First thing, the reliability and sheer durability of the FZ750 engine has been nothing short of astonishing. The motor is still original, having clocked up 113000 miles so far. And still ready for much more by the sound of it!
Second thing, a large amount of the enjoyment I would have had with the FZ was spoilt by its triple discs, which, once out of warranty, seized their calipers every few thousand miles. The rear disc was so chronic in its demise that in the end I gave up worrying over it, leaving the seized up mess to solidify into one piece of alloy and steel - it had never been a fine brake even when brand new and in perfect working condition, too powerful and too lacking in feel for that.
Third thing, the 1986 machine is still on its original paint that shines up well - I do a clean up every weekend and that tender loving care has paid off. I see some much newer machines around that look like wrecks. What a waste!
My only real complaint about the motor has been the gearbox. Never a precise changer even when new, it has grown more idiosyncratic as the machine aged. To the extent that if I let anyone have a go on the FZ they come back complaining about missed changes, saying I should rid myself of the old dog. No way!
Luckily, the four cylinder motor, replete with no less than 20 valves, has a wide range of torque, can be stuck in third for most town work and left in top once free of the city. The engine does come on cam, to a degree, but will trundle off from 35mph in top quite happily and faster than most cars can muster. The gearbox is so bad that there is little fun in playing tunes on it, but that is not my style of riding, anyway.
The FZ does not sport the radical riding position of the FZRs but to my mind it’s still not a comfortable machine to ride long distances. The bars need to be both narrower and higher, but pulled back towards the rider more. The tank/seat relationship is OK, as are the pegs, but the seat foam was initially far from compliant but after 100 miles or so went rock hard. The worst of both worlds. When the seat started to fall apart, I took the opportunity to have the base recovered with better quality foam, but still this was not enough to ease the backside pains... the basic shape must be wrong. Unfortunately, the recovered seat shows no signs of falling apart! So, I shall just have to suffer in silence.
It encourages me to use as much of the engine’s 100hp as is viable to get long journeys over as quickly as possible. The upper fairing provides adequate protection for 120mph cruising, the chassis is dead stable and the motor just purrs out the power at that kind of speed, so only the police and traffic conditions limit excessive speeding.
Over the years power does not seem to have dropped off at all. Out of the crate she was good for an indicated 145mph, with a race 4-1 and some carb mods 155mph is possible today. Not that I indulge in such madness very often, after 125mph my mind starts to go numb with the fear of it all. The heady roar of the pipe is music to my ears, though, and the way it reverberates off buildings in town I expect the peds to burst into spontaneous applause for uplifting their very dreary day surprisingly, they have not yet managed more than a few fists raised in salute!
Fuel consumption has deteriorated quite drastically. I suspect the carbs are worn quite badly for they now need balancing every 500 miles where before they could be left for ten times that distance with no ill effects. The FZ used to do 40-45mpg, now only manages 30-35mpg! Even constrained riding offers no improvement. Surprisingly, oil consumption has remained constant - none that I could detect between 2000 mile oil changes. I have only had to shim the valves a few times in all the miles the machine has done brilliant!
Not so brilliant was the handling when the suspension started to wear out at about 25000 miles. Deterioration was gradual but noticeable nevertheless because the machine had such great poise and neutral steering from new. First evidence was a wobble at 95mph, then there were slight weaves in the faster bends. Finally, some pretty evil head shaking when I backed off going through corners. The rear shock was the most obvious culprit, as I could find no wear in the linkages or bearings. A White Power shock was duly fitted.
Great ride, no weaves but still the head shaking. It eventually turned out to be the steering head bearings which were just starting to wear. New ones cleared up the handling. For a while. Next to go, the back wheel bearings; a most frightening experience riding above 30mph. Every other week one or another component wore out.
By the end of the second year I had replaced all the bearings and shafts in the mono-shock, re-sprung the front forks and replaced every last bearing in the chassis. The cycle repeated itself just over 20000 miles later and was to be a recurring, chronic suffering. Still, the FZ was a lovely bike to ride when in good fettle. Heavy at 470lbs, but most of the mass was concentrated low, disappearing once 20mph was achieved. Very low speed cornering would scare the shit of novices because all the weight would try to pull the bike over into the bend. But once a bit of steam was up the Yamaha could be flicked through the bends like a 550 four. Neutral steering allowed both changes of direction and late braking in bends. On worn forks, the front wheel would try to escape traction, especially on damp roads, but backing off the throttle restored equilibrium.
General stability gave every indication that you could hit a brick at 100mph and not be thrown off, although I was never to test that theory. Even at 155mph the bike felt like it was on rails. The only thing to throw the machine was badly worn tyres. Metz's down to 2mm would turn the Yamaha into a twitchy, finicky thoroughbred. Lose another 1mm and you'd be writing your will before swinging a leg over the machine. I never tried bald tyres, I should think you'd be dead meat after the first spot of rain. Unfortunately, the Yamaha needed a new set of tyres every 3-4000 miles!
If running costs were expensive in the extreme, the sheer durability of the engine more than made up for it. Only three months ago I did a 6000 mile run around the Continent with nary a moment’s concern. And I would do it again tomorrow if I had the money and time.
The electrics have proved disappointing. A spate of blowing bulbs was traced to a duff rectifier/regulator. Replacement saw a repeat performance in short order. The cause was the insulation going brittle, cracking off, shorting the positive wiring on to the chassis. The fault was intermittent and only found by stripping nearly everything off the chassis. I am not good at electrics and was down to tearing my hair out by the time I’d finished.
Similarly, the ignition black box started playing up and was caused by the same thing. This time, though, the fault revealed itself by starting a fire behind the side panel, which after the ignition was turned off burnt itself out. The melted panel gave the machine a very weird appearance until I got around to replacing it. Electrical bits were so expensive to replace all I could do was phone around the breakers using my best pleading tone.
It should be noted that the electrics were fine up to 78000 miles, so many owners will not have cause for complaint, but worth bearing in mind if buying a high mileage example. Batteries were reluctant to last for more than two years for no apparent reason, whilst the indicators now flash to their own, probably illegal, tune. The bike still blows bulbs, so a spare set is always carried, needed about twice a year.
I find the FZ750 an exhilarating machine to ride, with what must be the toughest engine in the world. Were Yamaha to sort out the brakes, improve the quality of the suspension and provide a more touring orientated version I would definitely buy another. As it stands, I would probably not buy one if all that was offered was an improved colour scheme, as seems the case at the time of writing. The huge expense of running the Yamaha probably does not justify the experience and hassle of riding one, but having made the initial choice I feel it's worth sticking with.
P.L.M.N.
I had this nagging suspicion that there was something I had forgotten to check when going over a nice 1977 GS750. I could not put my finger on it. I had even gotten down on my knees and put a screwdriver between my ear and the crankcase to check the main bearings... a pretty futile exercise as the roller bearing crankshaft is immensely tough and primary drive is by gear, but once I get started there’s no stopping me...
This was two years ago and the machine had supposedly done 22000 miles with just the one owner. In fact, it was the kind of secondhand buy you dream about. But still I was paranoid about handing over 850 notes which was the price demanded, no offers accepted. The vendor even looked honest, a roly poly chap just entering retirement rather than some callow youth about to buy a car.
I had seen about ten other bikes, all lame ducks at silly prices so there was no way I was going to pass this one up. Come what may. The deal was struck. Ten miles down the road I recalled what I should have checked. The GS series is notorious for wrecking its electrics. I had neglected to have a gander at the battery, rectifier/regulator and alternator to see if they were original and their connections not disturbed.
Sure enough, after about 30 miles the lights started to slowly fade away. 5 miles later they went out altogether and the four cylinder engine started to do a passable impression of a twin. I only had to push her the three miles home.
Turned out the alternator was so burnt out that the previous owner had completely disconnected it to stop all the fuses blowing. Of course, the wrecked alternator had also taken out the rectifier/regulator unit, burnt various bits of wire and had necessitated a 100 amp main fuse.
This was not so much a serious problem as an annoying one. Circuit tester in hand, I was able to sort out the wiring. The alternator was despatched in exchange for a rewound one (took three days to come) and a Superdream rectifier/regulator installed in place of the naff Suzuki item. It took about a week to put together at a cost of £65. I'm happy to say that since then there have been no further electrical problems, although for the first couple of months I was reluctant to go more than a few miles from home in case of a repeat performance.
The GS proved adequate to most of my motorcycling needs but not exceptional in any one area. It would cruise along the motorway at the ton with a subdued hum, but go any faster then vibes would intrude and the chassis weave about a bit. Country lanes it was able to hack after a fashion, enough torque available to leave the motor in third or fourth but needing a lot of muscle to flick from side to side.
Long distances, say 500 miles in a day, were not really encouraged by a combination of seat with flattened foam, silly riding position for high speed work (better for shades and being laid back) and secondary vibes that were insidious enough in nature to deaden hands and feet after about 150 miles. Also a chain that stretched as fast as you could adjust it did not add to the tourer charm.
Handling was generally neutral, favouring safety rather than suicide. Backing off the throttle when in trouble meant the machine tightened its line slightly making me feel like a brilliant rider whenever I hastily backed off the throttle just as I was about to run wide into oncoming traffic. They were probably pretty thankful, too.
On the other hand, the first few times I grabbed a load of the twin front discs in similar circumstances I nearly shat myself. The front wheel reared up towards the vertical like an innocent’s manhood in a Thai brothel, the machine suddenly possessed with a determination to run straight off the road. At such times the GS750’s 500lbs became all too apparent in the violent reaction of the suspension to my survival manoeuvres consisting of a series of lurches and changes of direction. Oh well, we all live and learn. The rear brake is OK to use when banked over.
The mass of the bike is also apparent when trying to haul the GS on to the centre stand. A precarious business involving putting all my weight on the stand’s prong whilst holding on to the back of the seat. Twinges quite often run up my spine from this manoeuvre. Just to add to the fun, under certain circumstances the sidestand lets loose and pivots the bike on to the tarmac... again those 500lbs are all too apparent and yet more twinges run right through my body. Bent indicators and levers are the usual result.
Several accidents have also added to the metal carnage in the last 25 months. The most memorable when the discs decided to pack up just as I needed them as an ambulance cut me up. There is probably not a more appropriate vehicle to crash into... but this one didn’t even bother to stop, just sped off leaving me rolling about on the hard shoulder. Bent bars, dented tank and a crushed exhaust resulted along with a sprained wrist on my part.
The discs are seventies crap, by the way. Prone to caliper seizure, wet weather lag and high speed fade they were the bane of my life, requiring much attention every 5000 miles, although pad life was good, around 13000 miles a set. When one of the discs started to crack up I carefully removed all the essential bits and spent a joyous few minutes beating the whole rotten trash into metal fillings with one of those long handled hammers used for demolishing houses. A set off a 650 Katana were persuaded on and were better on maintenance but pads only lasted about 6000 miles.
The chain was another nasty, quick stretch rubbish because the swinging arm was so long and mounted so far away from the engine sprocket which was itself tiny. Bloody amateur engineers, even the British had worked out the correct relationships in the fifties. Sprockets were also a cause for concern, pattern items that wore at an astonishing rate, a new sprocket and chain set needed every 5-7000 miles depending on how I abused the bike and lubricated the chain.
The fuel consumption was okay at 45 to 50mpg but after just over 35000 miles the petrol tank took to seeping out fuel at the back, neatly filling my crotch. Getting off the bike I looked like I had wet myself and smelt like I was heavily into meths. It was only a matter of time before the machine caught fire and took me out with it. No-one was willing to weld the petrol tank, for some reason, so I ended up buying a brand new one. They wanted almost as much again for the transfers, so I told them where to stick them!
The bike had looked very neat when I bought it but the more miles I did the more the appearance degenerated. Chrome fell off things like exhaust and mudguards. Paint fell off the frame and tank (until I replaced it). The engine was a mottled mess of furry white, dead alloy. By the time I'd done 40000 miles she resembled a perfect heap, the new petrol tank contrasting all the more with the rest of the machine.
The engine still ran fine but lacked the kind of power you’d expect to find in a Japanese four of this capacity. The valves never needed any adjustment and the carbs needed balancing every 3000 miles, this evidenced by a marked increase in the already noticeable secondary vibes. Oil was replenished every 1000 miles, but even after 50 grand hardly any was used between changes, oil leaks conspicuous by their absence. If the motor had never been stripped I would not be in the least bit surprised. As tough a motor as I'd ever come across.
Apart from this longevity I found the machine so bland and mediocre that I couldn’t be bothered to tart up the chassis. With 56060 miles done, I decided it was time to unload her on to someone more respectful of her potential classic status (enough bullshit to make you want to throw up). Even in its poor cosmetic state some sucker came up with 900 sovs which had me laughing all the way to the ownership of a rather nice GSXR750, which has both the kicks and longevity. That's the way of progress.
Stephen Grissman
What happens when the bike you've just handed over £1500 for splutters to a halt half a mile from the place where you purchased it? After wheeling back the disgraced GPX250 to the opulent detached residence I was met at the gate by the vendor accompanied by a pack of howling wolf-like creatures. In the darkened street, neon glow of Manchester he looked like nothing so much as a third rate Dracula. I expected fangs to sprout at any moment. ”Sorry mate, sold as seen,” were his last words as he rushed back to his coffin.
Come to think of it, the GPX has a certain vampire style with its black finish and complex array of angular lines. And it had spluttered to a halt just as we crossed a river! Nothing for it but to phone pater and arrange a lift in the back of his Transit. Back at our far from opulent two up, two down, the lower half of which was used illegally for the various minor businesses we were involved in, as well as a workshop, a lack of compression in the left-hand cylinder was soon diagnosed.
The pistons rings were broken but luckily the bore was not scored. Having to buy a complete new gasket set just for the top end bits did not amuse me. The bike went back together OK, it was just a matter of sorting out the mass of parts surrounding the engine, making it a tedious business to pull apart and put back together. She roared into life third press of the starter and soon settled down to a neat, off-beat tickover.
Now the riding proper could begin. It was a 1988 machine with 13400 miles done already, in good cosmetic shape, although obviously the engine left something to be desired initially. Immediately, the machine was thrown in at the deep end with a mad dash down to London, motorway all the way there and back.
40hp from a 250 twin was impressive, even a watercooled, DOHC, eight valve one. This translated into the ability to cruise in the 80-90mph range, which just about stopped me being run down by the cagers. Top speed was an indicated 105mph, but to get that you had to bounce the valves through all the gears, the GPX showing a strong reluctance to go over 95mph in sixth, a speed it could equal in fifth.
Power delivery was entirely dependent on revs. The machine would run along at lower revs but opening the throttle, even in the lower gears, produced just an increase in intake roar and precious little acceleration. Only when seven, more often eight, grand was on the tacho did the machine come alive, the engine note becoming harsher and the motor smoothing out as the power came in with a surprising punch for a 250. I only weigh nine stone and the Kawasaki 350lbs, so the low all up mass obviously allowed us to make the maximum use of the available power.
At 90mph vibes were almost non-existent, thanks to the gear driven counter-balancer and the pistons leaping up and down out of phase with each other. At lower revs there was a bit of rumbling and drive line lash would intrude if you tried for less than 2000rpm in the taller gears. However, by the time I'd arrived in the Great City, one of the pillion pegs was hanging off, so Kawasaki obviously know how to isolate the rider from the vibes very effectively, but forgot to specify some lock washers for essential components.
Handling had been fine. Weaves were conspicuous by their absence and the rear Uni-track was able to cope with the most demented of road surfaces. With small wheels and light weight, flicking through curves was so easy that at first I tended to put in too much input, messing up the lines as I quickly corrected myself. The resulting series of lurches upset myself more than the chassis. I soon learnt to think the machine through corners, it required so little effort that I often thought the Kawasaki was taking on a metaphysical aspect!
In London traffic the little Kawasaki was ace, just so long as you were willing to play with the gearbox and throttle... after the ride down from Manchester I would have preferred something that could have been stuck in one gear and didn't need constant input, but in that kind of traffic it's either do or die... so, I did.
The ride back up, on the same day, was mostly in the dark. The GPX’s headlamp was adequate for 70mph cruising but I needed to do more than that. I ended up on the edge of the seat, able to track the general road path but not sure what the road surface was like. The first I'd know about some dead sheep in the way would be when I ran over them. I ended up leaving the bike in fifth and belting along at maximum revs, the traffic thinning as I left the south and the time went by. Back home, my backside ached, my vision was blurred and my wrists flopped around uselessly.
Still, I felt quite pleased with the reliability and speed the GPX250 had shown. A good night’s sleep sorted most of my problems. The next morning there was a pile of oil under the motor and the oil level had disappeared way below the minimum mark... the oil filter had been slowing coming undone and was on its last thread by the time we arrived home.
I bunged some oil in and pressed the starter. She came to life first go and sounded OK. That was a relief. The bike was thrown into a daily commute and some high speed weekend riding in the company of mates on much larger machines. I had to work the gearbox like my life depended on it just to keep them in sight, but the bike did seven months and nearly 10000 miles with just regular oil changes. Then problems started emerging again.
In fact, it was the original problem all over again. The left hand piston rings had disintegrated, this time sending bits of steel all through the engine. One valve was bent, the bore was deeply scored, the piston cracked, the crankshaft mangled, gears missing off the primary drive... the whole engine was a write off. I cursed myself for not running the engine in when I had the chance. It's always the same with Japanese engines, they give fantastic reliability until one little thing goes wrong, then that seems to upset the whole engine even when you go to the trouble and expense of repairing it.
There was no way I was even going to think about fixing the knackered engine, so bought a used one out of the breakers for 600 notes. I was assured that it had only done 7000 miles and came out of a 1990 bike. For once they were telling the truth, the new motor was both smoother and faster than the old one. The bike has now done another 11000 miles with no engine problems.
The same could not be said of the chassis. For such a light machine its consumption of tyres is astonishing... I don’t do wheelie or tyre shredding starts, so I can’t explain why it only gives 4000 and 5500 miles from rear and front Metz's. The chain’s slightly better at 7000 miles. It’s the discs that really got to me - pads in 5000 miles but calipers that seize up as soon as a drop of rain hits them.
And the Uni-track linkages had enough play at 19000 miles to cause the handling to all but throw me off every time I banked over more than a few degrees, as well as promoting vicious weaves at speed in a straight line. The shafts were heavily scored and there wasn't a smidgen of grease in sight in the whole of the back end suspension assembly. New bits were extortionate, so father was persuaded to make up some shafts and bushes for me. I contributed the tin of grease that disappeared in the reassembly process. On the good side, the original exhaust has shown no signs of disintegrating and paint finish was still excellent.
Fuel economy was reasonable, 50-60mpg, given the way the machine was mercilessly thrashed everywhere. It was always heavy on oil, a litre every 400 miles - a long hard thrash meant an eye had to be kept on the oil level. As a 250, it was cheap to insure and tax. It never seemed to need any maintenance, valves and carbs not needing any adjustment!
Overall, I like the GPX but could have done without the engine problems, doubtless a result of the way it had been thrashed before I bought the machine. I don‘t like strokers, can’t afford the insurance on anything bigger than a 250, so it looks like we are stuck together for the foreseeable future. There are better bikes but there are also a hell of a lot worse.
Eric McClane
Looping the loop on a nearly new BMW R100GS is not much fun, especially when the machine lands on top of you, pining you to the ground miles away from civilisation and help. I had learnt the hard way that my 1989 GS was not an ideal trail bike. With huge effort I pitched the machine off my chest, the once pristine motorcycle tumbling down a ten foot drop which I had only narrowly avoided pitching us into seconds before.
Jesus, my chest hurt like I'd just been run over by an artic, but I staggered into a sort of standing crouch and skidded down into the ditch. I pulled the BMW into an upright position, pressed the starter and found that lovely, reassuring growl there in an instant. My spirits rose, all I had to do was clamber aboard and slither along the ditch and up a small incline back on to the main track. The gear lever was bent into a magnificent piece of sculpture but with a rude stamp I was able to engage first gear.
Sweat was pouring off me despite the coldness of the day. My whole body ached from the bashing it had received. In a half demented state I made it out of the mountains on to proper tarmac roads and a fifty mile blitz to the nearest hospital. I collapsed outside casualty but there was nothing serious, just shock and some bruised ribs. I managed to ride the bike the twenty miles home.
The next day I viewed my four grands worth of Teutonic engineering. Large dents were evident in the petrol tank and exhaust box, bits of GRP were scraped mightily and even the handlebars were bent. Nothing that serious, it appeared that my body had saved the machine from the worst of the damage.
Thereafter, usage of the Beemer was strictly limited to proper roads. The first problem encountered was the seat height, 34" isn't brilliant when you're only 5'6” - I had some boots made up which increased my height by two inches and ensured I had a fighting chance of staying upright. The second impression was that the bike did not feel very top heavy despite the seat height - the boxer engine layout aids a low centre of gravity which feeds through to the rider in a beautifully assured, neutral stance at lower speeds.
The gearbox wasn’t as bad as I'd expected and BMW's single sided swinging arm appeared not to exhibit the nasty lurching tendencies usually associated with Teutonic wonder meat. You had to do really stupid down changes in corners to get the back end to toss about more than an inch or so. The trail tyres in the wet, though, could catch you out if very careful selections of gear ratios and revs were not maintained. The tyres only lasted about 5000 miles either end and I switched over to pure road tyres which did about twice that mileage.
The tubular trellis dates back to the fifties and works well with the moderate GS speeds, around 115mph top whack but able to cruise at the ton for as long as you can hold on to the trail bars and hide behind the skimpy handlebar fairing. About ten minutes in my case. The mirrors blurred at most revs making it a foolish exercise to speed because just a vague hint of a white car coming up behind caused panic braking.
Effective cruising was thus limited to around 75mph, which was licence enduring if not a whole bundle of fun. Stability was fine with none of the weaves that blight the pure road boxers, although why that should be beats me. Vibes from the gargantuan pistons were present at most revs, but the buzz wasn't as irritating as many a frenzied four cylinder bike, although the omnipresent low speed engine shuffle due to out of line pistons in the horizontally opposed twin was a bit naff until you got used to it. Petrol was pulled through the engine at an horrendous, 35-40mpg rate, which meant you had to start looking for a garage after 150 miles of riding - which was OK as by then the seat was turning hard and my muscles were becoming fed up with the wind induced pounding. An RS fairing would have been the obvious solution to the need to cruise at high speeds but I couldn’t afford one.
Even ridden moderately, the BMW could not better 45mpg, which just shows how badly the design needs a rethink, its most ancient layout unable to efficiently cope with ever stricter emission regulations. BMW have had a new, watercooled, double knocker boxer on the drawing board for a long time and it may soon make an appearance. There are mods to carbs, exhaust and airbox that liberate better economy whilst maintaining, even improving, performance, but I never got around to doing them.
Dumping the engine in fourth or fifth can be a ball, because there is enough torque at low revs to allow the engine to pull away rapidly. A classic example of power delivery from a large twin, although it has been refined by both the Japanese and Italians (TDM850, SS900) into a greater excess of torque, power and economy.
The TDM, for instance, will burn away from the boxer in any kind of contest. Interesting how modern technology has turned full circle, the vertical twin, for all its virtues, faced extinction in larger capacities because of its vibration but nowadays it's the slow, vibratory boxer that is nearer the end of the line.
My one year old example only had 5000 miles on the clock but 2000 miles later the clutch started to slip. Enquiries revealed that the BMW had been clocked, had in fact done 45000 miles in the hands of a DR, been crashed and then reintroduced to the world with a filled, rubbed down and sprayed brightly new dollop of chassis components. The, er, person who sold me the GS had done a runner, leaving a pile of unpaid debts and a house mortgaged to about twice its worth - I know this because I arrived at the same time as the bailiffs!
The mechanic who stripped the engine to get at the clutch handed over a long list of faults which included bores down on compression, a dead timing chain and a generator that was only putting out half the proper power. I got away with six hundred notes worth of work and two weeks off the road.
Back in the saddle, over the next fourteen months, I did around 22000 miles with few major problems and came to really like the GS. One 2500 mile tour cemented our friendship, with every mile I found the sheer versatility and friendliness of the bike outweighed its many defects. I did have to have the exhausts welded in several places, as well as rusting through it had started to crack up! A bloody disgrace on such a young bike. The GS already had gaiters fitted but when I took a peek under them I found that the forks were pitted.
Cursing my ill luck, I tore them off and had them rechromed. While I was at it, I bunged in some HD springs because the front end had gone blancmange soft over the past two thousand miles. The single rear shock, though, was as good as new. I also had to replace the front wheel bearings which had lost their grease and were beginning to pit.
In the past month, the petrol tank split open and bunged about four gallons of fuel over a hot engine. I had to hastily pull over to the hard shoulder, as I was doing 80mph at the time. Whether this was due to the battering my inept trail riding had inflicted, some past indiscretion by the DR or merely age and vibes, | don‘t know. It was bloody frightening and I paid out a large wedge for a brand new tank just to be on the safe side.
Minor problems suddenly started to afflict the bike. Throttle and clutch cables snapped. Tyres and pads all wore out at the same moment. The headlamp went through a spate of blowing bulbs and the battery went flat a few times, although the mechanic could find nothing wrong with the electrics. The 5000 mile service became a bitch when I misthreaded one of the spark plugs...
The engine has also started to rumble ominously and vibes have increased to an eye blurring level. Undoubtedly, this one has led a hard life and looks like it may die an early death. Others have gone around the clock a few times. I have become so pissed off with the secondhand market, yet so enamoured of the GS, that I've decided to trade in my heap for a brand new one before something terminal happens.
Chris David
My brother-in-law paid back a big favour (of my introducing him to my sister) by selling me his pristine ‘88 CBR1000 for a paltry £2500 (or my entire life savings). I immediately got togged up in my ancient leathers and sped for the nearby motorway. 140mph came up with impressive ease, the plot felt as stable as my last bike at half that speed (a GT550) and only when there was 160mph on the clock did a slight weave spoil an otherwise exemplary poise. Well, the bike had only done 3800 miles in the last two years from new so it was only just fully bedded in and hadn’t had much of a chance to ruin its suspension.
The next week various bits of essential camping gear were bungeed on to what little space was available, ready to join a collection of mad mates on a FJ1200, Z1R and VFR750. Much to my amusement the CBR had the legs on them down anything resembling a straight and only the VFR could better it in the corners. I couldn’t actually overtake the Z1R as its owner rode beyond the limits of the chassis, popping about all over the road. The FJ1200 had a tendency to run out of ground clearance and frighten the life out of oncoming traffic by running wide. Whatever, despite my slight acquaintance with the CBR I was able to keep up with ease.
I found the Honda ran smoothly down to 2000rpm in top gear but needed at least 4k up to produce decent acceleration. On such a big bruiser I was surprised at the need to slap down a gear or two when overtaking at, say, 40mph. In top gear runs it could hardly keep up with the VFR let alone the grunt happy FJ and even the Z1R could show it a clean pair of heels up to 80mph when the Honda began to growl, becoming really gut churning with a ton on the speedo.
Our progress up the M1 was mega rapid and nothing came close to overtaking us. As we had left London at 5am we had a clear run for an hour or so and covered over a 100 miles. By 8 o'clock we had descended upon some friends in Leeds who had agreed to provide breakfast and then join us on their brace of hot rod YPVSs. To give them a chance it was the back roads all the way to Glasgow. The CBR wasn’t a bad scratcher, I just dumped her in third or fourth and used the throttle to control the hair raising acceleration. The times she got seriously out of line the hugely powerful disc brakes were effective in pulling me out of trouble. The CBR was certainly a heavy beast to chuck through the tighter curves but a short ride on the Z1R convinced me I had nothing to complain about - just had to change my underpants.
Darkness fell fast after a liquid tea in Glasgow and we didn't make it to Oban, where we had planned to camp. It had been a hell of day, fast, crazy riding that proved the CBR was well on the pace. We ran off the road and used the lights to quickly erect our tents. We had picked up several bottles of finest Scotch whisky and soon settled down for the night.
The next morning we had gone two miles down the road when one of the RD's frames cracked in half. I was third into the mass pile up and escaped with a few bruises. We had to rush off and find an ambulance for the RD owner and pick up various broken Yamaha bits.
Most of the bikes were still rideable. The rest of the day was spent hanging around the local hospital waiting for the verdict he would survive but probably wouldn’t walk without a limp. The journey back home was a sober affair after that. The cracked GRP gradually became worse until the lower fairing started to drag along the ground on the M1. Thank god for bungee cords.
The cost of a new set of fairing panels was prohibitive so the fairing was patched with GRP and resprayed using aerosols. The finish looked good from about 50 yards but up close it was a bit of a mess. I also noticed that the exhaust was merrily rusting away, but decided that could be ignored until it started to leak.
In the first month I managed over 2000 miles and was having the time of my life. It was then I realised a new set of Metz's were in order and the chain had run out of adjustment. I was quoted between £160 and £240! A friendly bank manager advanced me a grand just like that, which took care of the consumables for the next six months. Running out of money nicely coincided with 14500 miles on the clock and the camchain dying a death.
Admittedly, the bike hadn’t been near a dealer for a service and had lost its original sublime edge, but the tensioner was supposed to be automatic. £220 down to the local Honda dealer sorted that and included a full service. With 18000 miles up the bike needed its third set of pads out front and a new set of discs as the originals had worn paper thin. A set were liberated from a breaker for fifty notes, which included a couple of sets of pads in the deal, not bad value as new pads cost nearly £40 for a complete set!
I rode the CBR through the winter but my mileage was halved to just over a grand a month. I had to take it easy over the icy roads because I had found that although generally stable once the hulk lost a wheel it was difficult to get it back. Still, it couldn't have been too bad as I never came off. The same could be said for all the grime that the bike collected. When I scraped it off in the spring huge chunks of paint came away, things like wheels, exhaust and forks were waell corroded... the bike looked twice, triple its age.
That didn’t stop me enjoying myself immensely as the sun came back to warm our gentle isle. The fact that two thirds of my salary was disappearing in fuel, consumable and loan bills appeared a minor matter at the time. All my mates had big bikes by then so I couldn’t let the side down and the best way of celebrating our 25th year seemed to be get as many miles in as possible while we were still able to.
With 29000 miles on the clock the camchain went again and the odd puff of blue smoke had started pouring out of the engine. The cam lobes were knackered as well as the camchain and tensioner - I knew I should have changed the oil and filter more often! The breaker came to the rescue this time and I did the job myself with the aid of a workshop manual and some knowledgeable mates - mind you, it'd have been better to get drunk after the work was finished not as we went along.
I took the opportunity to punch a few holes in the air filter (it came with the bike and was full of black gunge) and shake what was left of the baffles out of the exhaust. The CBR developed a glorious intake roar and splendid full bore exhaust note just ticking over. Okay, it lost 10mph on top speed but there you go, at least the average fuel consumption increased from 42 to 45mpg, down, no doubt, to the leaner engine.
I had one very near high speed motorway accident when a speeding coach went across three lanes of traffic just to stop me hurtling past at 130mph... I scraped my boots along the side of the crash barrier and the Honda went into a nasty tank slapper in the wake of coach’s airstream but we survived to tell the tale. The bike had 41500 miles on the clock by then and was running better than ever, having been treated to a 4-1 and a jet kit 170mph had been put on the clock for an instant before the waltzing bars persuaded me it was a good idea to back off.
The rear shock was still original but on the way out, as were all the bearings in the mono-shock and the front forks had become a bit sloppy - but the Honda still maintained a remarkable stability up to 110mph. Only when the Metz’s were down to 3mm did the chassis become twitchy over white lines and the like.
The Honda is eating up ever increasing amounts of money as my mileage has started increasing, I was soon past the 3000 miles a month mark, most of it pure balls out pleasure riding. I have become a high speed drug addict and with two similarly afflicted mates am speeding around the country ever opportunity I have. I just looked out of the window, spied the sun glinting off the GRP and...
Dean Callaghan
I can’t reveal much that has gone down in Mexico of late. With any luck, you’ll read about it in another rag in much greater depth and I want to get out of the country before I put pen to paper. The Mexican government still thinks it's running a police state here and think nothing about ripping open dubious looking packages addressed to the UK. They wouldn’t bother with a trial over the bagful of insults contained within, they would just take me outside and pump a few bullets in me.
The police don’t piss about over here. And neither do the army. In most civilised societies the militia consists of scum who don’t have the intelligence to do anything other than don ridiculous looking uniforms and start harassing innocent speedsters like myself. In Mexico it's about the only profession, other than drugs, that pays at all well. Part of the perks is the ability to exhort large lumps of cash out of foreigners. The trouble I've had trying to get a bit of decent speed out of the Z1300 doesn’t bear thinking about.
Readers will recall, doubtless, that my last encounter with the American Dream was with a bunch of porcine Angels whom I had to flee with a headful of fear and loathing. They barely gave me time to rest my weary body before descending on my apartment building in a great horde. Pigeons fell off their perches with fright, old dears fainted and the young bucks who normally hang about on street corners looking for easy pickings discretely did a runner.
They parked up in front of the building, this great mass of hairy Mongoloids, revving their Harley engines until a man couldn’t think and the window behind which I was trying to hide threatened to fragment into a trillion pieces baring my soul to the carrion crows who wanted blood for all the damage I had done to their machines and the loss of face implied - I could have raped their mothers, shot their offspring (in the unlikely event they could find anyone human with whom to mate) and burnt their homes to the ground; but that carnage would have been nothing compared to the few scratches inflicted on their beloved beasts. Whilst my brain buckled under their threat, I had a vision of making a massive fortune by selling them plastic vaginas that could be located perfectly in the back end of their petrol tanks.
Thoughts of vast national fame, worldwide copyrights and an excess of franchise deals faded when an even more alarming sight was revealed before my doubtful eyes. Before any action could occur, droves of wailing police vehicles descended on the area. Shotguns and sidearms were unfurled on both sides. I don’t know if the police had come to arrest me for other misdemeanours or if they had come in summons to the hysterical complaints of residents which were doubtless burning down the telephone wires. I didn’t intend to hang around to find out either way.
By the time I'd reached the Z1300, which was secreted in a niche at the back of the car park, helicopters were hovering overhead, sporting the names of various TV crews. Losing my chance of becoming a film star, and abandoning the femme to whatever fate she deserved (she was snoring away soundly at my last glance), I pushed the big Z a couple of hundred yards away from the building. Completely knackered by then, drenched in several bucketfuls of sweat, I clambered aboard and found one dead cycle. Panic was abated when I noted that in my urgency I had knocked the kill switch. That rectified, a few rumbles on the starter and it was time to say goodbye to the USA via the back roads the other side of my apartment building.
I travelled through what little was left of the afternoon and night with a panicked head full of road blocks and the minor fact that my passport now sported a fake visa extension (surprising what you can do with a toy printing kit...) I changed the number plates twice just to be on the safe side and kept to the minor roads. I hoped that the border guards would be too busy keeping the Mexicans out to worry about letting me leave the wondrous United States of America.
It seemed obvious to me that I should ride the Z as far as I could down through South America. I had always fancied lounging around in Rio, especially as I had a money belt full of thousand dollars bills, my reward for toiling away in the aerospace industry. For the kind of money I was carrying, hick South Americans would have killed their mothers.
The big Z had settled down to a constant 80mph drawl through the Texas badlands until she ran out of fuel in the middle of nowhere. | knew there was something I should have checked. After an hour or so in the gruelling heat a grizzled farmer came along in an ancient pickup and sold me a few pints out of his spare can.
Enough to get me down to the next town where I almost came to blows with a local yob, who went into a barely comprehensible spiel about how rotten were Japanese motorcycles. I just laughed in his face, rather hysterically it should be admitted. He reacted in the typical childish American way by trying to take my face off with a right hook. I move my head out of the way, naturally, and a few of his mates grabbed hold of him and waltzed him back into the cafe that was attached to the petrol station. I got out of there whilst I was still able to stand on two feet.
The Z1300 responded to the urgency of my right wrist by doing a tyre churning wheelie the whole length of the main street. I had become a dab hand at aviating the six cylinder mammoth’s front wheel, not that it took much effort with so much liquid power on tap. The police car I almost hit didn’t respond to this reptilian attack, the driver was either comatose on autopilot or hurrying to do something really important like inspect the local brothel or coerce dinner out of some poor sap of a restaurant owner.
Encouraged by this reaction I opened her up a bit more, leaving town with the clock flirting with 130mph and the chassis weaving and wobbling like only some ancient Jap on worn out tyres, suspension and bearings can manage. Paranoia about being pulled over before I hit the border soon took a grip, though, and I backed down to a more reasonable 75mph... I was, though, of the general opinion that the faster you went the less likely were you to be pulled over. I mean, they wouldn’t be able to catch a glance at the number plate if you were really pushing it.
Before hitting the border there was a sudden thunderstorm that drenched me in seconds and kept making the Kawasaki run on three cylinders. Visibility all but disappeared, which combined with the way the power flipped on and off all the time, made for some highly amusing antics. By the time the squall ended my head was completely, utterly done in. I must have left a trail of piss every time the wheels threatened to skid away from under me.
| was in a desperate state physically by the time I reached the border. I could see this in my reflection in the mirror shades the customs officer sported. He was so starch white in the heat haze that I felt he was more an apparition than a threat. I hadn’t shaved for days, my leather jacket was in tatters and my toes poked out of the ancient boots I bought in a garage sale (just about, by the way, typical of the sartorial elegance of UMG editorial standards).
He hardly glanced at my passport, stamping my exit and giving me the kind of look that indicated I better not try to get back into his beloved United States. The Mexicans were much more rigorous and only 100 dollars overcame the fact that the Z's number plate did not match that on the registration document. Something else I managed to forget. I could have bluffed it out and perhaps paid a lot less, but by then I was way gone with visions of myself wandering between custom posts in the no-mans land between the two countries. Later events revealed, at least to my boiled brain, that the bastards had radioed ahead to their mates, telling them to look out for this big sucker on a grime coated Kawasaki. The hassle I had in Mexico makes raising the dead seem ridiculously easy.
Johnny Malone
Oh you little bugger, thought I. Actually, what I said would not be published in a family magazine, or any other sort for that matter. The Bouncing Pig had once again oiled its plugs, causing the machine to lose what little momentum it had managed to achieve.
The Pig was a 1979 Jawa 350 twin which some maniac had gone around the clock on and then insisted I take off his hands. At the time, three years ago, it seemed a whole lot better than running after buses and the like. Little did I know!
I kicked the machine, whacked in my spare plugs and spent the next twenty minutes persuading the reluctant Pig back into life. It sulked when sworn at! Choking on the cloud of poisonous fumes emitted from what was left of the original silencers (I kid thee not), I clambered back on. The suspension was also original. Or sort of. Each time the springs had sagged the previous owner had added some washers. By the time I'd acquired the machine there were so many washers that the only movement left would not have absorbed the bumps on a billiard smooth motorway. As top speed was only 45mph the Jawa never, but never, ventured anywhere near one of those.
I had what amounted to a rigid framed machine that held its line only by mistake. The frame's impersonation of an veteran bike was in line with the two stroke motor’s engineering. Power had long since disappeared, everything was so loose I always wondered how (if not why) it started up and the rattling din emitted was enough to dim the rotted exhaust grunting.
Trying to scream the Jawa through the gears emitted a sound not unlike a squealing pig about to be slaughtered whilst a troupe of monkeys threw nails around in dustbins. The tired old engine absolutely refused to rev beyond a certain point. I doubted if riding the Bouncing Pig down the side of a cliff in first gear would get the engine to turn over at higher revs. The bilious cloud of noxious pollutants was a useful way of dissuading cars from sitting on your tail, but waiting at traffic lights with the wind blowing in the wrong direction often enveloped the rider as well. A few seconds of that was enough to reduce me to a coughing, spluttering ancient. It was always better to turn the engine off and risk having to bump start her when the GP race began.
Oh, and the brakes. SLS shoes at each end that might once have been adequate for a quiet Czech country stroll but were now undermined by oval drums, worn out shoes and nastily gouged linings. In short, they were crap. Engine braking was also minimal. Just as well that power was so poor, given the go in something like a CG125 I would’ve been in serious trouble. Being burnt off by C90s neatly puts this wreck into perspective. Had it not been a freebie I would have consigned the Jawa to the scrap heap long ago but now feel honour bound to keep riding the damnable thing until final extinction (hopefully the machine’s and not mine).
Even when the clutch finally started slipping so badly that no power made it out of the engine, I fitted a spare set of plates rather than scrap her. Her? Sickening isn’t it how these machines get to you. She now has only two reliable gears - second and fourth. The others can be engaged, from time to time, but I am dissuaded from trusting them by the way they slip out of gear leaving me stranded with the bike going nowhere fast and often refusing to engage another gear until you've stamped up and down the box for a few minutes. On anything approaching a fast road, the Jawa and I are always slowing down traffic. Some jerks think that merely by speeding up behind us at twice our speed they can make us disappear!
This lack of speed does not mean that the bike is cheap to run. That would be too much to ask for! Petrol is drunk at 45mpg and it needs a bit of oil mixed in to stop seizure. I don't bother with new tyres, other people’s cast-offs are good enough. I usually get them free and spend many a faithful hour denting the Jawa's rims when fitting them. The same goes for chains, why pay out for new when there's lots of usable secondhand stuff available for next to nothing? Being on the dole most of the time does not give me much choice.
The Pig’s appearance is as terrible as its performance. There's little point in doing up an old heap that at any moment could wreck its engine. The cycle parts are a unique mixture of faded paint, rust and grime, although a lot of the bits are still original. Nothing tends to fall off, either, it’s all corroded into one lump. A friendly dealer hands out an MOT certificate every year, muttering something about getting the brakes fixed. Quite right, too.
I have managed quite a few crashes. About once a month. Usually down to the lack of brakes. Most car drivers are quite understanding. My appearance mirrors the bike's so they often take pity on me. The worst (or best?) crash ended with the bike almost cutting through a Fiat Panda. When she was pulled free everyone was amazed at the lack of damage to the Jawa. The car driver had piss dribbling down his leg from the shock of having his car written off with him sitting in it!
Other crashes were less dramatic. Being thrown into ditches usually hurt me rather than the machine which gave every indication of being indestructible. I had occasion to whack it a few times with a huge spanner in retribution... the bloody spanner exploded into a zillion pieces; the Jawa remained unmarked! | have often come home with a dose of gravel rash, the Czech iron running along as badly as ever.
The electrics are a real disaster story. Everything from points falling off to the battery exploding! The latter was very amusing as I was drenched in battery acid, my clothes dissolving before my eyes and my skin burning with the kind of ferocity that would give a Nazi a hard on. I threw myself in a nearby river, much to the amusement of the locals. The temptation to do the same to the bike was high. I never did clean the battery acid off the chassis, so maybe the frame will dissolve eventually.
Another amusing incident occurred when the battery lead came off. There was a nice conflagration under the seat, I was all for letting the thing explode when some concerned householder rushed out and threw a bucket of cold water over the hulk. I knew it was cold because about half of it went over me. I didn’t know if I should thump him or thank him! Damage was only cosmetic, unfortunately.
The bike can’t be ridden at night because the minimal lights keep exploding. I mean explode, voltage surges are so great they go up in one big bang! One time it happened a policeman loitering on a corner hit the deck thinking he was being shot at. I didn't stay around to explain the idiosyncrasies of communist electrical engineering.
I have rewired most of the bike, but not in one go, just when necessary to maintain a running machine. My colour coding is completely random so when something goes wrong | just tend to tear out all the wires in sight and to replace them with another lot. A whole coil of wire is always carried on the machine for emergencies. | have simplified the circuit by removing horn, indicators and ignition switch (you pull off an HT lead to stop the engine), which helps matters a lot.
Every journey is a great adventure. There is no way of telling what will happen. The worst days are those when I have an accident then break down whilst still screaming abuse at the machine for daring to injure my body. I mean, bloody hell.
On one occasion I broke down three times and had two accidents, the second, admittedly, caused by one of the breakdowns. Quite often, when the machine rolls down the road a vital wire comes loose which causes the later breakdown. I have nightmares about being plunged into a vicious cycle of crashes and breakdowns, each leading to the other until something terminal occurs.
Quite often, though, the Jawa will do 20 to 30 miles in a day with no problems. Arriving home with a sense of achievement after such outings is, I think, what keeps me running the machine. I glory in its toughness, like myself it’s a bit of an old bastard, but a survivor all the same. Surely, the Bouncing Pig is one of the greats!
Richard Engarth
The traffic warden was obviously suffering from hormone deficiency or something. This twenty tonner was trying to pull my neat little Suzuki GSX250 off the pavement into the gutter and on to the omnipresent double yellow lines. She had not noticed that the bike was shackled to the railings, which were buckling out from their stone-work under her ministrations. Before she caused any structural damage I ran over to her, waving my helmet in a threatening manner. The altercation that ensued was loud and very nearly bloody. Under Mongoloid brows her eyes glinted with repressed sexual lust and I had visions of myself being raped in the gutter.
In the end, I unlocked the bike, clambered aboard and shook off her hold on my collar with a death-race, 10000rpm wheelie start. She had probably already jotted down my number but I did not really care because the bike wasn't registered in my name; some poor sucker in W1 had amassed a pile of parking tickets and threatening citations for chronic traffic violations. With all the foresight of a second rate Shaman, I hurtled the little Suzuki through the mid-day madness of London City traffic.
There were a pile of deliveries in the top box and the boss kept squawking down the radio about getting a move on. Getting a move on? Jesus, the only way the GSX would better 70mph was if it was dropped off the side of a cliff and even then the huge screen would probably act as a parachute. It was great, though, for keeping off the shower bursts that were turning the road surface greasy.
I kept thanking God for leading me to an army surplus shop that had huge German army jackboots on offer for £15. Every day I had to dab down a couple of times to avoid the machine skating away from under me. The rest of my wardrobe was similarly ex-army stuff with an outer layer of Millett's cheapest waterproofs. When the sun came out I was drenched in sweat but when it turned cold and wet I was laughing. Unfortunately, this garb didn’t go down well with the general citizenry, who reacted to my appearance as if I was a typhoid victim. Hands clamped down on noses, they hurriedly changed their route to avoid me.
Receptionists would accept parcels only at arm’s length and sign the docket with only the greatest of reluctance. You couldn’t really blame me, the despatch game was paying so poorly in the recession that I had to move into a hostel with one bathroom to fifty people and couldn't afford a change of underpants let alone a proper set of outer garments.
The bike wasn't faring much better, either. Even police officers had given up, shaking their heads in wonder at a loss at where to start on the long list of offences... bald tyres, bent rims, hastily rewelded frame, an engine covered in gunge and oil, open down pipes, disc pads that were down to the metal with huge gouges in the wafer thin discs, dented cycle parts, a sprung bicycle seat that had replaced the dual seat which had turned to dust, a massive rack held on by bungee cords and a set of ancient panniers and top box that hung out precariously in the wind.
The bike sat so low on its ruined suspension that the rear tyre threatened to coexist with what was left of its mudguard. Despite all this, the engine still pushed out enough power for the bike to be tottered around the city at a reasonable pace - one needed to employ a tyrannical attitude to maintaining forward motion and a deaf ear to the sufferings of the motor. The top box contained an adequate supply of tools and bits for most eventualities. I had, on occasion, liberated essential items from parked motorcycles; given the choice between being off the road for a few hours and an innocent bit of thievery off some yuppie's pride and joy it was not a difficult decision to make.
With a set of keys and a tube to siphon off fuel I hadn't, in living memory, had to buy any petrol! I had to be a bit careful, though, the GSX reacted badly to unleaded crap, refusing to run at lower revs and clattering mightily above 50mph. Only half the gearbox worked, whilst the clutch alternatively slipped and dragged. I had seen worse despatch bikes around London, but not that many.
A twelve hour stint on the Japanese bopper was very tiring, all the more so when I had nothing to look forward to on my arrival back at the hostel. Still, as evidenced by the haggard looking Soho hookers and Piccadilly bum boys, there were a lot worse ways of making a living. The worst day was when my sadistic boss insisted I take a delivery up to Luton, an unheard of distance to take the GSX250 without a break.
Up through Willesden we stuttered, eventually making it to the motorway in one piece. It was a sheer fluke that I did not die when a swarm of XRis came racing up the hard shoulder at ton plus speeds. They crossed me up every way possible and then hurtled away into the distance. The Suzuki had almost as many palpitations as myself. During that trip I had three punctures, not that surprising as the tyres were condom thin; I just kept pumping Finilec into them; a fairly low tyre pressure was acceptable as it did more to soak up the spine rattling bumps than the shot suspension would ever manage.
I got completely lost in Luton, roaring the bike through the pedestrian shopping centre much to the alarm of the shoppers. A cop indicated that I should come an orderly halt but then thought better of it as I rode straight through where he had been standing. Running the machine down a flight of steps deposited the rack, top box and panniers in my wake; I hastily lifted the whole assembly back on and did a vanishing act.
By the time I found the address the rest of the day had been wasted and I was supposed to ride back to London in the dark. I had to take the long route as the bicycle lamp I kept in store for such emergencies, the lights having long since burnt themselves out, would not have befitted the 70mph slog back down the motorway.
It took six hours to get back home, every time I went above 20mph I lost track of the road and threatened to run the machine into oncoming vehicles or off the road into some poor wretch’s heavily mortgaged matchbox. The car horns seemed to merge into some wild symphonic devil music by the time I returned home.
The next day it was back into the horrors of despatching. Day after day of toil had caused my hair to fall out and my right eye to develop a nervous twitch, my hearing was going and my voice had gone hoarse with all the shouting into radios and hurling abuse at car drivers who were only too happy to vegetate behind their heaters and radios.
My most erudite moments came only when I had to ask the boss for an advance on the last advance; according to him I'd have to work the next six months just to pay all the interest I owed him. I seemed to spent more time swapping profanities with him than on the bike (it was a lot warmer and drier in the office) but at least the knowledge that I owed him so much money meant I was usually first in line for any jobs that did come in.
What has been missing from this litany of disasters has been accidents... I reckon the Suzuki is so slow that there's no way I can get into serious trouble on it, that it looks so awful that most cagers take a wide berth around us and that, anyway, I've been despatching for so long (six years) that I've developed that all important sixth sense. How much that is worth I don’t know, all I do know is that when the GSX finally expires I will not have the money to replace it, so this could well be my last year.
Many of you may think that that is no bad thing, and you may well be right!
Mike Collins
I've always wanted a Harley. Who hasn’t at some time in their life? When my neighbour decided his finances would benefit from selling his 42000 mile, 1987 example I was first in line with three grands worth of fifty pound notes. This was 1989 and in the past two years I've added a pleasurable 19000 miles to the clock.
The bike was not standard. It featured several extensions to the American dream ticket. Included were free flowing pipes and air filter, uprated disc brakes, a headlamp capable of lighting the road up ahead on the darkest of nights and a comfy dual seat with a backrest to stop the nearest and dearest falling off the back, although there are times when I wished she'd do just that. The amount of nagging I had to endure when I sneaked the Harley into our hallway (the only way I could sleep sound at night, Harleys being prime meat for every known bike thief).
What the neighbour had forgotten to mention was that the antique primary drive chain was shot, at the limit of its adjustment, just waiting to rattle off its equally dead sprockets. I was relieved, really, that that was all the terminal noises were caused by. I had visions of matrimonial hell as I tore the whole motor down in the front room. With that fixed it was all sunshine and splendour.
The venerable V-twin has been around as long as any other motorcycle, and longer than most. Its antique credentials are shown in the way it delivers power. A lovely low rev punch that suggests you can drive off from zero revs in fourth - but don't try it, below 1500rpm there is a deal of harsh transmission graunching that makes like the back wheel is about to fall off.
From 40mph onwards in top it's just a matter of sitting back and rolling on the good old throttle for pit of the stomach, grin inducing momentum. Anything over about 6000 revs, though, produces a torrent of vibes as if the old girl has become hysterical at your most inconsiderate behaviour in pushing her so very hard.
I loaned the machine to a Japanese riding mate who came back white faced and all shook up. The motor seemed to shimmy in the frame... he later, when he had regained proper control of his vocal cords and stopped shaking, admitted he had held the throttle open in second and never backed off until he had crashed his way through the gearbox to top... apparently with 110mph on the clock the chassis develops a heavy death wish that he only survived by closing his eyes and praying. Needless to say, he deserved as much and I thereafter refused to speak to him for abusing my machine.
There is little point going rev crazy, the 883cc don't give enough go to get far past the ton and the bike only feels really right in the 50-70mph range [like a 125, then? 2018 Ed.], which is dead on for American cruising but diabolically slow if you ever need to get anywhere fast on the motorway. There seemed little point tuning the motor as the vibes get in the way.
Straight line stability is fine, it bounces around a bit on bumps but comes nowhere near underpant staining. Cornering is limited by ground clearance, pogo stick rear shocks and a tendency to run wide on the throttle and shake its head off it!
It prefers to be committed to a line in advance and to corner at a steady speed. Chuckability is hard work time but the chassis usually avoids any death rattles. The bike is most at home bopping down the narrower A roads at 65mph, with the gentle beat of the exhaust not quite lost in the wind. The tiny petrol tank limits range to about fifty miles, which can be hazardous out in the country. Fuel consumption was also antique in nature, fortunately, giving 60 to 70mpg on most trips. The engine didn't leak oil but burnt off enough to need a pint added every 175 miles.
The riding position, which put my elbows up around my ears, was strange at first but now makes a kind of sense... these high and wide bars give good manoeuvrability in town, all the more surprising as the beast weighs around 500lbs. The neighbour admitted he had fitted a front disc and caliper off a GSXR, which had enough power to twist the forks. Standard Harley brakes are a sick joke; one of the reasons they make the bike so hefty is that it has to survive writing off cars that get in the way!
Maintenance is not difficult, check the primary chain and give the bike a general going over. There are no camchains, thank god, the tappets have hydraulic adjusters that maintain their own clearances and the there is only a single carb which can be ignored. I changed the oil every 1500 miles and cursed at the drive chain which was dead meat in 4000 to 5000 miles. The clutches can slip as frequently if you use anything other than genuine Harley plates - don't ask me how I know!
Despite selling a few thousand a year, they are still rare enough to have pedestrians gawping in wonder and women begging for a ride. I park the Harley up in the town centre and all the plastic reptiles are completely ignored. The fact that when a Harley enters the High Street the very ground rumbles in horror must help [Hysterical laughter, more like. 2018 Ed.] I have gotten into the part, with ancient Brando leather jacket and a pair of mean shades.
It’s been said before that Harleys impose their will on riders and make them change their riding style. I used to ride around at ton plus speeds, feeding on the wail of an across the frame four, but now everything is much more sedate, laid back. I think I am a better person for it.
I was even able to take the few times the Harley broke down with equanimity. The first time, at 51000 miles, the electronic ignition unit packed in. The second, the damn primary chain snapped in half and rattled around for a few moments. The third, and latest (though probably not last) was when one of the cam lobes went soft and the pushrods ended up tangled to death.
Yep, a few problems, but the engine is still basically sound, still on its original bores and pistons and the gearbox has not been touched - its agricultural action has not become any worse, it really needs a complete redesign to get it, Japanese, knife through butter smooth but look how long BMWs have got away with poor gearboxes.
There are always minor problems to keep one involved, bulbs blowing, cables snapping, bolts undoing, etc. On a Japanese bike such problems would have been met with a few hefty hammer blows, I just couldn’t be bothered to fix or maintain it, the machine seemed so remote to me. The Harley is more like a dear friend than a dead piece of machinery, and like most friendships there are bits of the personality you abhor but put up with for the greater whole.
Because of the nature of the beast, they are usually not hard ridden and with a good finish they do hold their value well. Rusty exhausts or wheels are the first signs of neglect, and any owner who doesn’t polish his pride and joy at least once a day has to be viewed with suspicion. I often get up early to give my machine a going over even though I've usually cleaned and polished it before i go to sleep. You should hear the whining tone the wife uses to complain about that!
I could still sell mine for around three grand, although I'd rather chuck the wife, sell the house and go out on the road than do that. I'd stick with the 883cc one, any extra grunt the bigger Sportsters possess comes with increased vibration - if you want more speed you can always put in some hot cams in addition to loud exhausts and dumping the huge airfilter (at a cosmetic price, though). There is a huge array of accessories, some good, some pretty silly. Expect any well looked after bike to sport better lights, brakes, exhaust and dual seat (what kind of idiot would buy a Harley with a single seat?).
It's also a lot cheaper to go to the States on holiday and buy one over there, but remember the British government will cop 36% in taxes when you bring it back and are renown for ignoring the nice low value shown on the invoice you are clutching desperately in your hands.
I think you have to buy a Harley when you are ready for one. Many are disappointed when the performance doesn’t live up to the image, but I find the machine a great antidote to the frenzied pace of modern Japanese machinery - but then I'm nearer forty than thirty.
Jack Evans
