Yamaha SR125

Breakers are weird chaps at the best of times. My local merchant acts like he doesn't need any business and threatens to set his dogs on me when I wander in to pick my way through his wrecks. Looking for a 125 in need of attention I have taken to stopping off in his back lane garage every evening on the way home. The only time he has something decent in stock he demands silly money and when I point out that I can pick up a machine that hasn’t been crashed for less money, he becomes very abusive, questioning the nature of my parentage and threatening to let the hounds off their leads.

After about a month of this I had evidently worn him down, he let me take a Yam SR125 off his hands for 300 notes. The front forks were mangled, the wheel cracked and the switches shattered, but the damage had not gone any deeper. I flicked through the back pages of MCN, phoning up likely contenders until I found an LC125 front end in good shape - SR ones were impossible, breakers telling me no chance or more usually, piss off, sonny. I screamed abuse at them from the safety of the other end of the phone. Of course, the forks didn't fit straight on, even after being bashed with my heavy duty hammer. My father’s friend, a Vincent enthusiast (as opposed to collector) was persuaded to use his engineering skills (he had what amounted to a small engineering works in his garage, apparently necessary to keep the British beast on the road) to effect a reconciliation. The only cost of this was enduring a few evenings worth of reminiscences along the lines of when I was a lad and beer was thruppence a pint... devious use of a Walkman, heavy metal music and the occasional interested nod of my head got me through that one.

The SR was far from my first bike, various vile C90s and MZ 125s having formed my youthful impressions of motorcycling. Relative to these horrors the Yam went exceptionally well, although the chop riding position with my knees up around my earlobes required a new kind of attitude - well, I am 6’4". Top speed was an indicated 75mph and stability felt fine to me, although I suppose the back wheel did weave a little bit.

An epic long weekend in which I did over a 1000 miles with a 16 year old girl on the back convinced me of the machine’s sturdiness and that there were few better ways of achieving a rapid rapport with one's loved one. Mind you, after 400 miles in a day of sitting on the SR my muscles had moved beyond mere cramp and only the ministrations of the woman saved me from screaming agony.

Maintenance was regular but simple, the Vincent owner helped on occasion and proved a dab hand with a fag paper. He rode the bike around the block and pronounced it not that bad for a rice burner (I was never allowed even on the hallowed saddle of the Vinnie). Oil changes were done every 1000 miles, although after about 400 miles the gearchange action started to degenerate but I could not afford to change the lubricant more frequently.

In six months I did 22000 miles, a mixture of fun and commuting, the kind of mileage the Vinnie didn’t do in six years and after which it would require a full rebuild. With 34000 miles on the clock the Yamaha just shrugged it off as if it was nothing. When I bragged to the Vinnie owner about its apparent indestructible nature he went off in a huff muttering something about what the Japanese did to prisoners in the war.

At that time I was seduced by a Honda CBX550 which also ran faultlessly for three months and then wrecked its engine. The SR was pulled out from the back of the garage and started up second kick. I missed the exhilarating performance of the CBX (cue for excessive cc owners to smirk) but soon adjusted myself to the relaxed pace of the SR. The little workhorse purred along for another 17000 miles. It was so reliable that I thought it must surely soon self destruct but it kept on going regardless.

I then decided to do Europe on the machine. Everyone told me I was a fool, that it was too old and had too many miles on the clock, but I did not care. It rolled through France, Italy, Spain and Portugal, gradually losing power until with 62000 miles on the clock it seized up, ten miles outside Lisbon.

The police offered me the choice of a night in the cells (for vagrancy) or handing over what was left of the SR to them. I flew home, depressed and distressed amid a plane load of lager louts who regaled anyone who would listen with tales of breaking up bars and raping recalcitrant women. By the time we hit Gatwick I was proud of the fact that | was 75% lrish rather than white trash English. I celebrated my return to the Kingdom my signing my life away on the hp... for an SR125, naturally.

John Hayes