorcyclists. Having had one mutt nip my leg, I have become very wary of these dogs and tend to aim the front wheel straight at their heads. Full motorcycle gear is quite protective in canine attacks, and l have become adroit at slapping them in the head with my boot as I ride through them. The mess of poll tax and general indifference seems to have left local authorities with neither time nor energy to round up these strays. I suspect the problem will get worse rather than better.
Another council related problem facing motorcyclists, the terrible condition of the roads, will not fare any better. A friend fell off his bike because of a huge hole in the road, sued the council and won some compensation. He forgot to mention that he had neither tax nor insurance. It looks like the new breed of bikes with long travel suspension but otherwise set up for the road will win many friends in the UK as long as this neglect remains.
Neglect of another kind, the way the Japanese factories still refuse to develop economical (in the widest sense) machines that are also fun, does not bode well for the future of motorcycling over the next year. Given a few million I reckon I could do rather better, but as this appears an unlikely event I shall just have to keep on complaining.
Bill Fowler
In the mid to late seventies, believe it or not, there was only a one part test. And you could ride machines of up to 250cc on L plates, no 12hp 125s or compulsory training. There were two major training schemes, the Star Rider and the council overseen RAC/ACU proficiency scheme. For my sins, l was an instructor on the latter. A mate taking his test recently made me think of some of the fun we had then.
Our pupils were a mixed lot, from smart-arse wheelie merchants on X7s to Hells Grannies on Puke Maxis. The basic course was 12 weeks of mixed theory, on the road and in the playground practical. Most folk came because they thought it a wise idea, especially the older folk who had last ridden a quaint Norman Nippy in 1955.
Some of the younger ones had been forced into it by parents who wouldn't sign the HP form for the X7/RD unless little Johnny got some training. The last named were at the same time the quickest learners and the biggest pains in the butt. The instructors were all unpaid volunteers. Expenses could be claimed but it was so much hassle and paperwork we didn't bother most of the time.
The course came under the auspices of the local Road Safety Officer - he seemed to have more interest in the public image of the scheme than owt else. A move to outlaw greasy jeans and tatty leathers was thwarted when it was realised this would eliminate 70% of the instructors.
Another interesting side effect of public relations came when we were selected to appear in a TV programme. Instead of filming us in the school playground where we normally taught slow speed control, a showground complete with mock town was used. It might have made good telly, but had nothing to do with our tuition. For several months after pupils were disappointed in our somewhat cruder facilities.
The bikes available for use by learners were two Honda CB125S singles, a pair of the famed Bloops (B120P Suzis) and a handful of Honda mopeds. The 125S had continual electrical problems and both they and the Bloops were replaced by Suzuki A100s. The instructors used their own machines, Honda middleweights the most popular, CX500s taking over from CB400 fours as the V-twin became more established. A Triumph Tiger, Guzzi V50, Benelli 750 six and my Commando formed the Euro contingent. Contrary to popular belief none of us had BMWs!
The real stars were the pupils. Some stick in the mind, some in the throat. One who springs to mind was a nice old gent who fell off a lot. He came with the typical standard issue bike for our Senior Cits - a Benly with top box, much used crashbars and a tri-point screen.
His theory was fine but he could not get it together with the bike. Ask him to brake gently, and several yards of tread would be left on the tarmac, sometimes he fell off. The figure of eight test, meant to test slow speed control, he would attempt to do as fast as possible. Sometimes he fell off.In the end, two other instructors would stand by, ready to grab the bike as it went over.
After a record breaking six months on the course, some finesse had been introduced to his technique and he passed both RAC and ministry tests. I hope he never buys an LC, as his throttle opening was still a bit snatched. Didn’t matter with the Benly, but...
In 1978 one of the pupils had one of the much publicised X7 250cc Suzukis new, and we eagerly awaited for the bike to be run in so we could see if it could do the rumoured ton. Solo or two up. it would do it. Trouble was, the following GT380 and CB400/4 had only 80mph on their clocks. We all had a spin and though I loved the broken glass crackle of the exhausts, it felt so light and twitchy on the road. I refused to take it above 60mph. We returned the bike to the pupil, advising him to fit some decent tyres.
Another pair of bikes which were popular with the learners were both four strokes. The early Fat Dream before they became Super had a brief spell of being used by pupils and instructors. until a few just out of warranty (6 months then) had failures of the much hyped balancer chains.
The XT250 Yam was also quite common, at one stage I think there were four of the pretty black and white trailsters. All of which had head hassles inside the warranty period. Then two of them were off the road for a month as one of the tyres was an odd size and there weren't many in the UK. At least it gave them a chance to polish up their gold wheels before the finish fell off.
One day a pupil turned up on the rattiest CB125J I'd ever seen, but there was something familiar about it - the number plate. I had owned it two years back, before losing my mind and swapping it for a Jawa 350! The mileage had gone down from 27000 to 12000 miles! The chief instructor and I recommended he dump it back on the dealer, but the bloke seemed happy enough. Takes all sorts.
I mentioned the smartasses earlier. One of the most flash rode a Suzi TS250, which he insisted on aviating on the slightest pretext. One instructor, naffed off at the lad for carving him up in town, moved the cones on our hill start test; the resulting bike tarmac interface hurting nothing. Except the guy's pride as several instructors writhed with ill-concealed mirth. Ironically enough, he went on to be one of our better teachers...
Until one Saturday night when he went back to his bad old ways. He managed to cut a wooden bench in half on his newly acquired SP370 while showing off outside his local. The couple eating chips on the seat were not amused as a mono-cycling Suzi buzz-sawed through the bench. Neither, I should imagine were the local council or his insurance company.
On my way to the scheme one Sunday morning, I noticed a young bloke morosely inspecting a nearly new and rather bent Superdream. Turned out after he had been riding it for six months, his parents insisted he get some training. Porsches were not such a common car then, he must have hit the only one in Hereford. I didn’t know what to say to the poor chap.
Mind you, we weren’t perfect. One of the youngest instructors, running his CB400/4 on a shoestring fitted an Avon Deathmaster to the rear. We were amused when he managed to drop it about five times in a month. He got his own back on me just after I’d taken the Stage 2 instructors exam. In a hurry to get into work I had an argument with a big Citroen, which had with malice aforethought tried to occupy my space. l had a snapped indicator, he had scraped paint. I didn't want to hang about and went away rapidly. Did I get the urine extracted next Sunday - there were four instructors in the car behind the Citroen.
The RAC/ACU led to a far higher standard than the ministry test, and in the 3 or 4 years I was there I can only remember two people being turned away. Then, as now, you could ride a bigger bike on L plates if it had a chair. They arrived on a Bonnie and a Tiger with chairs - we were dumbstruck. None of us had any idea what to do, as we hadn't piloted chairs. We found a neighbouring scheme that took them in, as they had an instructor versed in the black arts.
As the time for the various rules we now take for granted approached, there was a minor diplomatic incident arising through that supposed co-operation between our lot and the ministry. Our deputy chief took out a couple of their testers, putting them through our test - they failed miserably. When they asked why they were told without sparing any feelings.
When the two part test came in many of us dropped out. Having spent some years as an instructor, I didn’t fancy spending between 3 and 9 hours a week, pointing folk around cones... and an 18-year old blonde distracted me a bit, l must admit.
Bruce Enzer
My 1988 BMW R80 is obviously not an old machine, and it still looks as good as new, despite 42000 miles on the clock. I did not buy the bike brand new, the running in chores were completed by some yuppie who also fitted an RS fairing. The bike had 2300 miles on the clock when I bought it for 40% less than the new price. Despite some snide comments about the newer, mono-shock BMWs not being up to the quality of earlier offerings, I’ve had no trouble from mine, although I have always been scrupulous about regular servicing (easy to do if you buy the service kits).
I had never owned a BMW before so was immediately confronted with the problem of mastering the gearbox action and paying attention to the way the shaft drive reacts. Later BMWs are supposed to have good gearboxes, but if my example was anything to go by the early ones must've been terrible. It did, admittedly. become slightly less agricultural as the miles piled up, but even now a clean, quiet change is not that easy to achieve.
The shaft drive is not that much of a problem. It can lock up the back wheel if you change down without matching revs to road speed - and a few very frightening moments were had in the wet - but the throttle can be backed off in corners without frightening consequences. Gently using the back brake at such moments helps stability.
The BMW does like to be set up on its line and certain combinations of actions can get the soft suspension all twisted up, the machine bouncing all wet the place. Most hard used bikes have modified front forks with much stiffer suspension, something that was done to my machine when the fairing was fitted, but even then it's possible to get the forks down on their stops.
The other side of this suspension is that it makes the bike a very comfortable long distance cruiser. With the excellent wind cheating abilities of the RS fairing it’s just a matter of sitting there and dialling in the speed. I have even done 110mph flat out for an hour without feeling the strain. although the bike feels happier at 95mph. Going much above that speed involves becoming used to a mild back wheel weave which no amount of changing tyre pressures, make or fitting a new shock can remove. It must be down to a weakness in the swinging arm frame, but it has never come anywhere near a wild speed wobble. Metzelers are the best tyres but they become very frightening if you try to use them with less than 2mm of tread.
Vibration is not that great a problem. A horizontally opposed twin has perfect primary balance but a torque reaction through the crankshaft that shakes the bike at low revs and thrums away towards the top end. With the lazy, reassuring beat of the exhaust system it's more comforting than worrying. BMW exhausts, by the way, are not up to the quality of the rest of the bike, mine are already spotted with rust and a bit louder that they should be. A stainless steel replacement is at the top of my shopping list.
Part of the nature of the BMW is that it can thrum along at modest speeds down country lanes without suggesting to the rider that he should scream up and down the gears, not a very good idea, anyway, because of its agricultural gearbox. One aspect that did not impress, even under such mild usage, was fuel economy. The best I ever managed was 52mpg, the worst 34mpg. It has a large petrol tank, thank god, but even so I was often running dry in less than 200 miles, doing better than 40mpg requiring much restraint. I have been told that putting on the older model's silencers helps things but it's difficult to accept such poor economy from such a modestly tuned motor.
Economy aside, I have no qualms about doing high mileages on the bike. The riding position and seat are extremely comfortable tor long distances - l have done 1000 miles in a day and still been able to walk properly. The bike has been ridden both all around the UK and across Europe. Rather than take one or two long holidays each year I tend to have as many as possible long weekends to break up the boredom of the working week - it's the only way I can survive the monotony.
I also change jobs every year or two, so can usually fit in a months break between finishing one job and starting the next. I like nothing more than starting out on a long motorcycle journey, the only sadness when I have to turn for home and head back to boredom city. With a set of panniers packed and more stuff tied across the back of the seat, solo the bike rides just the same. although the addition of a pillion shows up a relative lack of front braking power - the calipers do seize if you don't do a 20000 mile strip down and clean up, but they work just as well in the wet as the dry.
The BMW is the perfect device for long distance cruising because it adapts to the rider's feelings. If I'm tired out I can amble onwards at a moderate pace with hardly any need to touch the gearbox, just letting the ample low speed torque power us along. If I've time to make up, a full throttle charge across the landscape is as easily within its scope. I have ridden faster bikes but none so pleasing to the senses to ride for hours on end as the BMW.
With other bikes the longer you ride the more small things begin to intrude, the more you realise that the nasty buzz at a certain speed, the slight waywardness of the riding position, or the need to use the gearbox to change down to obtain adequate overtaking acceleration, all start to mount up until they spoil the interaction of man and machine. None of that with the BMW, the more you ride it the more you enjoy it.
BMWs can also be ridden surprisingly quickly. I once followed a cop mounted on the police version chasing a youth on a FZR1000 through London. There was no way I could keep up, but what little I did see of the way the police officer hauled the BMW through the traffic as if he was riding a nifty fifty filled me full of admiration. Further down the road. it was indeed revealed that he had caught the culprit who was probably shocked to discover such a modest machine could catch up with his high powered techno-rocket.
Town riding was not that brilliant because the cylinder heads poking out so far always threatened to take off the side of a car. I often ended up sitting in traffic being baked by engine heat where on narrower bikes I would've been long away. That same heat from the cylinders does keep feet moderately warm on cold days. Yes, I have fitted a set of engine crash bars and, no, I have not been so foolish as to scrape the cylinder heads in high speed turns.
Crawling along at walking pace required slipping of the clutch even in first gear to avoid some expensive sounding churning noises from the shaft drive. The flat, narrow bars needed to work inside the RS fairing also tended to strain wrist muscles at low speeds, compounded by the fact that a fair amount of muscle was needed to shove the bike through traffic due to their lack of leverage.
The quaint way the back and rises on take-off was disconcerting at first but now does not bother me in the slightest. The first few weeks of town work were painful but, these days, it takes more than an hour of slow traffic work to induce pain, helped by the fact that most of the controls work with typical Teutonic efficiency.
I did have a spate of rear bulbs blowing but this was solved by connecting an earth lead directly between the battery and the light. The neutral light stopped working for a couple of weeks and then, after its holiday, resumed. The oil light flicks on and off occasionally. as if to remind me to check the oil level, the motor requiring a pint of oil every 400 miles after fast motorway work.
If anything, the motor is running quieter and better than when I acquired the machine, it has this wonderful feel of being bulletproof. I am aware that it's due for a new timing chain at this mileage, but the lack of rattles indicates a lack of a problem. It would not surprise me in the least if the engine ran past 100000 miles without being touched!
John Wilson
I own no less than three Honda CB550s. This fanaticism has a point, I only ride one on the road. the others are for spares. The story starts in 1976 with the proud purchase of a brand new CB550F1. In 15 years it has clocked up 212000 miles, admittedly not on the same engine. The second bike was a crashed example bought in 1979 for its engine and electrics. the third a non runner acquired in 1985 for just fifty notes.
The first 35000 miles were without major incident. The single from disc caliper needed attention every 5000 miles, the electrics were occasionally troublesome, the bike needed a full service every 1500 miles (if not done performance fell off and vibes increased) and the usual consumables wore out. I am not a mad bugger, but do occasionally like to stretch engine and chassis with a ton plus blast.
Almost straight away I had done the decent thing, fitted stronger springs and thicker oil to the forks whilst the shocks were replaced with a set of Konis. Even so, the bike was not a perfectly composed handler, its 420lbs often getting out of hand in fast bends. I had run it off the road a couple of times until I began to respect its limitations. Straight line stability went to pot after 75mph, bumps in the road it did not like one jot, whilst even a smooth road did not stop it wallowing.
By about 10000 miles I was getting a bit fed up with the handling so stuck on a Dresda swinging arm with taper roller bearings, which helped a lot. It was still not perfect and it was not until a few years later when I fitted a fork brace that it became near respectable.
The first sign of an engine problem came at 35500 miles when the camchain rattled loudly. I replaced this myself and all was fine until just under 40000 miles when the clutch began to slip. Again. an easy enough job to do. The SOHC engine is straightforward enough for most home mechanics to tear apart or service.
At 48000 miles it needed a rebore. Expensive with all those pistons to replace The top end looked OK, though. At 54000 miles the gearbox became very sloppy indeed, a symptom I was to find on splitting the engine not just of a worn box but also a shagged primary drive chain, a curious throwback to the days of British motorcycle supremacy. By then I had acquired the spare bike (with 12000 miles on its clock) so was able to swap engines and repair the old one at my leisure.
Much to my surprise the replacement engine ran faultlessly for 40000 miles but then revealed itself as totally worn out internally. Power was pretty much the same as the earlier motor with enough grunt to get the speedo past the ton but not much else. Disappointing given the lack of low and torque, as was fuel economy at 45-50mpg.
The riding position was modified with flat bars and rear-sets whilst the rotted seat was replaced with a neat looking 2:4. It was comfortable enough to do up to 300 miles in a day, at up to 80mph, but any greater distance or speed resulted in bones seizing up. Other mods included plastic mudguards, fork gaiters and panniers.
The spoked wheels proved themselves a very dubious proposition indeed. I had two back wheels break up on me, and wheel bearings rarely lasted more than 50000 miles. I don't know how many calipers I went through, too many! The back drum rarely needed much attention and worked well in all weathers, something that could not be said for the disc which gave new meaning to wet weather lag. I became so fed up with the front end that l fitted newish forks, wheel and brakes off a GS550 Katana. l was nearly thrown over the bars the first time I tried the brakes.
The original motor was restored by the time the second one had failed. It did over 50000 miles before it was worn out again, quite impressive, although it had required two clutch jobs and another camchain. By that mileage a hell of a lot of bits had been replaced - the whole of the electrical system save the alternator, the tank that had rusted through, the exhaust system and various other boring bits. Again, I had restored the motor that was out of the frame, using bits from the third engine.
I was expecting around 30000 miles from this motor but it did an 80mph seize up after only 18000 miles. That was a frightening moment, the back wheel seized up as solidly as my panicked mind. The back tyre was nearly burnt down to the inner tube by the time I'd got myself together enough to remember to pull in the clutch lever. All four pistons appeared to have locked solid and the camshaft and valves looked like they had been running dry. I found various bits of the oil pump in the sump! Not much was salvaged from that motor.
That meant I had to rush around finding parts to complete the second rebuild of the original engine. I was actually without wheels for nearly two weeks, something I would not wish on my worst enemy. Back on the road, the new power plant didn't have the urge of earlier engines which given its high total mileage is not all that surprising. Fuel economy was down to a mere 40mpg. It had to suffer the indignity of relegation to second machine status whilst I rode around on a nearly new CBX550. The older four felt a right slug after riding the newer bike. but I had such a sentimental attachment to the CB550F that I could not part with it and still managed 10000 miles or so a year.
The best point about the engine is the ease with which it can be worked upon. Although there are a multitude of parts they all go together logically and easily, it just takes a bit of time and patience. The strongest component is the crankshaft which is still original (having done around 150000 miles), even the small ends are what the bike came with. The weakest parts are the camchain and tensioner, followed by the clutch - god knows what would happen to that component it I ever tried a wheelie, something I have never attempted in my whole life.
The gearbox is the worst component to work on, it doesn't quite fail just gets more and more loose. The gears are quite tough, it's the change mechanism that wears out and I had to resort to new components on the last rebuild.
The cylinder head is still OK, it's had the eight valves re-seated just the once. The camshaft is dead meat by about 55000 miles, although I've had mine reground successfully. Inlet valves are still original, exhaust valves aren't. Consumables are not too daunting, most lasting more than 10000 miles. I've found Avon Roadrunners perfectly adequate for my needs.
Ferodo pads give the least worries in the wet and last longer than most. Chain is non standard O-ring and sprockets are aftermarket to suit. The four into one exhaust is on re-chromed headers with a universal silencer hung out back (I think its fifth, it's amusing to watch the chrome dissolve).
The CB550 was last built in 1981, so all are more than a decade old by now. There are still a few rats around and the odd decent one, but finding a good 'un will prove very difficult. A GPz550, GS550 or XJ550/600 provides better performance, more durability and better economy but they are a bit more complex and more expensive. I’ve even been burnt off by a 400 Superdream, so I don’t suppose many will be bought for their performance. I've done a long trip nearly every year on the CB, I think its best role is as a mild, cheap tourer, where the owner will have little cause for complaint.
I’ve decided to do a full restoration of the CB but with a few modifications thrown in to add to its individuality. Deep red paint instead of dayglo orange, replica CB400F 4-1 downpipes in stainless steel, retaining the 2:4 seat, flat bars and rear-sets.
Many will ask why bother, in modern terms the bike is too heavy and does not provide the huge power kick of today's middleweights, but I respect the bike for surviving for so long and don't see why I should throw it out of the household just because it's getting on a bit.
Steve Gregory
Having had my world tour on the GS550 abruptly curtailed by some rouge Algerian halt inching it whilst I was spewing up my guts in what passed for a hotel room, I suddenly found myself back in the Great Capital with a pocketful of loose change, a burning desire to earn some money and a friend who had just started a despatch company. You know the sort of chap. mortgaged up to the hilt several times over, starting a business on even more borrowed money with nowhere to go but up... anyway beggars can't be choosers.
Being bereft of the Katana was no great loss in London, it was too heavy, too slow and too painful a ride for 10 hours of concentrated madness every day. l have been despatching in the capital before, so I know the game well enough, all that was lacking was a suitable pair of wheels.
That was where Graham came in. He had an immaculate 400 Superdream, which he only rarely ventured out upon on sunny weekends. He wouldn’t sell it but let me hire it from him for forty notes a week, all consumables or, god forbid, damage to be paid by Culler Enterprises Ltd, a limited company being a good way to keep the tax man off your back long enough to grab the money and take off for a new country.
The Superdream came with a rack, so a visit to one of the few friendly breakers in London soon copped a huge top box and pair of throwover panniers. The CB was still on the original FVQs which tended to bottom out over the potholes and throw the back and around. but with less than 400lbs to control, I was soon hurling it through the traffic with the best of them.
Few despatch riders out to earn a decent crust (£500 upwards) bother much with traffic laws or signals from police officers to stop. Too many of them have no tax or insurance to want to exchange insults with the law and a detailed examination of their machines would bring up a major list of offences. l was more or less legal but in a hell of a hurry to make my deliveries, even more so as the recession has badly affected DR's earnings.
l was not too amused by my friend's antics back at control. His idea of a business was evidently to take on all the tasks he could, from controller to coffee boy. My last sight of him was wrestling with four phones, screaming instructions whilst trying to read a map of London. Mistakes for pickup had started to come in hard and fast, I'd made three wasted journeys for which I suspected I would get no monetary credit.
Thus did I have little compunction about rushing the Honda through a crowded pedestrian crossing, the air horns full on, and then wrestling the machine the wrong way up a one-way street, which I figured would take me out on to Oxford St, leaving a mere 50 yards of an illegal blitz to get to my destination. Clever sod. I congratulated myself, nearing the end of the one-way section, bouncing the Honda's six valves in second gear. Despite the chain driven balance shaft a large amount of vibes made it through to the handlebars.
Then some bark in a big Bentley cruises out of a car park only checking the side of the road where traffic was expected, driving straight across to a side exit. I quickly calculated that the softest part of the car to hit was the centre of the front door. Braked hard, clutch pulled in, bike skidding about a bit and... thump! Tearing metal, bent forks but I'm still on the bike, still upright. Wheel her backwards. Marvellous it's still rideable, turn around and ride off pronto hoping the dazed idiot doesn't have time to clock my number plate.
I hide out in a side street to check out the damage, nothing a bit of fork straightening would not cure. It rides a bit strange with its shortened wheelbase and steep rake, but I can handle it. Make the next four deliveries, phone in with a puncture and head for the friendly breaker. He agrees the forks are fixable and he'll swap me a Superdream front end for forty notes. An hour's work and I'm back in the game. Great!
Back to base. My friend is incoherent, flinging abuse about, half a bottle of whisky gone down. Two riders have quit already but his cut rate prices means the work is flowing in fast. I get a rise on the spot when I promise to work my arse off to do thirty collections and deliveries in the afternoon. I spend ten minutes figuring things out, making sure I'm not rushing back and forth from one side of London to the other too many times. There are deliveries and collections in the same area a couple of times and what looks impossible at first turns out feasible.
Outside the sky turns black and the Honda, unaccustomed to such abuse, refuses to start unless I bump it. On with the waterproofs and off for the first five collections, all clustered around Covent Garden. One of them includes a huge A1 sized parcel that is bungeed on to the top box with a flimsy bit of black refuse bag for protection from the elements, which are already spitting out huge rain drops.
Up to Black Friars is a breeze, although I had to cut along the pavement a couple of times. There’s always one address that is impossible to find, in the end I got desperate and asked a taxi driver. who must have been one of the few with a bit of pity. Two pick-ups not far away and then it's an across town trawl to Chelsea.
I narrowly miss crashing the Superdream again when a taxi cuts me up down the bottom end of Hyde Park and he gives me the finger when l blast him with the horn, but otherwise I make it safely to the first of three deliveries. There are two pick-ups in Fulham and a couple of deliveries in Earls Court and then another pick-up in Kensington and a delivery in Hammersmith. At least I think so, my carefully plotted route has all but been obliterated by the heavy rainstorm.
The road surface has turned treacherous, the front tyre that came with the front end swap being some Taiwanese crap that slides all over the place. Huge puddles have formed on parts of the road, cars and lorries sending up tidal waves of water, drenching the poor old Honda, not to mention yours truly.
In Hammersmith I finally offload the huge package, sodden right through as the bit of protective plastic flew off after the first 100 yards. The girl at the desk looked at both it and myself with total disbelief, so disarmed was she by this apparition that she failed to notice she’d just signed she had received the goods in excellent condition. I was tempted to ask for her phone number, but on reflection thought that would be pushing my luck, and left her instead a large puddle of water with which to remember moi.
A long thrash down to Acton, riding the centre of the road as if it belonged to me, which, of course, it did. Got the weaving Superdream past the ton on one stretch, even had time to brake and wonder if the police car in the pub carpark was on duty or not. One delivery and one pickup within a 100 yards of each other. Amazing!
So far out of London I decided to phone in. Took five minutes for the phone to be picked up and another five minutes to get my message through to the boss. He was so far out of it by then that he offered me three pick-ups in Charring Cross. Er, no thanks. The rest was easy enough. a straight line. more or less. back to Central London with various pick-ups and drops, with enough time left to turn up at base to see it there was any more work.
By the time I got back another two men had dropped out and there was a pile of work to do. In the first day he'd managed to lose half his staff and obtain about three times more work than he could handle. The next few days were not much better, but gradually things began to settle down. There were soon another two riders sharing the work load, and he even went so far as to employ another person in the office. Got to give it to him, though, he had the gift of the gab and the right idea of cutting costs down to the bone.
I made £640 in the first week, half knackered myself and crashed the poor old Superdream two more times. When its owner came by to see how I was getting on he asked why I was running two CB400s, being unable to recognise his Superdream as the decayed, battered heap that was propped against the well outside my flat. I told him that he'd better sit down. We finally settled on £750 as being a fair price; I haven't seen him since for some reason.
I've had the Superdream for a month now and its motor has begun to rumble. Time to tart it up and flog it off in the back of MCN. Shouldn’t lose too much dosh on it. Got my eye on a nice CB450 twin that hasn't done much mileage. A couple more months work and I should have saved five grand, nice little nest egg to fund the Grand Tour Part Two.
Al Culler
Once upon a time I was the proud owner of a Suzuki GS1000E four. So impressed was I with this machine that I took it on a great trek to the Continent. I was, perhaps. pushing my luck. for my companions were mounted on CBR1000s and ZX10s. The upshot of such an alliance was when we were fair flying along a German autobahn. I had earlier been pleased with the way the big Suzuki rolled along at 100mph without an apparent concern in the world. Now it had to do 130mph to keep up with the plastic reptiles and that was rather a different story. The GS is a heavy beast and sits securely enough on the road. However, once past 110mph the suspension components begin to show their age and limitations.
Even with the springing and damping turned up as high as possible, it still started to waltz around a bit. The autobahn was pretty smooth, but even small bumps tend to get magnified at that kind of speed, so the GS definitely needed a full lane's worth of space to avoid hitting anything. My mates gave me a wide berth at speed.
There are two other problems at this kind of speed. Holding on to the bars. the handlebar fairing doesn't give that much protection, although as I'm short and broad it isn't as bad for me as someone who is taller. It gets very tiring very quickly and I kept casting envious glances at the relaxed postures my friends were able to maintain even at the insane speeds allowed by the teutonic disdain for speed limits. And the other problem was chronic secondary vibes. Below 7000rpm the Suzuki is not very rough, you're always aware that there's a very powerful engine rumbling away beneath you, which is more reassuring that worrying, but the nearer you get to the redline the more intrusive do the vibes become.
It hits the footrests first (in fact, pillions get it sooner and even worse than the pilot) and then the bars start to thrum as well. By the time the redline is in sight the petrol tank is humming away too. About 20 miles of full throttle audacity is the most I can take before my hands lose all feeling.
The Suzuki had reached a zenith of usability on French A roads, which were wide, fast and smooth. The GS1000 could be stuck in top gear and had enough grunt between 70 and 95mph to have the reptile pilots changing gears in a frenzy to keep up with the big bruiser. True, it sort of wallowed through corners in a way that looked so dangerous that it discouraged the others from trying to overtake, but my past experience with the bike assured me that it was not actually going to spit me off and the mean of all the various movements was going to be the actual course I had intended.
But back to the German autobahn. Can you picture the scene? There was I, holding on for dear life to a vibrating, wallowing beast of a motorcycle trying not to be too disconcerted by the way cars whizzed past and the thought of how the tarmac would tear off my full leathers if some mechanical failure occurred or Klaus in his big Merc fell asleep.
If I had been alone I would have happily slowed to a more I moderate pace, but I had my reputation to consider and felt unable to give in to the superior technology of my mates' machines. In the end I had little choice. The vibration suddenly increased to a frenzied level. I have never experienced double vision before and I don't want to ever again. Power started to disappear, and there was an urgent mechanical scream from the motor. I pulled in the clutch and used the remaining momentum of the machine to muscle my way through the forest of speeding autos to the hard shoulder. My friends sped off into the distance.
I listened to the ominious rumble as the engine ticked over unevenly. The oil light flickered on and off spasmodically. Even at low revs the vibes made it difficult to hold the handlebars There was nothing for it but to potter off slowly and try to make the next exit. It was two miles away and by the time the Suzuki rumbled up the slip road, waves of heat were coming up from the engine and I felt like I was in control of a particularly vicious pile-driver.
My companions were nowhere to be seen, which did not surprise me. At the speed they were travelling they would have covered the distance to the slip road in less then one minute and it was much more important to pay attention to forward motion than wonder if some old bugger on a GS could keep up. I looked at the map and found I was on a minor route to Munich, about six miles of winding roads would take me to a metropolis large enough to surely contain at least one Suzuki dealer.
What a trip. The bike refused to pull in any gear higher than second and would not go over 3000rpm. The slow speed of the GS taxed even the famed discipline of the German drivers, who came close to hitting me off a dozen or so times. I was a nervous wreck by the time I reached the city. At least I entered on the right side, for there before my tired eyes was a big Suzuki dealer. Who said all Germans could speak English. Not this lot, or at least they pretended ignorance at my request for help.
In the and another biker came to my aid. It was, by then, fairly obvious that the crankshaft was wrecked and my best hope of salvaging the beast was to get it back to England as cheaply as possible. As it happens, my brother had a pick-up truck in London, so this chap, the owner of a BMW R100RS, let me stay in his house, use his phone for free to urge brother to launch a rescue mission and provided me with a useful insight into the Munich night life scene during the three days I had to wait for the pick-up truck to arrive. He refused all offers of money, but at least he has since stayed in London with me and given me a chance to pay back some of the debt. Every cloud...
Back in Blighty I didn't even bother to strip the motor down. My brother had already located a crashed GS1000E which was so mangled it took a hacksaw to the frame to free the motor which featured a cracked lower crankcase. chipped fins and a hole in the alternator casing. Tearing off various bits of the old engine ensured that I soon had a working motor again.
The original engine had run for 42500 miles, 17450 miles of which had been under my own abuse. My maintenance had been meticulous, if anything over-zealous, so I was more then disappointed that the crankshaft had failed at such a low mileage. The rebuilt bike went and vibrated pretty much the same as the original one, although the clock of the crashed machine showed 62000 miles. I confined myself to town commuting for the next 5000 miles and was not inspired to plan any great trips.
My mates on the plastic reptiles were very amused when I related the self destruction of the GS; they had done 3000 miles in all with nary a moment's worry. Just like the GS1000, after that kind of mileage, pads and tyres were in a bad way and the oil was in desperate need of changing, although they could do 10mpg better than the 35mpg I averaged on the ageing Suzuki.
In town I found the GS great for scaring the shit out of slow drivers but too wide for charging through gaps. Its mass was of no great concern to me. I am well built and muscular enough to throw the bike around, although I can well imagine that anyone weighing less than 12 stone would not be very amused by the machine.
Other problems I had with the Suzuki were an original exhaust system that fell to pieces thanks to it rusting from the inside out. Steering head bearings that needed constant attention. Fork seals that would only last 3500 miles. I was surprised that the disc brakes and calipers gave no problems, save for pad wear, and that the electrics worked perfectly.
Until the embarrassing failure of the crankshaft I had taken great pride in owning the GS1000E. I thought that it looked great, went well and was the epitome of Japanese air cooled four cylinder technology. After the autobahn incident I became less and less interested in the machine, I hardly ever cleaned or polished it, and felt no great urge to ride it other than for commuting to work.
After nine months I decided it had to go. one of my mates with a CBR1000 was getting married and let me take the machine off his hands at a bargain price. It took only 100 miles on the newer machine to realise what I had been missing!
Adrian Lane
The heat gets to you that way. Bangkok summer madness, temperatures soaring towards 100 degrees, a hundred yard walk drenching you in sweat... I was dressed as inappropriately as you'd care to imagine for motorcycling - a cheap pair of flip—flops, tee-shirt and lightweight jeans. But that shouldn’t have been a problem as I wasn’t riding a motorcycle
A four hundred yard walk back home after a day spent wanearing around Bangkok shops was more than I could face, so I leapt on the back of one of the many motorcycle taxis. I wasn't too worried, except for an initial sharp turn it was a straight line down a relatively narrow lane. The bike was a Yamaha RXZ, but its owner being short of leg, the forks were moved up four inches in the yokes and shortened shocks out back. Suspension movement was limited to about an inch at each end.
Its owner was about par for the course, sporting a dubious grin and an itchy throttle wrist. He looked like he dealt in smack on the side; a popular pastime in Bangkok, selling drugs to foreigners then informing the police who would either haul the miscreant away or demand a huge bribe. Sometimes both.
About half a dozen motorcyclists make a living out of ferrying residents from the apartment block up to the main road. Mostly, the bikes are cut down step-thrus. All of the big four have factories in Thailand churning out these things with tuned up two stroke motors, front disc brakes and very flash paint. They are popular because they're about the only bikes the Thais can safely reach the ground upon. Yamaha even do a version with a Deltabox frame that actually looks better than it sounds.
These strokers scream up and down the road ail day long, a banshee wail that would shatter milk bottles if the Thais had such civilized things. When business is quiet they have races and play chicken with the traffic which comes every which way at the best of times. Lumbering lorries taking short cuts mingle with sweating cyclists hauling trailers full of waste paper, the road chronically narrowed in parts by parked Mercs and BMWs overflowing from an upmarket restaurant.
One Honda mounted fool had a leg sliced off in a collision with a speeding car, apparently surviving the trauma and probably finding more lucrative employment begging for money, waving the stump at tourists; in pans of Bangkok you can hardly move for the maimed lining the pavement, such things as social security not yet recognised in Thailand. It will get even worse when the hordes of AIDS sufferers finally hit the streets, Thai men renown for visiting brothels (even the smallest towns have one) and not wanting to spoil the fun with silly things like condoms.
l was not thinking any of this when I got on the back of the Yamaha. All I wanted to do was get out of the heat, half the street knocked down in a speculative fury there was no shade to offer cover. The pilot drove off in an excess of revs and clutch slip, straight in front of a taxi driver whose quick turn into the next lane almost caused a massive pile up, only avoided by an ancient bus slamming on its brakes. Drivers who cause mass carnage are renown for fleeing the scene in Bangkok, and I could just imagine finding myself astride the Yamaha trying to explain to irate cops that I wasn’t actually the owner.
I resisted the temptation to slap the rider around the head for such foolish behaviour; he was, anyway, distracted enough looking in the handlebar mirror, positioned not to give a view of traffic trying to rear end him, but to check that his hair was still in place and his grin sufficiently insouciant.
Motorcycles in Thailand usually come with an excellent set of mirrors but these are almost invariably junked. Another Thai idiosyncrasy is for motorcyclists to ride on the pavement when the road is so choked that even a narrow fifty can't get through. The latter might just have something to do with an obscure law which limits motorcyclists to the inner lane, a statute ignored even by the cops until they were put on commission on traffic offences to discourage them for asking for bribes.
A slow, sharp left-hand bend should have been child's play. I banked over with the rider automatically. Although I dislike riding pillion, I tend to go with the pilot rather than try to dictate a line I might have thought more appropriate. I had time to ponder for a moment that perhaps we were leant just a bit far over for such a slow corner when the rider banked over even further and the next thing I knew the bike had flipped over on its side.
If I had been less blasted by the heat or more conscious of what was happening I could probably have stepped away from the bike or even counteracted his insane act by flinging my body over to the opposite side and saving the both of us, but I didn't unlike the rider who neatly stepped off with an experienced fluidity. My left leg acted as a perfect cushion for the fall of the machine. The Yamaha features a neat alloy footrest hanger, the one failure in its design is that the stand stop is perfectly situated to dig into the foot of passengers when the machine goes horizontal.
The owner of the machine quickly hauled the bike off my leg, offered a wide grin in a kind of apology whilst I tried to pick myself up off the floor. My left foot's big toe registered its displeasute when I tried to put some weight on it. Other toes chimed in when I looked down to survey the missing flesh. Another large chunk of skin was missing from the back of the same foot. The pilot suggested that I get on the back of his machine whilst I tried to combine a look that would kill on the spot with trying to sublimate some of the pain.
I hobbled off in disgust to a nearby pharmacist, muttering to myself a long stream of obscenities, cursing Thai men with more verve then skill, motorcycles in general and my own foolishness in not wearing the decent pair of shoes which was my normal wear. I just couldn't be bothered to find the energy to tie up a pair of shoelaces!
The usual shouting match followed with the indolent Chinese behind the counter. I did not want to add to my pain by covering the torn flesh in tincture of iodine, as he suggested, and he only handed over some alcohol solution to clean the wound and some disinfectant cream after a long argument. The chances of serious infection in Bangkok are high. Doing something stupid like bathing the wound in water or leaving it open to the polluted air are quick ways of ending up in hospital facing amputation.
Along with paranoid thoughts of infection I had to contend with the idea that some bone in my big toe might be broken. It was fast swelling up and going black. I reassured myself that if indeed it was broken I would be in real agony, ergo it must be merely strained or bruised. I walked back to the apartment. if walk is an appropriate word to describe all but hopping on one foot.
The RXZ pilot pulled up alongside me, gesturing that I should leap on the back again. I think the look I gave him overcame the language barrier and he roared off in disgust. I had time, during my ponderous progress, to work out that the radically altered suspension combined with the unusual mass of a foreigner, had given the Yamaha steering geometry that allowed the front mudguard to catch on the frame's down tubes when the forks were turned at a certain angle. Again, that I failed to recognise this before getting on the Yamaha is down to the effects of the heat.
By the time I returned to the apartment, my clothes were wringing wet from sweat and I could hardly walk on the one foot. I wasted another hour cursing just about everything with my foot rested out of harm’s way until the pain diminished to an almost tolerable level.
Luckily, in such moments I can always reflect that the pain is absolutely nothing compared to spending hours in the chair of an apprentice dentist, who appeared to take a delight in exposing roots and practising with various drills on my admittedly decayed teeth. A couple of days later the pain suddenly disappeared and I could walk more or less normally. The torn flesh healed cleanly and my paranoia receded. The obvious lessons were once again learnt, although I admit at my age I should not have needed to relearn them.
The funny thing was that the sheer exultation of being pain free once again almost made the experience worthwhile. It is too easy to forget just how lucky one is to be in good health and burdened with problems that in the greater scheme of things are merely minor. That is not to say that I intend to make a habit of falling off motorcycles.
Bill Fowler
When I got my hands upon the machine. it was obvious that the four year old SP370 had led a hard life. The battered cycle parts, encrusted with dried mud, were all the evidence I needed to know it had been used hard off road. The owner was out of the country and his wife was determined to sell the wreck of the machine before he returned.
As the motor still sounded OK, despite 22000 miles on the '78 engine, and a quick run around the block produced no nasties. l was happy enough to hand over two hundred notes. As a bonus, the lady of the house dropped her shorts, and gave me a quickie over the best armchair.
The ride home was pleasant enough. I was not used to trail bikes and still think only a fool would willingly risk life and limb by riding a motorcycle off road. The SP felt very top heavy at first, and any slight input to the bars had the 300lb machine rushing off in the appropriate direction. The other thing that was a bit disconcerting was the way the soft, long travel front forks dived under braking, despite the fact that a puny SLS drum was fitted. I soon became used to both of these traits and was able to adapt my riding technique so that they were no longer apparent.
The other perennial problem with big singles, starting, was never a cause for worry with the SP. I had been brought up on British singles and found the normal starting technique of getting the lump just over compression and giving it a full bodied kick worked well enough to get the fires alight first or second kick, regardless of weather conditions or whether the engine was hot or cold. The only proviso was fitment of a new spark plug every 4000 miles. There is a sight glass on the cylinder head with a marker on the end of the camshaft to indicate the position of the piston but I never needed to refer to this.
The engine is similar to the GN400 and SP400. featuring a single overhead camshaft, two valves, gear primary drive and an absence of balance shafts. Vibration is nearly always present to some extent, but it is easily shoved into the background and appears to do no damage to either chassis or engine. Only when coming from a smooth four cylinder machine back on to the SP does it seem particularly rough.
The engine is best described as civilised in its production of power. This is no bottom end thumper that would delight Panther owners. nor is it a loud and rorty Gold Star imitator. There is only a small power step around 5000 revs, and although the engine never bogs down or conks out at low revs, it needed to drop down two gears from top at 30mph to achieve any kind of appreciable acceleration.
It came with gearing best suited to trail riding. but as both chain and sprockets were shagged, I took the opportunity to fit a larger engine and smaller back wheel sprocket. This made the bike feel much less revvy in nature but still allowed sufficient acceleration in town to burn off most cars and a surprisingly large number of big bikes.
The SP was undoubtedly aided here by its narrowness and chuckability. The nearest I came to trail riding was to imagine the commuting route as a series of obstacles to be taken by any means possible. The SP was great for kicking around seemingly impossible 90 degree bends made by snarled up traffic. the front wheel could be flipped up on the pavement from an acute angle when necessary and l was even known to rear up on the back wheel and flip the front of the bike over car bonnets [Cool story Bro - 2018 Ed.]
The slightest pressure on the bars would have the front wheel off the ground, and I soon became practised in the art of mono-wheeling impressive distances. It was also OK for shooting down country lanes where its relatively high riding position gave me a good view over the hedges and its low mass made up for the wallowing and pitching induced by its trail orientated suspension and steering geometry.
That same riding position made anything more than a constant 60mph on motorways a right pain, although with the raised gearing a contorted body allowed the plot up to 95mph, about what you'd expect from a 28hp single. The drum brakes were just about adequate for town use, although more than one emergency stop a day was probably pushing things. A couple of times I had to lay the bike down and step off rather than risk doing expensive damage to the front end of the bike or, worse still, myself.
The SP is a tough machine and is easily kicked straight after quite heavy spills. Beyond 50mph the brakes are a joke. even with new and harder linings and shoes fitted, fade and lack of power making fast riding potentially suicidal. I had to throw the bike around cars quite a few times to avoid injury to myself and machine; luckily, the SP can be manoeuvred every which way even with the brakes bunged full on!
I also found the bike remarkably economical. Even pissing about in town like a juvenile delinquent returned 75 to 80mpg, whilst sensible riding got it nearer 90mpg. Oil consumption between 1000 mile changes was so negligible that I gave up checking. I use the cheapest trail tyres I can get hold of, they squirm and slide about a bit, but last 25000 and 20000 miles front and rear. A decent bit of chain goes for 9000 miles whilst the sprockets are still the initial replacements.
After acquiring the bike I spent a couple of weekends cleaning off all the muck, painting up the frame and cycle parts and filling in the larger dents. I was later able to buy an SP400 in nice condition save that the owner had seized the motor, so the 370 ended up with a good set of clothes and I had many useable parts.
The motor ran well until 31000 miles when, as predicted by the UMG, the kickstart mechanism failed. It failed hastily too, making an awful row when the engine was running, so required immediate attention. Fortunately. I was able to bodge a repair with the SP400 bits without actually splitting the crankcases. That repair has lasted well with 56000 miles now on the clock.
Other engine problems - it needed a rebore at 42000 miles, although the cylinder head has been fine, probably down to my paranoid oil changes: it went through pattern contact breakers every 800 miles until I stomped up for a genuine set, and it took two new cylinder head gaskets to stop it blowing out oil. Otherwise, it's been a very reliable device. only recently has the gearbox lost a little of its precision (it's still better than some new Honda boxes) and it still goes as fast (or as slow it you're into hyperbikes) as ever. Impressive!
Perhaps because it puts out so little juice. the 6V electrical system has shown none of the normal Suzuki tendencies towards pyrotechnics. The front light is a laugh or disaster depending on whether you're sitting on the bike or running out of tarmac. Indicators were dumped when they failed, whilst front and rear bulbs blow every 5000 miles or so. Luckily, the SP's not my only machine and I can cruise long distances on my big Honda, but the few times I've been caught far away from home in the dark have resulted in a most frustrating, dangerous and slow ride home. Were it my only machine it would have been fitted with a 12V conversion a long time ago.
Cycle parts have been resprayed a couple of times, it now sports a deep British racing green with the odd touch of silver. The suspension is still original, the twin shocks don't have any damping left but it does not produce too many worries in the type of commuting and back road use I make of the SP. The front mudguard was replaced by one that hugs the front wheel and the silencer is a loud universal megaphone, but other than that it's still pretty original.
I let a mate have a go on the SP the other day. He came back white faced and shaking, muttering something about it wobbling all over the road and vibrating like a pile-driver. I've had it for so long that none of these minor idiosyncrasies bother me in the slightest, it still lets me charge through the commuting hordes like a madman and the only thing that I can think of that is cheaper to run is a bicycle!
George Hutchings
When I bought an old Honda Superdream as a non-runner for fifty quid I thought I was doing pretty well. It wasn't until I tried to take the motor out that I knew I was in big trouble The mounting bolts were seized in. As I suspected that the engine was seized up solid. I lost no time drilling the old bolts out. Several days, numerous broken drill bits and a lot of hassle later the engine was finally lifted out.
Most of the engine bolts snapped off when I tried to remove them. Much sweating and hammering later the crankcases were split, and the cylinder head removed. The poor old cylinder just would not budge; the pistons must've been seized in solid. As the rest of the engine was comprehensively knackered this did not bother me too much.
I had deliberately bought the 250 version for cheaper tax and insurance, but I could only find a cheap 400 motor. A bit of work on the engine with a grinding tool obscured this fact from the world and it was but a morning's work to pop the 400 engine in. But it wasn't until I'd replaced the ignition system that it was willing to burst into life.
What a disappointment after all that work. My first quick run up the road revealed a surplus of vibes, terrible rattles once the engine was pushed above 4000rpm and not much by way of power beyond 70mph. Examination of the engine revealed tappets with way too much clearance, a knackered balance chain and tensioner, plus smoke pouring out of the engine breather, which had been rather carelessly routed on to back tyre.
I took the engine out, had once again a good fight with recalcitrant bolts and enough outpouring of swear words to keep a slang dictionary creator in work for a decade or so. Broken oil rings were the most expensive fault found: the balancer chain problem solved by the simple expedient of removal of the whole gubbins. Camshaft wear was not too bad and even the tensioner looked usable.
Once more installed in the rotting hulk of a chassis, the motor rattled into life first press of the starter and settled down to a more or less even tickover. Joy of joys. Out on the road, most of the vibes had disappeared, just a slight buzz left at higher revs and there was enough power to push the madly weaving monster up to 95mph.
The original bike had done 42000 miles, enough to wear out most of the chassis. Dubious bodges abounded, resulting in various crucial hits such as brake calipers and swinging arm bearings falling apart when threatened with a spanner. The swinging arm bearings were bits of Coke can wound around the spindle and Araldite played a large part in the structural integrity of the front disc caliper and master cylinder. It was an accident looking for somewhere to happen.
A total strip down of the chassis followed, about 200 quids worth of the folding stuff slipping from my grasp in replacement bits which included a newish front end (the forks were bent and pitted, the wheel cracked...), a large pile of bearings from the local factor and a brand new seat and tank from the local dealer for next to nothing, as he was desperate to improve his cash flow.
The reconstructed machine, after some further painting and polishing. looked pretty damn good, but my original fifty pound hack had ended up costing nearly £350. The 400 engine had supposedly done only 24000 miles but anyone who believes breakers needs their head tested, it was in reality not much better than a good 250.
That vibration was less than with a balancer shaft fitted just shows how much of a gimmick was the original design - Honda would have done much better to use some better engine alloy, judging my the way I had to apply weekly doses of Solvol to avoid the dreaded white rash. Fuel consumption hovered around 50mpg for most of the time, which wasn't really acceptable for such a slow bike.
One fast thrash up the motorway, 100 miles in 65 minutes, wrecked even that economy with fuel down to 35mpg. It also almost emptied the sump of oil, only the realisation that something had caused the loose gearbox to become even more prone to false neutrals than normal caused me to check the oil level. After that it always refused to hold top gear. no great loss as acceleration was appalling.
I put another eight thousand miles on the speedo before it broke (the speedo not the bike) and then did probably another 2000 miles before the motor locked up solid at 70mph down a deserted country lane. The chassis still looked like new so the temptation to throw it in the nearby ditch and walk away in disgust was resisted. Luckily I had joined the AA a month previously and much to my surprise they were on the scene very quickly indeed.
Having perfected the art of the quick Superdream engine change I was greatly tempted to do a swap with a neighbour's immaculate example when he wasn't looking — he had only done 10000 summer miles in seven years! However, the local breaker took pity on me and swapped my old engine for a newish one plus a hundred notes. I subsequently learned that he had sold my seized motor as coming from the low mileage bike to some poor sucker.
Again, I was surprised that this low mileage engine vibrated more than my old one, but was reassured by the extra power available. This was more like it, the speedo I'd fitted in celebration of this newer motor fair whizzed around to 110mph and acceleration sufficient to see off a mate's Bonnie up to the ten made my day.
A thousand miles, or so. down the read. both silencers simultaneously disintegrated. Ever run a Superdream on open pipes (some past owner having already welded the rust prone balancer box), it sounds like a tractor falling out of the sky. Good citizens would've waved their hands at me in anger had they not been clamping their ears in anguish as Superdream and I majestically plodded up hill and down dale. The realisation that the drastically altered mixture meant it would not rev beyond 5000rpm soon had me digging through the local breaker's cast-offs for a suitable replacement. Yes, GPz550 silencers can be welded on to Supedream downpipes.
Next, the infamous caliper seized up solid despite the pins having been copiously covered in grease and daily prayers intoned. More hassle and expense. 3000 more miles of trouble free thrashing saw the rear wheel bearings break up whilst I was banked over in a 50mph corner. Talk about shitting yourself. Once l'd picked myself up off the tarmac I rushed over to the machine and kicked it hard enough to hurt my foot. This time I paid up for genuine Honda bearings.
Perhaps because of the great age of the wiring loom, I started experiencing all kinds of electrical faults. Bulbs would blow, the engine started cutting out and the battery lost its charge. An amusing weekend was spent adapting a car wiring loom to fit the Honda. The initial result was that the kill switch and light switch reversed function, and after that was sorted the battery boiled over. One cooked rectifier replaced at great cost (it would have been cheaper to buy a Honda loom after that expense) and all was hunky dory again.
I had become so used to the Honda that chassis limitations rarely bothered me. It might twitch and shake a bit through corners but as long as I remembered to avoid pivoting it on the stand prongs, it could be hurled through on the required line. The frame is a fairly minimal tubular affair, but it's aided by using the engine as a stressed member. Various races revealed that through tight corners the bike could keep up with most middleweight fours if I ignored the chassis saying enough was enough.
The bike came with Roadrunners which were adequate. A set of Michelins impressed until they were worn out in 4000 miles (against 7000 and 11000 miles rear and front for the Avons). I never bought a new chain, having numerous old ones hanging about which took turns to soak in Linklyfe. Similarly, I had acquired enough sprockets and brake pads never to need to line the pockets of my local Honda dealer again.
Oil was changed every 1000 miles although I never bothered pissing around with the oil filter. Engine maintenance was very straightforward but I didn't indulge it too often as everything, even the dreaded tensioners, seemed to stay in tune. Until they've done 25000 miles or more the engines are as tough as any other 400 twin, just so long as they get those regular oil changes.
There are still some low mileage Superdreams around that are well worth buying, anything else though has to be considered a hack that should be run into the ground and abandoned when it fails. Loads of bits in breakers and many knackered examples around for next to nothing. The 400 is the more useful of the two, but also the more expensive. I've still got mine and am hunting down a replacement engine ready for the next transplant.
Derrick Samuel
