At the tender age of 36 I learnt to ride on a Honda CD125T on a piece of waste ground on a sunny Sunday morning in Telford. Just over a year later, having passed my Part 2, l was eager for something a bit more powerful and saw a red A reg GPz305 with 18000 miles on the clock in a local dealers. The bike had been in the dealers for several months, but this was over winter when trade is slow and a 305cc four stroke twin perhaps does not appeal to today's youth, so I was not unduly put off.
The test ride was a revelation to one used to 12 very restricted horses hauling a heavy bike. I weaved cautiously through Wolverhampton's back streets until with the engine fully warmed up I turned on to a dual carriageway and opened the throttle wide in third. The bike surged forward, the revs climbed swiftly and acceleration was breath-taking. Wow! The bike was as good as sold.
Returning to the dealers I acted nonchalant and non-committal. A seasoned biker friend I had taken along for a second opinion looked the bike over and could find no obvious faults. After a bit of haggling a price was agreed upon. A week later money and bike changed hands. When you buy secondhand the honeymoon period is always tarnished by the thought that you may have bought a complete dog. The acceleration continued to thrill but the handling didn't impress at all. There was a distinct wobble despite the fact that I could not recall any problems on the test ride.
At the end of my first week of proud ownership I made the mistake of pulling up at a junction for a roundabout around which cars hurtle at speeds of 50 to 60mph. The mistake was this - I had foolishly obstructed the path of a blind Skoda driver who shunted me none too gently from behind. The bike lurched forward, I remained stationary, legs apart and hands reaching forward to where the bars had just been. My new found pride and joy toppled over on its right side with a sickening crunch.
Somehow my left leg had taken a knock but othervise I was okay. I pulled the bike upright and on to the verge. A kind lorry driver who had seen everything leaned out of his cab and handed me a piece of paper with his name and address on. The Skoda driver in the meantime had spotted his error, got out of his car and was saying in Hungarian, 'Sorry mate, I didn't see you.’ What I said to him would not be in any phrasebook.
His wife spoke some English, the drive to the police station was the most terrifying I have ever experienced, and I do not know how he had driven all the way from Budapest without wiping out most of the population. The police arrested him for reckless driving!
It turned out that the bike was actually still rideable, although lots of minor damage added up to a major insurance claim which took months to put right because the bike shop I took it to for the repairs, although always very friendly and helpful, seemed only able to put one thing right at a time. Loads of phone calls, loads of coming and going, loads of hassle.
Not surprisingly the accident had not cured the wobble. I remember shortly after I bought the bike setting off for work one morning and carrying a fair amount of stuff. I eased off the power to change gear and experienced a frightening steering wobble. Even with the bike unloaded, the bike wobbled between 30 and 40mph, so cornered more slowly than the Honda. The rear tyre was, for some strange reason, a front tyre (if you see what I mean) but changing it for a proper rear tyre did not make a scrap of difference.
It took three months of wobbles and a lecture or two on centre of gravity from a friend to convince me to jettison the top box. I bought some throwovers for luggage. Handling improved immediately and dramatically. Moral, keep the weight within the wheelbase.
Then there were the oil leaks - one round the tacho drive, the other round the clutch linkage - nothing serious: just enough to worry about, although the continuous fine uptay of multigrade did give my leather boots some extra waterproofing.
And the noises. When cold the engine rattled at the top and also thudded rather ominously from the bottom; when warm it sounded absolutely fine. My mechanically expert friend told me not to pay too much attention to cold engine noises as the engine was designed to run warm and the tolerances hadn't been taken up.
Then I noticed a new noise which suddenly cut in at 3500 revs, a noise which got worse with the passing of time, a noise which sounded like a chain whip-lashing against metal somewhere inside the engine. Previously, I had not heard of camchains or tensioners, the Honda had spoilt me, it had just plodded along without any engine attention. I had a new camchain fitted, the tensioner packed with grease to make sure it didn't stick (a new one was on order).
In this condition the bike ran superbly and this was the best phase of my relationship with the 305 - I loved it. I particularly liked the marked power band phenomenon at 6000 revs, despite the implied lack of flexibility in the motor and the need for constant gear changing. The bike would comfortably see off the four wheel opposition, and that was quite enough for me. I also liked the looks of bike, sporty but not covered in plastic.
With the new tensioner fitted all was well for a while and then, damn me, if the thing didn't start rattling again. Not as badly as before, but still enough to make grit your teeth at the thought of all those little bits of metal being chipped off into the oil and forming a nice grinding paste between the engine’s vital moving parts. Worse still, a new leak appeared at the front of the engine between the bores.
There were other minor problems, soon solved but nonetheless niggly. A rectifier fault meant the battery wasn’t charging. One day the gear lever, which had always been rather floppy, came off its spindle altogether, and the whole assembly dropped rather pathetically on to the left side of the machine.
However, at least by then the insurance work had been completed and the bike looked better than ever. Then, cleaning the bike one day. I noticed the paint had blistered slightly at one corner of the tank. Sure enough, the, petrol tank was weeping ever so slightly, fixed by the dealer. Understandably, I was beginning to lose faith in this not so trusty steed and thinking about trading it in for something more poky, reliable and possibly brand new. Trying to trade the GPz for a GPZ500S the dealer declared that he could not offer me anything for the 305 in part exchange, as the camchain had eaten its way through the front of the cylinder causing a large oil leak. I took it up the road where the Suzuki dealer offered me £750 against a new GS500E. No doubt his profit margin was large enough to cover him and no doubt I could have done better by selling privately and using the cash to get the maximum discount on the new bike, but by that time I just wanted out.
Summing up 4500 miles and 8 months of experience, I must say whatever its faults the bike did have charisma. On the all too rare occasions when it was running well, it was a lot of fun to ride. Petrol consumption was low, 60-70mpg. Oil consumption was what you might expect from a bike of this mileage, necessitating regular checking.
Undoubtedly, I was unlucky with this particular bike although I have heard that camchain problems are not uncommon on the 305. Despite all this, curiously enough, I liked the GPz. Indeed, such was my attachment to the GPz from that first test ride onwards that, had it been less jinxed and more trouble free, I might still have been happily riding it to this day.
Chris Onions
I'm a late starter in the motorcycle world, having waited to the ripe old age of 25 before buying my first bike. Now almost two years later I have a Brazilian Honda CG125 and a Kawasaki GT550. In the past I've also had a Japanese CG125, both 125s were E registered and therefore I am in a unique position of being able to compare the two. The Jap version ceased production in April ’85, the same time as the Brazil model started, but my Jap model managed to be an E as it was an ’85 bike that wasn't registered until '88.
I bought the Brazil one with about 1800 miles on the clock and now it has about 10500 miles. I bought the Jap with 600 miles and part exchanged it for the GT550 about 12 weeks later with about 4500 miles on the clock, having set the tests on it.
The clutch on the Jap bike proved rather stiff. Alright for normal use but impossible to get any gentle control during manoeuvring such as during the figure of eight in the old part one test. This proved to be due to the cable drying out due to lack of use and some 3-in-1 had it as smooth and easy to use as the Brazilian one. The bike had two previous owners in two years and had only done just over 600 miles.
Though the two bikes are the same model, there is very little that is completely the same: the engine is about it, really. Even that is quite different, the later bike having the advantage of hexagonal bolts holding the engine together instead of the usual cross-headed screws. This makes access to the points easier, any help in this department is good as the points live inside the generator behind the flywheel and a puller is required to change them.
One of the biggest differences is the electrics, the Jap being the usual 6V but the other having 12V. When I first rode at night on the Brazilian I thought the lights were not very good, but that was before I tried the Jap version, which had only a 25W light. The switches on the newer bike were well designed, laid out and easy to use, the Jap ones on the other hand are small, badly placed and therefore difficult to use. especially when wearing gloves - the main light switch is a real pain as it has a blank spot in the middle which results in total darkness.
The later bike looks bigger and is in fact, but only to a very slight degree. The seat height remains the same but the seat is larger and more comfortable, it also comes off to reveal the toolkit. The bars are higher which makes the riding position more upright, but this extra height greatly improves the view in the mirrors - you see less of your arms and more of the maniac car drivers looking for a bad place to overtake. It seems to me that a bike with L-plates is an open invitation to all car drivers to overtake, which they usually struggle to do before cutting in wildly.
The wheels on the Brazilian are wider and the rear is an inch larger, but this doesn't seem to improve the handling, and I would say that the Japanese is better. The former has an annoying habit of skipping over the lines of black tar used to stitch bits of road together when they can’t be bothered to repair them properly. The Brazilian's front brake is also larger and more effective, the Jap version being pathetic by comparison.
Fuel economy couldn't be better, any time I've bothered to work it out it has always been over 120mpg. This holds true for a mixture of town, country, dual carriageway and twisty road riding. The newer bike has a larger 2.6 gallon tank, compared to 2.2 gallons. The shape is different, the Jap more tear dropped than the square tank of the newer bike.
Weather doesn't seem to worry either bike, crawling around town in a heat wave or flat out in a downpour, it’s all the same. The only thing they don't like is wind, but then who does? The thing I hate most is cars overtaking too close when there is a cross wind from the right as the bike tends to leap sideways due to its light weight making the bike unstable in winds. Maintenance consists of changing the oil every 1000 miles and adjusting the brakes and chains.
Riding through a flood eight inches deep and 30 feet long then leaving the bike sitting in the rain for a couple of days resulted in an elastic chain that needed constant adjustment. So one Saturday when the chain ran out of adjustment a new one was bought with the intention of fining it on the Sunday but before this could be done the bike started behaving strangely. vibrating badly and dropping top speed to about 15mph. This happened during the last of six lessons in the Star Riders Silver course and so it was some time before the fault was traced and found to be a cracked crankcase, the bike having lost most of its oil by then. The Jap bike was bought at this point as a temporary replacement until the other one could be fixed.
The Brazilian would do 70mph when wound up on a good flat road and could reach 75mph if pushed beyond the bounds of sanity, but even a slight hill would soon reduce this. The Jap, on the other hand, was 10mph slower but less sensitive to slopes.
I do a fair mileage, most of it quite fast and this has caused a few things to come loose, the first thing to fall off was the helmet lock and the steering lock is now loose; so much for security. The front guard then started to disintegrate, one strut at a time until the last went and it started rubbing the wheel whereupon it was ditched and a new one ordered. The bike was ridden for about a week without the mudguard and needless to say it rained, but what really annoyed me was the fact that no matter what speed I travelled at the front wheel would pick up water and as much dirt as it could find and throw it right in my face. A steamed up visor in town resulting in a very dirty face.
The new mudguard was bought from a shop in Cambridge and fitted before setting out for Ipswich. By the time I got there the first strut had already snapped and so it was returned to the shop and another ordered. This new one has not really been tested as the bike is now laid up awaiting repair. Newer bikes have a plastic guard with no stays, the idea being that what isn't there can't break.
A recurring problem I had was that the rubber O-ring between the carb and the head dissolved and oozed out sideways; on removal it looked a bit like a fried egg. This resulted in an air leak and so reduced the already low power output. Once, while waiting for a new seal, I stuck the old one back with some Blue Hylomar and this is still there. I never had this problem with the Jap machine.
I never had the Jap bike long enough for anything to wear out, but the flasher unit and a fuse had to be changed when one of the wires came adrift from the battery and I rode on without knowing. When the Brazilian one went for its first MOT it failed for having a bald spot on the rear tyre. This was at about 10000 miles and was probably caused by locking the back wheel up repeatedly while practising the emergency stop. No doubt without this abuse the original Brazilian Dunlop would have lasted much longer.
I have done over 300 miles in one day on the Brazilian, which took about eight hours and there was a long stop in the middle, the last forty miles were a bit painful but that's not bad going for such a small bike. The most I've gone on the Jap version was about 250 miles with similar results. On the GT550, however, I've done over 400 miles in a day with no real discomfort, definitely a more suitable bike for my type of riding.
Either CG makes an ideal learner or commuter bike and long journeys are possible with patience and determination. Though riding flat out over bumpy roads can put excessive strain on the crankcase of the Brazilian bike leading to a cracked engine, at least that’s the only reason I can think of for its demise.
Norman Smith
Dog Days. I had been without a motorcycle for over a year. It was making me a pain in the arse. l was short tempered, arguing with everyone and anyone. I was in a permanent depression. I was also out of work and had descended into a dreadfully dull existence. Most of the time was spent downing pints with my fellow unemployables.
I was still able to find the energy to visit the local dealer. When I saw the new bike he had in, a 1979 Honda CBX1000, it was love at first sight. Not that it was an immaculate example. Its silver paint was tarnished. The engine well mottled with white corrosion. The exhaust, shock springs, forks and various bits of chrome trim were remarkable for their plague of rust,
The dealer knew my situation well. He had little choice, I kept complaining to him of it. He started the motor up and l felt weak at the knees. What a glorious sound its six cylinder DOHC engine made out of the 6 Into 2 exhaust. l was almost in tears when I had to walk away, leaving it there. The dealer told me I could have it as seen for £850. I had a week before he started work on it and the price went up to represent its classic status.
If I sold everything I had I would raise about £45! Fat use. Then I recalled that my mum had been paying into an endowment cum insurance scheme for me for the past 20 years. I cornered her, after a big row she handed over the documents. I probably lost out a lot by cashing it in early, but with £1200 in my hands I didn't give a damn!
The CBX had 45000 miles on the clock. This didn't stop me wringing its neck during the first ride. Nor the machine wrenching off my arms, filling my face with a huge grin and burning off everything in sight. It was really weird, my mates down the pub stopped talking to me when they saw the opulence of my new machine.
The engine appeared pretty solid with no nasty rattles. The bike looked like it had been left standing for a while, slowly corroding away. This was borne out by the handling. The CBX was very twitchy even in a straight line. When I checked the tyres I saw that the sidewalls were cracked, so they must've been pretty ancient. The breaker offered me £1000 for the bike when I went to buy some nearly new tyres.
The Dunlops gave a more secure feel but the twitchiness was still there above 90mph. The shocks were the most obvious source of misbehaviour but replacement with a set of secondhand, slightly longer and much stiffer Girlings didn't have any effect. Whilst the shocks were off I found that there was a slight amount of movement in the swinging arm. It proved impossible to buy a set of bushes. l persuaded my brother-in-law to make up some from phosphor bronze They were a tight fit needing a few whacks from the hammer to insert.
After all that... it was still twitchy above 90mph. I had cleaned up the forks and there didn't seem any leaks from the seals despite the pitted chrome. There wasn't any slack in the front end, either. I got talking to another CBX owner who reckoned that the bikes were, er, twitchy above 90mph.
This was a pity as the engine power was something else. I've never ridden anything quite like it. Even at its relatively high mileage the motor was turbine smooth. There wasn’t a power band as such, just a liquid rush of energy from tickover onwards. The machine would soar up to an indicated 125mph with such absurd ease that I didn’t believe the clock at first. What convinced me was the way all the other traffic was going backwards.
Honda claimed 105hp at 9000 revs; I could well believe it! This excess of power was just as well as the bike could be dumped in fourth or fifth. The gearbox is horrible, and probably was from new, despite the ultra smooth power delivery. Clunky and full of false neutrals it inspired no respect. At least the smoothness of the power delivery meant that chain adjustments of the massive O-ring chain were minimal.
The downside of the massive sixcylinder engine was a weight of 550lbs, although Honda compensated for this to a degree by locating the engine as low as possible in the tubular spine type frame. The engine's as narrow as possible with the alternator mounted under the carbs rather than on the end of the crankshaft.
As long as she’s kept below 90mph, handling is adequate. It tracks around corners pretty well, even in the wet there is a nice feeling of security. There's so much mass that small bumps don't have much effect but the few times the bike has started going out of control it's felt pretty frightening. The back wheel can jump about a hell of a lot under bumpy going and there have been occasions when I felt the front tyre sliding out from under the bike when banked over.
It is a heavy bike to throw about but one that reacts in a predictable manner. It is possible to brake in comers or roll off the throttle. Opening up in bends tends to make it run wide which can brown trousers in a big way, but the power is so controllable that it's not as bad as some modern bikes. I know someone on a GSXR1100 who keeps falling off because the power delivery is so violent that its much more modern chassis can't control the back wheel.
Braking, with twin front discs and a single rear, is another story. The system was totally unpredictable. Sometimes there was a tyre screaming stop with hardly any pressure applied. Other times nothing seemed to happen at all despite standing on the foot pedal and grasping the lever with four white fingers. I did the usual things. Bled the system, applied Copaslip to calipers after they were disassembled and cleaned, and tried various types of pads.
The brakes were even worse in the wet. There was hardly any feel, the first time I knew if the brakes were working was when they started to lock up the wheels. I prayed for a pools win to buy some Goodridge hose and cursed Honda for not fitting a rear drum. The back disc quickly became covered in crud. After the caliper partially seized and the pads were worn down to the metal, the back stopped locking up and gave a kind of gradual retardation. If you could call a series of lurches gradual.
The exhausts were causing me a lot of worry. They were evidently the originals and almost rusted through. At 9000 revs the bike made a lovely wailing noise that turned heads and started dogs barking. I took both sets of 3-1 exhausts off and took the wire brush to them. What was left of the original metal was patched up by a neighbour with some welding gear. I think there is more patching than original metal, now. The whole lot was given a coat of heat resistant paint. It looks a bit tatty, but there's no way I can afford a new system and CBXs are very rare in breakers.
My income was such I would have been hard pushed to run a C90, the CBX was way beyond my means but by ignoring minor things like insurance and tax I have managed to do 14000 miles in the last year. This was not helped by fuel economy of around 30mpg and tyres wearing out in less than 4000 miles a set. I was so determined to keep the CBX on the road against all the odds that I started cutting people's gardens and doing general household repairs. The classic lines of the CBX were somewhat ruined by the large rack. lawn mower and various tools attached with bungee cords. The handling went to pot, too. I was afeared of going beyond 60mph in that state, but there you go - I needed the money.
After the initial euphoria of riding around on such a powerful bike, I started to treat the Honda rather gently. There was no way I could afford a major rebuild. I rarely went above 7500rpm, but this was sufficient to break the speed limits by a long chalk. I never went in for the wild wheelies that some of my new found mates indulged in. I had learnt that the CBX had a fragile clutch so I dared not abuse it.
A friend balanced the carbs for me every 3000 miles. I changed the oil every 1250 miles, but the valvegear sounded very quiet so I never checked any of the 24 valves. although exhaust valves do burn out for some reason. Valve access is good if you remove the one piece cylinder head cover. By the way. the camshaft drive is similar to the CBX750, with a chain from the crank driving the front camshaft and another chain joining the two earns. I never had any trouble from mine.
I persuaded another friend to test out his newly bought spray gear by painting the tank and GRP bits silver. I did the pinstriping myself and after the engine was polished up, it looks almost like new (shame about the exhausts). I've had offers of £1500 and £1750 from people who have just come up to me in town when I've parked up. But I don’t want to sell the bike. it has helped me get my life back together.
Thomas Ailing
There used to be a time when I could go out on a frosty morning, slide behind the wheel of the car, turn on the heater, wind up the volume on the stereo and blast off into the distance to do battle with all the other early morning commuters. Ah, what memories! But then we moved house and my wife started to complain about being stuck at home with a toddler and no transport, so I very reasonably agreed that she could have the car, if only she would stop hitting me. The solution, as I saw it, was simple. I would buy one of those cheap moped things...
Well, you can't have a much more humble start than a Tomos moped, bought from a mail order catalogue; it's a bit like owning a Skoda, you very soon develop a thick skin. The bike duly arrived, covered in cardboard and plastic, complete with an instruction book which seemed to have lost something in translation.
Having read the section which dealt with advanced riding techniques (starting and stopping), I felt ready for my first excursion. The journey down the garden path seemed very rapid, to say the least, and it would have been quite exhilarating if the house hadn’t suddenly leapt out in front of me. I grabbed all the levers I could find and managed to stop just short of the French doors. It was a pity about the flower bed, but I had just learnt something important... it's very tricky shutting off the throttle and using the brake lever at the same time, especially when you've never done it before. This bike was obviously a monster. All that raw, untamed power at my disposal!
The number of really basic errors I made was colossal. Everything from buying my helmet at a car boot sale (a bargain at £2, pity about the hairline crack; still, it didn’t show once I had spray painted it) to riding with the indicators on for five or six miles at a time. l wobbled and weaved about, terrorised other road users, pedestrians and dogs, only slowly coming to terms with life on two wheels.
I had also discovered a few other truths about motorcycling. All those James Dean films, showing casually dressed young men shooting about at speed were simply not true. Riding a bike was freezing! I couldn't venture out without at least two jumpers under my top coat, an extra pair of trousers and about three metres of woolly scarf wound around my face! And this was in August. I wouldn't have minded but it only took me ten minutes to do the journey to work and half an hour at each end to get the clothes on and off. As a teacher I have to look reasonably respectable at work.
That's not easy when the rain has been dribbling down the back of your neck and the wind’s been whistling up your trousers. People were beginning to talk. l could hear the sniggers behind me whenever I walked in, but on turning round there was never anyone there.
Meanwhile, I was gaining confidence: I could potter round roundabouts, leaning aggressively. I would contemptuously burn off milk floats and I once overtook a young girl on a Honda Vision. What a red letter day that was. On the other hand, I had to take a few setbacks. The most demeaning was having pizza delivery lads screaming past on Honda 90s, leaving me in a cloud of dust. I also ran out of petrol once. A seemingly impossible thing to do. The bike was so economical that topping up the tank was a monthly chore, if I remembered to do it at all. Spiders would build their webs across the filler neck.
However, all good things must come to an end and on one particular day my patience snapped. The wind was blowing a gale and seemed to be in my face whichever direction I travelled in. The roads also seemed to have shifted somehow, as they were all uphill. By winding the throttle wide open and adopting the classic racing posture, l was able to make headway with an indicated speed of 19mph. The engine was screaming, nuts and bolts were spraying all over hedgerows, the chain was flapping in the breeze (I never could get the hang of those snail cam adjusters).
By the time we got home I knew. It was time for the Tomos and I to part company, and the very next day l started a tour round all the local bike shops, looking for a good deal. Having had several non conversations with neanderthal shop assistants, my footsteps turned to the local Honda dealer. There I found a salesman who was pleasant, helpful and knowledgeable. Admittedly, he did take only one look at my greying temples before directing me to the C90 Cubs, but I soon put a stop to that. The bitter memory of those pizza bikes would make it impossible for me to contemplate riding such a machine.
Having explained my needs (commuter bike) and difficulties (no licence) the dealer showed me an H100S II. l was impressed, it actually looked like a motorcycle. I was even more impressed when he tried to talk me out of having a more expensive machine by explaining that, for what I wanted, it was a waste of money and that they were having a lot of trouble with them anyway. How could I resist? I even bought a new helmet.
Part of the deal was free training. I would be taught the mysteries of changing gear. The class consisted of two 17 year olds and a female 16 year old moped rider. The instructor came over for a chat and passed the time of day amicably, but kept looking around all the time. After a while, I guessed that he was waiting for my son or daughter to appear, for he started visibly when he realised it was actually me taking the course. There was also a certain amount of sniggering from the others when I had to state my age on the forms.
The quality of the instruction turned out quite good and after stalling only six times I was mobile. Four hours and several mangled cones later, I was clutching my Bronze Award certificate and trying to hold back the tears of emotion. Actually, the tears were probably due to me having a totally numb backside and rigor mortis in the legs after all that time in the cold. However, undaunted, I was ready for the perils of the open road.
I had dreamed about the moment when I would roar away from the training centre, a free independent spirit, born to be wild and all that romantic rubbish. The reality was a little disappointing, as I couldn't actually restart the bike. My kickstart performance kept everyone entertained for quite a while until the instructor wandered over and turned on the fuel tap. Funny really, I didn't remember turning it off. Perhaps it’s a trick they play to remind you how little you really know.
Having mumbled my thanks, I eventually started up and trickled gingerly away. As soon as I got around the first comer I had to stop to wipe the fog from the inside of my visor. All that frantic dancing up and down, trying to start the bike. had made me extremely warm. The inside of my biking gear had taken on the atmosphere of a cross between a Swedish massage parlour and a docker’s armpit - the steam was seeping out around my neck, severely restricting visibility.
Having started off again, I began to feel more comfortable, but soon realised that riding round and round a school playground could only prepare you to a very limited extent. The main problem was the stupid gears... it's all very well for you hardened bikers to sneer, but to a civilised car driver like me the whole thing seemed totally illogical. Press down for first I could cope with, but having to push up or press down for any other gear, depending on which way I was going through the box, was a bit much, especially as l was still Iearning to juggle the clutch (which had been the rear brake on my moped), the throttle and foot brake (which I kept forgetting was there).
And as for only being able to get into neutral between first and second, well... In the playground I had only got as high as third gear twice, and had panicked on both occasions. Now I was getting into fourth and fifth gear, changing down too late when I approached a junction, forgetting which gear I was in, pulling up in third and unable to find neutral again. Result, l stalled at just about every junction on the way home. I remember thinking how much easier it was in the car, as a huge lorry screeched to a halt behind me. Whilst trying to restart again, I turned to the driver and pointed at my L plate by way of explanation. He was very understanding and made a sign back as if to say that he knew two other people who had experienced the some difficulty. At least I think that's what it meant. Well, the bike and I got home in one piece, and after a week and 32 stalls I mastered the gearbox.
I felt that the time was now right for me to start commuting in earnest and display my dazzling riding skills to my colleagues at work. I couldn’t wait to see the look on their faces, as this fine piece of gleaming machinery pulled into the staff car park. My public awaited me. The great day came and I whisked deftly through the school gates as envisaged, banking impressively round the headmaster's Morris Minor. There were no crowds and for a moment I considered riding out again, so that I could come back when there were more people about. But, just at that moment, a group of people appeared at the main entrance, so I swung the bike over towards them and drew up smoothly to a halt. Only one person stopped to pass comment. She looked the bike up and down a few times, sniffed and said, ”Oh, I see you've got rid of the clockwork one then.”
John Lee
After having rebuilt the blown up engine of my VF500 on the driveway with the skilful use of the best quality Chinese spanners I could lay my hands upon, I decided a change in tack was much needed to my miserable existence. No longer did I want to be sticking things with Araldite or using a 4lb hammer every time something went wrong, or even re-cutting the grooves of my rear tyre with a red hot kitchen knife But I needed two things to get out of this sickening lifestyle - a decent income and a non greedy system that would allow a proper human existence.
As neither scenario looked remotely plausible by next weekend, I decided on the reserve option - sell my wrecked VF500 complete with years of misuse and then buy the most modern, fastest bike I could with the pathetic few pounds I had. I was convinced that reliability and running costs were only a minor consideration since nothing could possibly be as unreliable or as expensive to run as the Honda. If this were the case then there would be no more bodging on lonely roads at 2am.
Having only a derisory student grant to survive on and knowing well the infamous engine problems of the Honda CBX550, I decided in my usually hedonistic manner to buy one. And so my life began its steady spiral downwards into the depths of sadness. The irresistibility of testing my mental strength had once again surfaced. Within five minutes of ownership I had tested its top speed along a stretch of busy road and scraped the centrestand around a bend.
For the first few days I felt rather vulnerable without any fairing; it felt distinctly like riding a pushbike, mind you it didn't stop me revving the nuts off the bugger. The previous owner's son cried when I bought the CBX, he would have been a suicide case it he had seen the total abuse savaged on it now. The previous owner had adorned the thing with a top box and fork gaiters, I ripped that crap off and then proceeded to give the CBX its only oil change it has had in my 17500 miles of ownership.
Within 2000 miles of ownership the nearly new rear tyre was below the legal limits, so I ignored it until the canvas reared its ugly head 1000 miles later. With a heavy heart I lashed out and bought a new Metzeler ME77 which lasted less than 2000 miles. Incidentally, I would warn any abuser of Conti rear tyres that they tend to perform a blow-out only 100 miles after the canvas shows, that's 100 miles less than Avons or Metzs, which I regard as a rip off! It was at this point that I realised the bodging ethic would have to come into play since money was running out, the fork seals had gone, the brake pads were now only pads without any brake material and the chain had no more adjustment left in it.
Perhaps before my general neglect had got to grips I should mention my opinion of the bike. The acceleration felt very brisk and the feather light from end would lift its head and would also tend to flutter over rough roads. On one memorable occasion, whilst traversing the straight roads of the fens at 100mph, the bike had what could be described as a fit. It hit a patch of bumpy road. the soft suspension couldn’t cope and began to buck viciously. Meanwhile, the front end had begun its usual trick of tank slapping.
The passing traffic must have thought it was a new NASA derived physical stress tester since my arms were being wrenched from side to side, my backside was being sent a foot into the air whilst my feet were flying around the front forks.
The handling was generally very good, being flickable but at the same time stable in smooth bends, but it was never a match for the VF500. Between 2000 and 5000rpm there was loads of torque, but the Motad meant there was a black hole until 7000 revs when it was all power to 11000rpm. The result was that riding the thing was much like being on a two stroke with a powerband. Overtaking would often require two downchanges and powering out of a bend was often disappointing.
The point is that most CBXs are used by fully dressed old timers as tourers and nearly all have Motads, which seems like a contradiction in terms, but then they probably never go beyond 5000 revs. The bike is an ideal scratcher with its wheelbase being shorter than an RD350, its peaky engine and relatively light weight. The petrol consumption was generally never more than 45mpg, whilst consumables were simpIy consumed but with a vicious appetite.
The front brakes always seemed a bit dodgy, if they weren’t pumped a few times before use it was quite easy to pull the lever back to the bar with minimal effect. I bled the system many times but settled eventually with stuffing two washers between the brake lever and master cylinder. As a point of reference, the front and rear pads are interchangeable. Once I discovered the rear pads never had any material on them they were replaced with the worn out front pads.
Two up, the front wheel found an even greater affinity with the air. Curiously, the bars lost their tendency to shake and handling generally felt more secure. It was at these times the rear suspension needed to be pumped up, although Honda recommend 60psi in the rear I use 75psi two up and 60psi solo, otherwise it would wallow an over the place. The front was best at low psi settings to stop it becoming lively and to stop it blowing front oil seals, which it did with depressing regularity, even though the forks were not pitted. The final solution was to fit two seals with the use of a plastic carrier bag to ensure the fit of the top seal, the flapping bag added a certain flair to the roads of monotone right wing Essex.
The camchain and tensioner have been thankfully quiet on both engines I have had, I think, since on my most recent engine there is such a cacophony going on I wouldn’t be able to tell anyway. One problem I have had a few times is the nice little trick of one of the tappet adjusters coming loose and eventually falling off. This has tended to happen whilst thrashing it, so each time I have been convinced the loud ticking noise was due to me bending a valve. The relief on the first occasion on finding it a mere tappet adjuster that had fallen off and lodged in the head almost led me to giving the bike a wash.
The gearbox was even worse than the typical malevolent Honda effort. A whole new technique of gear-changing was required to ensure the engine didn’t rev into oblivion. If changing from first to second, the foot had to hold the lever in position and then a quick squirt of power applied to ensure it was actually in gear. Worse, the gearbox would sometimes jump out of sixth. As the revs climbed sky high the gear lever thrashed around under my foot as I tried to get it into gear... toe capped boots were useful - you could also, when frustrated, kick the bike or passing dogs.
I don’t know whether it has anything to do with the complete absence of any oil changes or maintenance, but the crankshaft began an ominous knocking sound after 5000 miles (Oooh, let me think now... 2018 Ed.), so I ignored it. A 1000 miles later it was time to buy another engine for £160 from a breaker which was cheap, as two engine mounting points had snapped off. Fitting the engine was much easier than fitting the inlet manifold rubbers which almost produced a suicide victim. There were only three bolts holding the engine in place... there was a lot of clanging and knocking from the clutch area and it’s been suggested that checking the valves or balancing the carbs might help, but in the last 10000 miles I haven't bothered. Naturally, the old oil and air fiIters remained, the air filter appeared to have grown a protective layer of dead flies, leaves and general crud, so being non washable I washed and ruined it.
Within another couple of months the inevitable happened, the bike ended up under a bus. Although the bike had hit a bus at about 40mph and damage looked horrific, £5 for a new brake lever and an aftemoon’s hammering, bending and general use of string had the bike going again. Amazingly, the frame hadn’t bent, unluckily other parts didn't fare as well. The rev counter fell off, the tank could only hold half its original capacity, the light pointed in an odd direction, and so on. The crash bars certainly saved the engine even though one snapped as a result.
By the time the whole instrument pod fell off my enthusiasm had wilted to an historic low, not helped by oil leaks that refused to be cured by silicone gasket liquid. Then the chain snapped, riveted back together with the aid of a nearby rock, it has lasted for 5000 miles, although the front sprocket is missing three teeth and the gearbox doesn't work in sixth. The fuel gauge needle now does the can-can, the headlamp bulb blows at least nine times a year (for seven miles along the M80 I had no front lights), it needs a litre of oil every 400 miles and the vibes make the already useless C90 mirror faintly amusing.
It passed the MOT but the tester gave me a long list of faults I hadn't even thought of! As it nears the time where no amount of insulation tape will hold the thing together I am awaiting the moment the bike breaks down on a bleak night with relish, then, and only then, will I be able to pull off my greatest victory - I'll dump it. Until that time if you hear sad moaning and yelping, stop and think, it could be some thankless bastard instead of next door's cat.
Anon
I bought my Norton 88SS Dommie as a rolling wreck. The engine still ran, just, and most of the chassis was still there, but its overall appearance was of a machine that had been flogged to death. Its owner had been a rocker in the sixties and had thrown the bike to the back of the garage when the wife, kids and canine came along. He had dug it out eventually with the intention of reliving his youth but found that his memories didn't match the Norton’s lack of brakes, the huge increase in traffic and ruined state of modern roads.
It had taken me several visits to convince him that he wasn't going to get the thousands of pounds demanded for a perfectly restored example. Only the fact that I was the only interested party allowed me to take it off his hands for six hundred quid, and I still think I paid too much.
I rode it home, spent a weekend tidying it up and replacing various perished items such as tyres, cables and footrest rubbers. By the time I’d finished the Norton was looking OK, but the engine was running very rough and leaking oil despite the fact that I'd given it a full service and tightened up all the bolts. The 1962 machine had done 39200 miles, so I suppose it had a right to feel tired.
The bike looks little bigger than a Honda Superdream, although its small dimensions are rather at odds with its wide petrol tank, even if earlier bikes with the Wideline version of the Featherbed frame must have been even worse. The 88SS weighs around 400lbs and is easy and predictable to throw around at town speeds, stable and flickable on the A roads.
My initial impression when I tried to do more than 70mph was that the engine had turned into a buzz-saw! The motor is similar in outline to the 850 Commandos and it's easy to see why Norton went to the trouble of using Isolastic mounts on the newer machine. Between 80 and 85mph the engine was at its best, never entirely smooth. I was soon to find that bits would loosen off if not given a weekly dose of spanner work. It powers up from 55 to 80mph rather energetically and then there's another dose of power just past 85mph which catapults the machine up to an indicated ton.
Vibes at such levels were eye blurring, bad enough to make my feet drop off the footpegs which are mounted directly on to the engine - they are, by the way, adjustable in position. After that first run I had another look at the carbs. l must’ve balanced them more accurately that time because the vibration did diminish. Unfortunately, the carbs need attention every 350 miles or so. When I later did a rebore and top end overhaul, the motor became better still. I have ridden a Yam XS650 and l can say that the Norton never came close to the smoothness of the Japanese machine despite its lower capacity.
I have now owned the Norton for three years and averaged 9000 miles a year. The crankshaft and gearbox have not been touched, although a lot of minor work as well as the top and rebuild has been needed. The first time it broke down on the road was a burnt out exhaust valve, probably down to my experimentation with some open megas. The engine went on to one cylinder about 50 miles away from home, with lots of smoke out of the exhaust.
As a single cylinder 250cc motorcycle it’s not much use, just about able to stagger along at 30mph. That lasted for the first 35 miles until the engine just stalled at a junction and refused to start again. I figured it had overheated, went for a drink to cool down myself and returned with a litre of oil to top up the oil tank.
The last 15 miles were done at less than 15mph but we reached my home without the indignity of summoning help. I found I had to replace both pistons as well as one exhaust valve. Parts availability is good if you consort with fellow British bikers. I rarely had to buy new parts.
The second breakdown was due to the electrics. The original 6V system had at some time been uprated to 12V, but the wiring was wound together rather than soldered or properly connected. The main lead for the ignition ended up shorting out on the engine. I was doing 65mph at the time, overtaking a Sierra. The car driver went berserk when I piloted the bike across his front bumper. He swerved around me with his hand on the horn, slamming on his brakes once he got in front of me. We were somewhat distracted from our mutual hostility by the engine suddenly becoming engulfed in flames. He stood by the side of his car with a huge grin whilst I tried to smother the flames with my leather gloves. I think it must have just caught the surface layer of petrol on the carbs (from the need to tickle them to get the beast running) for I soon put out the fire. Luckily, I had a Iength of electrical wire in my tool kit which enabled me to reconnect the ignition system.
A similar incident happened when the oil feed pipe from the tank to the engine came undone. This time I was thumping along the motorway at 80mph. The first I knew of the problem was when the back tyre started skating around. On a bike with a less well endowed chassis I think I would have ended up on the tarmac, as it was I made for the hard shoulder, crashing down through the gears with the SLS front brake hard on. I knew the brake was good for one fade free stop a day! Both my boot and the lower half of the motor were covered in Duckhams' finest. Over four pints of oil had gone AWOL, so I had to dump the bike and hike it three miles each way to the nearest services.
There were other minor irritations but it was really just a matter of getting used to the machine, knowing which parts of it were likely to give trouble and how far and hard I could push it without worrying about engine demise. The latter was pretty straightforward because before you could push the engineering limitations of its components you were blitzed by fierce vibration.
l gradually got the chassis in shape, taking some time and care to get a good, fairly original finish on the cycle parts. It says a lot for the quality of things like petrol tanks, sidepanels and mudguards that they were still original and hardly affected as far as rust was concerned from thirty years of use on British roads. By far the worst was rust damage to the underside of the rear mudguard, but a bit of wire brushing revealed that it had not eaten very deeply into the steel.
You can still buy kits to service the front forks, so I did, and a set of Girlings (oId but still boxed) were fitted out back. Thus renewed, handling was surprisingly good for a sixties machine although, of course, the suspension travel is limited to just a couple of inches at each end. The only good point following on from that is the way it allows the relatively narrow vertical twin engine to be mounted low in the frame. The bike came with extremely wide bars, but it did not need them, for that low centre of gravity and reasonable mass meant it could be flicked through the curves with surprising elan. I had many a dice with middleweight Japs, finding I could either ride around them or come through on their inside, depending on conditions.
One GPz550 owner sticks in the mind, he went berserk when I out rode him through a very long, 90mph bend. He tried everything to get past on the ensuing series of S bends, but it wasn't until we entered a long straight that he was able to clear off into the distance. For some reason he did not wave as he wailed past.
I changed the bars for something narrower as I found the stock bars tended to knock off car mirrors in town. The engine has the grunt for quick take offs, but the aged gearbox requires a restrained action to avoid missed cogs. That's not so bad because it will do 65mph in second, a gear I find ideal for thumping through traffic. The engine does get a bit hot and bothered after fifteen minutes of slow work, whilst not even the otherwise excellent chassis can stop the bike being thrown about by potholes and displaced manhole covers. My back gets something of a thumping, which is the only limit on the pleasure I obtain from riding the Dominator.
So there you go, not trouble free but very enjoyable to ride; a real buzz! Consumable wear is very good compared to the Japs, and it averages slightly better than 60mpg. With 66000 miles done so far I expect it will soon need some major attention to the bottom end and gearbox, but as I expected to do that much sooner I am not complaining.
Peter Humphreys
I have suddenly been plunged into a lifestyle so curious and disruptive that it’s a major miracle that each issue of the UMG actually hits the shelves more or less on schedule, and that I manage to both own and ride motorcycles in several different countries when in reality I should be chained and shackled to this computer terminal if not wholly embroiled in the slightly schizoid world of C90 ownership. None of my current spate of machines can boast more than 500 cubic centimetres nor command much dosh in the secondhand market, although they are generally reliable and trouble free, which is just as well as I have taken the art of total neglect to new and previously uncharted heights - it makes blitzing along at ton plus speeds all the more interesting and takes me back to my XS650 days when I was trying to get into the motorcycle accessory business via a lock-up in suburbia. What the owner of the attached house and his neighbours thought of having the area under a pall of GRP fumes at all hours of the day, or of barely silenced and generally rotted motorcycles turning up at 3am, I never did find out, suddenly seeing sense and doing a disappearing act after about a week of choking on fumes and producing moulds that would have had trouble passing muster in front of a blind, Iimbless, mindless chimp.
Nevertheless, whenever I have a spare moment and am sufficiently sober to hold a pencil in my hand, I plot and scheme various project bikes that are in reality only likely to be turned into harsh metal if one or more of my adversaries manage to catch up with me and tender me immobile for a long period of time by breaking my legs, although I must warn anyone attempting such an act that ever since I can remember I have been trying to perfect the perfect kneecapping kick. Such violent thoughts are, of course, purely defensive in nature, I have not yet become so mentally vacant as to spend all my waking hours working out so as to gain sufficient bulk to join the lager louts.
Judging by the antics of various despatch riders in Shit City the last time I was there, you don't need to be drunk to be abusive, it seemed to come naturally to some riders who were screaming (and I mean screaming) abuse at car drivers and peds who momentarily impeded their progress. The sun was even shining, so god only knows how these knights of the road and wild warriors react in the rain and the cold. I must admit, though, that even in the relatively sane city of Cardiff I scream an internal stream of abuse whenever I come to a junction only to find car after car after car making it impossible to join the traffic flow unless you pile on the revs, abuse the clutch and get up to 30-40mph in an instant after throwing the bike in front of one car and then careering down the centre of the road as if it belongs to you. I could take such antics when I was 16, 17 with a degree of impunity, but these days the repeated dice with death bean to lose its attraction, especially when a majority of car drivers deliberately throw their vehicle into the ever so narrow gap I need to survive... visions of loss of leg or complete disintegration of mind and body are with me once again (which funnlly enough takes me back to my XS650 days...).
Everywhere I go, and I don't just mean within the confines of this great Isle, there seems to be more and more cars. Traffic becomes ever slower and even fewer new motorcycles are sold every year. Absolutely crazy. Perhaps the availability of electric bikes will help ease the congestion, although as the things are only rumoured to hit 15mph maximum they may mess things up even more - it's bad enough swerving around very arrogant bicyclists and stopping myself falling off in hysterical laughter at the sight of these fellow citizens sweating under their vividly coloured crash hats that look like a pudding basin would after an artic's rolled over it. I mean, some of these people are actually over the age of consent and ought to have enough self respect to enjoy the feeling of wind in their hair.
You might convince me in a moment of weakness that the occasional motorcyclist would have avoided death by wearing a crash helmet but I have never come across anyone in the last 35 years who has hurt his head falling off a bicycle. I can understand paranoia but these people must be so out of it, so warped, so completely removed from real life that they make my own machinations material for model citizenship. These days my only means of communication with the outside world is through various fax machines which are changed with the confusing rapidity that only the true paranoid can manage. Only when confined to a wheelchair or hospital bed would I be forced to stay in one place long enough to get things together sufficiently to even get close to the coherence necessary to pull together all the elements to produce a project bike or even, goddamnit, a whole new motorcycle, and even then my own limitations in producing the damn thing are so vast that it would cost me more dosh that I'd need to lounge around in Bangkok for the next decade, or even the rest of my life. But such is the weirdness of modern life that I can actually envisage, in my moments of more succinct clarity, a scenario wherein it was possible that the Fowler Motorcycle Company became more that just a figment of my ever more disjointed imagination - shit, Horatio, if a bunch of ex property developers can get in on the act just think what a real, live ex-engineer could do!
Naturally, it would have to be built somewhere interesting (either Merthyr or Bangkok) and contain the elements that this column has in the past gone on about at great and tedious length (I'll just have to read some back issues to recall what they were) but the longest l have managed to stay in one location in recent memory is three months - even the delights of a certain GPz failed to entertain me to a degree that stopped total mental apathy. I was even reduced to digging up the front garden, such was my state of mental frailty, having managed to ignore the jungle like proportions that various weeds had attained for two years; the next door neighbour would've been friendlier if I'd just been let out of a mental home after gunning down a whole village or declared the rear garden as a rally site for the Great Unwashed.
The neighbour who is still speaking to me tells me that my motorcycle is very quiet; I haven't the faintest idea if he's being sarcastic or not. No sooner had I started to contemplate a gentle exile in Merthyr Tydfil with nothing more taxing than producing an issue of the UMG every three months, and watching the young ladies of the town stroll past the tranquil grounds of a suitable sanatorium, than various communications from the outside world indicated I had foolishly agreed to knock out more issues of the UMG this year, as well as committing myself to starting another publication on another, gulp, continent.
l was so out of it by then that I was not really surprised during the next rational moment to find myself in a flat in Bangkok with a view over the notorious Klong Toey slums that managed a mention in the UK press a while back,when stored, noxious chemicals exploded in sufficient quantity to burn half the area to the ground and put the local abortion clinic out of business (unborn children being killed in the womb by the fumes). It's the kind of place where if you venture out late at night and take a five minute walk in the wrong direction you are as likely to get mugged and robbed by the locally dispossessed as be turned over by the cops. At least the sudden, violent change of scenery shocked the mind into believing it was still able to function; sitting here on my balcony I have a perfect view of life as low it can get, which, I suppose. gives me enough reason to keep going.
Bill Fowler
The bike was a two year old Honda Wing. Yes, you read that right - but this Wing has nothing whatsoever to do with gargantuan tourers and is merely an updated version of the good old SOHC 125cc single, with a claimed 16hp and a reasonably neat line in style. In fact, thanks to low labour costs and high import taxes, Honda Wings are made in Thailand.
Their finish, style and reliability reputation is better than anything you can buy in the UK (they cost £850 new in Thailand). Unfortunately, they don't lose much value and I’d had to pay £550 for my example, even after a round of strenuous bargaining that involved much waving of hands, large grins and walking away three times.
Short term, you can hire one for £3.50 a day but there have been instances of the hirers robbing the bike or fixing the engine so that it blows. As the deposit consists of your passport this proves either very expensive or lots of hassle. Also, such things as insurance are either tare or expensive and largely ignored by a populace who’s favourite saying roughly translates into never mind.
If you have an accident you have to pay for the damage to the hired machine and, incidentally, you’re supposed to leave your vehicle where it falls until the plod arrive to ascertain who was at fault never mind that the bike might explode from petrol leakage or be flattened into one of the many pot-holes by a drunk bus driver.
And the traffic in Bangkok is utter madness. Everyone drives like a Shit City taxi driver with a messed up head who thinks he's behind the wheel of a Volvo tank and has the natural ability of a racing cat driver and the macho-ness of a Mexican rapist. As the heat shoots up through the nineties and most of the traffic is a snarled up mess that'll make a Shit City traffic jam look like child’s play. all the drivers can do is to try to outbid each others madness...
The frail's inability, and my marked reluctance, to emerge from fevered dreams before mid-day meant we made a 6am start by the simple expedient of missing out on sleep altogether by lounging around in a Thai disco until five o’clock. Lounging around included drinking several bottles of Thai whisky and Coke (an instant ulcer combination if ever there was one) and dancing to wild, wild Lao disco music (try to imagine Indian music turned punk, if you dare).
The only good thing that can be said for such late night frolics is the low cost (around four quid). l emerged looking and feeling like a complete wreck (which may or may not be my normal state) whilst the woman still looked utterly stunning; no-one should be able to look like they're fourteen (she’s really 23 I hasten to add in order to forestall some do-gooder reporting me to Ester Rancid) after such a heavy night.
Preparation of the Honda consisted of a quick kick of the tyres and a look inside the petrol tank. Exhausted by such activity and still debilitated from excessive alcohol consumption, I made barely a murmur of discontent when she who must be obeyed (at least when she’s still rendered slightly insane by booze) insisted on taking the controls. One of the advantages of Thai women is that at some time in their youth they've piloted a motorcycle and actually get a kick out of the game. Endless hours can also be expended in studying the scars from when they were overenthusiastic with the throttle.
Unfortunately, she’d learnt on a scooterette and still hadn't quite mastered the clutch. Naturally, when she stalled the bike because of clutch plate drag it was my fault and only with great restraint did I manage to politely point out that she should hold the front brake on at the same time as engaging first gear. In retribution, we screamed up the road in first gear at maximum revs. Whilst my head was ringing from the half rotted exhaust and clatter of bouncing valves, I still managed to have visions of my camshaft seizing in the cylinder head miles from anywhere. Natch, this would also be my fault even if my 1000 mile oil changes were looked on with total incredulity.
We hit second gear as the side road hit a main, six lane thoroughfare. She heeled the bike over, with barely a glance at the already heavy early morning traffic. Were I a Thai man I would have cuffed her around the head for such lack of thought, but were I a Thai man she would have nothing to do with me for just that reason. Never mind, I thought, as I stuck on some deep black shades on the basis of what I could barely see would do me little damage.
There’s nothing like a blast on a motorcycle sans helmet to wake up the senses. The only problem in Bangkok is that the air pollution from the excessive number of cars, trucks, buses, unsilenced two stroke bikes. tuk tuks (a 3 wheel taxi that looks and handles like a souped up Dodgem car) and anything you'd care to imagine with an engine, is so damn bad that the first nasty capitalist to integrate a gas mask with a full face helmet will make a fortune.
I looked up at a coach that we were apparently heading under (a quick jab in her ribcage soon sorted that out) to see a bunch of ancients peering down at me with the audacity of assuming that it was I who was insane. I mentally lobbed a grenade at its back as it sped away, but I guessed that they’d have enough trouble later when the driver had taken too much whisky and started to speed the hulk along to some wild Thai tune of his own - another regular feature of Thai life was the newspaper reports of drivers who'd fled the scene after causing mass carnage.
We hit the side road along the Expressway, which was OK as a lot of the traffic was going into Bangkok. Most of the traffic on our side consisted of huge lorries that looked like Yank cattle trucks painted up, brightly decorated with tassels, often empty going to collect yet another load of rice. The Honda burbled along at 70mph (I’d marked the speedo in mph instead of the stock kph) and I was quietly enjoying myself holding on to the frail.
The scenery varied between the exotic (temples and wooden shacks), the tasteless (modern concrete slabs that'd give Prince Charlie vivid nightmares) and the amusing (concrete slabs with bits of odd Victorian architecture bunged on in a random manner by someone apparently high on Thai sticks).
The girlfriend soon tired of sitting out front with the throttle wound on full, so she hauled the rattling heap over and insisted that I take over, her beauty flawed by slightly bloodshot eyes as she deigned to employ anything as wimpy as shades. The only disadvantage of my new position of power (pity that a mad grin and itchy throttle hand fazes a Thai girl not one jot) was that I had hardly any idea of where I was going. Any attempt at explaining such was met with a blank stare from a girl who'd suddenly run out of energy and alcohol. Oh well. I quite like Chiang Mai instead of Udon which was our destination, some 500 miles to the north east of Bangkok, and once famous as an US air base in the Vietnam war.
These little Hondas are good fun in heavy traffic where you can piss off Chinese landlords and drug dealers in big Mercs and BMWs, but once out of the city they become more than a little tedious, with the kind of flat out vibes that irritate rather than stimulate young ladies. Even aftet developing a long history of thrashing engines with a total lack of mechanical empathy, even I had to back off a notch to just below 70mph.
This had those cattle trucks and the like right up my arse; when they overtook they left about an inch of space and a naturally twitchy chassis did the kind of highway dance that would get mucho applause from a bunch of drugged and drunk Thai men out for the night at a third rate disco.
I eventually positioned the mirrors so that I could study the look of shock on my face rather than the sight of those monsters trying to take out my back wheel. Wearing just a T-shirt meant I was very aware of the similarly clad femme on the back when she went all slack and I felt her slipping off the seat. I pinched her thigh which soon woke her up and got me a stab between the legs for my trouble, resulting in a wild swerve and much swearing in Thai (it’s surprising how quickly you can pick up the language) just so she'd get the point.
We'd left the city outskirts behind and the road had narrowed to a mere two lanes, the scenery was mostly rice fields. the odd smell temple and cluster of teak houses. My mind was full of visions of Thai films where everyone appeared to have at least one revolver and god damn machine guns were often in evidence, most of the land owned by one evil bastard who expanded his empire by slaughtering whole families, the film usually ending with the appearance of the army or police and a massive shoot out with much blood and gore (not to mention poor acting). Given my lack of knowledge of the language.
I'd never been able to work out how close such stories were to reality once out of the relative safety of Bangkok.
All I knew was that stories of hijacking whole coaches full of people, bandits stopping cars on the road and Thai men shooting each other over women were often splashed over the English language press in Bangkok (strange, that the Bangkok Post with a mere circulation of 40000 was much more readable than any of our English press with ten to a hundred times the sales).
I had already decided that, despite the frail's proficiency in Thai boxing which belied her diminutive size, if anyone was foolish enough to try to stop my forward progress, I was going to wind open the throttle and run them down even if they were wearing police uniforms (many hoodlums dressing up as police and even Buddhist priests).
An hour in the saddle meant cramp was setting in and the girlfriend was wriggling around like she’d caught crabs. The Thai equivalent of a transport cafe is much more colourful than the English version. But the toilets are quite something else - a stinking mosquito infested communal hole in the ground.
Food was set out on a series of stalls, which the woman plundered as if there might not be any food ever again. Plates full of obscene looking stuff that stank from a hundred yards were quickly cleared, finishing with what looked like fried cockroaches. I had managed to find a packet of crisps, I didn't really want breakfast, anyway. The women looked at me as if I was insane for not eating any food, but I just smiled hugely at her, beautiful women always did that to me.
Back on the road, few cars, a couple of trucks and some natives trying to hitch a lift. The road surface was rutted in places and the Honda leapt about when we hit pot-holes, but I’d been brought up on small Hondas and wasn’t too fazed by the way they flew about.
I'd done much stranger things on much faster bikes with much weirder handling. As we travelled, what I hoped was, north east, the lush green scenery was beginning ito fade and the sun was burning down on our necks. Wearing a helmet in these kind of conditions would've turned us into violent psychopaths. and anyway, everyone would've have pointed fingers at us and laughed.
We passed through a storm, it was a fierce, wild thing that got speed down to 10mph. In seconds we were soaked and the girlfriend for the first time in the journey was laughing again like a little girl. In minutes it was all over and we were back in the sun, steam hissing off the bike and our clothes. We were soon dry and wishing that there was some kind of shade from the kind of heat that you might experience once in the UK in a hundred years.
Despite its thrashing. the Honda gave no signs of protest. We were on the road for Khoen Khan, a town I knew little about, save that a large number of bar girls claimed to have come from there. My only experience of towns outside Bangkok had been Chiang Mai which I'd flown to a couple of times. As it was nestled up close to the Golden Triangle it had little of the poverty that was rumoured to be rife in the countryside - even the so called tribes people from up in the hills bought their artefacts from the local market rather than bringing them down from the mountains. In short, interesting but a bit of a tourist trap in many ways.
I was hoping to be the only foreigner in Udon. Bangkok had become really frightening, I'd even seen those religious maniacs who walk around in identical suits wearing ties, for christsake, in heat that would give half the British population a coronary.
The road wound on and on, there were enough curves to give a Roman civil engineer apoplexy, and enough spots for ambush to keep me on my toes. By mid-day we'd made good time, nearly 300 miles in six hours, and hit the outskirts of Khoen Khan. Tourists were conspicuous by their absence and we managed to find a restaurant with air conditioning where I was able to eat fried rice with chicken, although I usually left the chicken on the principle that it could be dog, cat or just about anything that moved and could easily be killed.
I'd just cleared my plate, for once eating the poultry under the disapproving gaze of my woman who was consuming food simultaneously from about five different plates at amazing speed, when I saw a creature rush across the floor, careering under the tables into the kitchen. My second bottle of Sigha beer was held inches from my mouth as my brain slowly assimilated that, no, it was not a small dog or large eat, but a huge rat. The waitresses, to a girl, giggled and I wasn’t sure if it was at the appearance of the rodent or the look of shock that was doubtless written across my face.
Naturally, the girlfriend just shrugged her shoulders as if to say never mind. I’d seen plenty of rats in Bangkok streets but they seemed to shun human contact - word had probably got around about the Chinese restaurants - but I had never seen one run across the floor where l was eating. I barely managed to stop myself throwing up and ordered another beer in the hope that the alcohol would kill off any bacteria, a theory I had successfully applied to just about every meal I'd eaten in Bangkok.
The town was mostly two or three storey concrete blocks turned shabby by the intense heat, with the occasional elegant teak house and many less well constructed wooden structures. As in every place where there's more than a few people there were a couple of Buddhist temples (wats if you're Thai), one of which the girlfriend insisted on visiting before we went in search of a hotel. There are many strange customs involving Buddhist priests, but as it’s much more fun for me to watch visitors making silly mistakes I won’t go into details.
The hotel turned out to be as shabby as the rest of the town, but like the rest of the place enlivened by the general gaiety and beauty of the Thais. If there was a motto that would adequately sum up the Thais it'd be any excuse for a party (thus, in Bangkok, the temporary adoption of Christmas and about half a dozen different new years).
The room came with its own bathroom but with Thai style toilet that you have to squat over. I'd already been informed that the girlfriend's home in Udon came with neither running water not toilet, you had to share the fields with rabid dogs, dangerous snakes and half the insect population of the world. As far as l was concerned, I had the choice of permanent constipation or staying in a hotel in Udon — it was an easy choice.
Most of the rest of the afternoon was spent in bed. The evening began at a different restaurant which lacked an air conditioner, but no problem as the temperature fell naturally once the sun went away, progressed to a Thai film which had little violence and consequently was impossible for me to understand (if you don't stand for the national anthem at the beginning of the film expect to get lynched), hovered for a while in a dubious cocktail lounge and ended in a Thai disco. I'd only seen one other foreigner, who told me to have a good day and looked like he was on a visit, as he were loud check trousers two sizes too big and a pink polo neck sweater (an appropriate word if ever there was one!).
The disco had a live band which played fast Thai music that people jerked around to, doing impossible things with their hands and bodies, that I didn't even try to learn, even after a bottle of Thai whisky. Whilst relieving myself in an open plan toilet, I felt something on my neck, half turning saw a grinning youth pressing a hand towel to my neck. I shouted Mai Dee, Mai Dee (no good) several times. unable to inflict physical punishment as I was still in the middle of emptying my bladder. He eventually got the message and went to sulk in a corner. The sexuality of Thai men was often in question, Patpong for instance, suffering from an invasion of transvestites who went as far as various operations to complete their metamorphosis and fool many an innocent punter.
He later came over to our table and spat out some words, but my girlfriend refused to tell me what he said, saying she didn't know the English words. I was thoroughly drunk by now and she eyed me uneasily. We eventually staggered back to the fortuitously nearby hotel. I beat her to the toilet and spewed up the evenings mixture of rice and whisky. A drink of water later I was feeling much better.
Unfortunately. it didn't last until the morning. We only left at mid-day because that was check out time. I could happily have stayed in bed all day. Noon was the worst possible time to start a journey because of the fierceness of the sun - there wasn't a cloud in the sky, but we couldn't hang around because I wanted to get to Udon before darkness fell - 240 miles in six hours - my paranoia would not contemplate riding in the Thai darkness with the Honda's puny light.
Traffic was surprisingly heavy, but I wasn't surprised by some of the antics. Half a mile out of town, two cattle trucks we having a race amid a chorus of horns. Neither could take the other, which mam they were taking up the whole width of the road. I swerved off to the glass verge doing a 40mph skid that had the woman clinging on to me like she was in the throes of passion. About to leap back onto the road, I was truly astonished to see a bus about an inch behind the truck that was on the wrong side of the road - it was full of school kids who appeared to be cheering the driver on.
After that. fear and trepidation set in. Around every blind corner I envisaged potential carnage and expected every erratically driven vehicle to veer in my direction. My hands hovered over clutch and brake levers whilst my feet were tensed over back brake and gear change. I was a near nervous wreck when we stopped at a small village for food and fuel.
There, sat in the shade of a wooden hut, eating a bowl of sticky vice and picking out the succulent bite of a piece of barbecued fish cooked before our eyes, (just to whet your appetite. in Bangkok they eat fish out of the canals which also serve as sewers; the fish is, er, black) I was kneecapped into ecstasy.
Had I not been seated, I would have collapsed onto the floor. The cause of this mental and physical disintegration was a fifteen veer old Thai girl of extreme beauty who looked at me with bright, curious eyes full of knowledge. She was just a slip of a thing, but the strong, high cheeks bones gave her a strength that contrasted sublimely with the frailness of her body. The contrast was all the more stark thanks to the poverty of her surroundings. I couldn't keep my eyes off her even as I noted the grim lines spoiling the face of my companion. She didn't speak to me for a 100 miles, but I didn't mind for I shed the paranoia like an over used coat, I felt seventeen (exactly half my age if you’re that curious) and sped through the countryside noticing nothing and fearing no-one.
We had a lot of time to make up, but the vibes, the hard seat and the twitchy steering seemed of no consequence whatsoever. as I held the throttle open, and rode Thai style - on the horn.
Miles and miles passed in a blur, only stopping to stock up on fuel when the tank went onto reserve 70mph meant just that, we did 70 miles in an hour. Despite attempts by the army to green the land, we passed fields which had succumbed to the heat and lack of rain, where houses were nothing more than fragile shacks and poverty was apparent on every inch of the land. However, that didn't stop the kids grinning and waving as we rushed over the scenery on a roller coaster of a ride; the momentum of the moment seemed to be with us and for all its strangeness I felt right at home in the landscape.
When we stopped for fuel we were met with pleasant smiles that held no deceit and even the frail's spirits began to soar as she neared her home (and four sisters and three brothers) and she was able to revert back to Lao, an even more incomprehensible language than Thai (various districts spoke in various dialects, although everyone could converse in Thai).
Just as darkness came down, almost in an instant, we hit the outskirts of Udon as fighter jets screeched across the sky. The town centre was easy to locate. as it was the only place with a profusion of lights. Udon had few structures above four storeys and was laid out as if the price of land didn't matter (although, in fact, it was increasing quite rapidly). I was directed to a hotel next to the but station and before I'd put the bike on the stand she was off to see her family in one of the salmors, a sort of pushbike front end with two wheels and a canopy dubiously attached out back. I'd once ridden in one in Chiang Mai and had beam so contorted by the lack of space, and bashed by the lack of suspension that I'd only recovered after's an hour message from the frail's surprisingly strong hands.
I booked into the hotel - a large room with conventional toilet for a fiver a night - noted that it was a bit faded. but then it was built to keep the Yanks happy when they weren’t getting beaten up by the Vietnamese. An American was in a rage because the lift door kept shutting on him as he pulled out suitcase after suitcase. When he was finished I saw that all he had to do was to press a red button marked stop to facilitate this. It never ceased to amaze me the amount of junk people carry about with them, I had managed to cut my luggage down to something little bigger than a camera bag and that was for going from England to Bangkok. There followed an amusing evening, early morning piece of madness that had little to do with motorcycling, so I won't bore you with it here. Suffice to say, it involved a mad taxi driver who insisted on visiting dubious places of ill repute and resulted in a fairly wild argument with the frail when I eventually returned to the hotel.
When I emerged from a deep sleep I found I had to get back to Bangkok alone sans motorcycle...
Bill Fowler
