The 1980 Kawasaki Z1R was reacting strongly to its change in ownership. For the first eleven years the proud possession of some old duffer with the expectation of no more that fifty mild miles a week. Still pristine with 26175 miles, suddenly thrust into the hands of a juvenile delinquent with a warped sense of self preservation. My greedy little mitts, to be precise.
The poor old Kwack didn't known what hit it. Applying TZR techniques to a 90hp, 525lbs four was my way of introduction. I did have the common decency of moving out of sight of the old gent who had sold me the beast. I didn't want to be responsible for any heart attacks. 10000rpm on the clock, I dropped the clutch and almost needed a coronary bypass myself. It's just as well I'm a nutcase!
The front wheel reared until my body was all but horizontal with the ground. I had absolutely no view of forward motion. Backing off the throttle hastily brought the thing back to earth. Just in time for me to view a police car with flashing lights sitting patiently before me. Funny, I could have sworn it wasn't there a few seconds previously. I slammed on all the anchors and slewed to a halt within an inch of their precious metal.
A long lecture followed. I pleaded guilty to everything but swore blind that I had let the throttle run away with me because the power was all new to me... I was let off with a warning and a demand to take my docs to the station. It was then I recalled that I did not have any insurance! Have you seen how much an eighteen year old has to pay to insure a 1000cc motorcycle?
Making hay while the sun still shone, both literally and figuratively, I hastened away from the scene. I was soon on a deserted stretch of dual carriageway. Caning the beast up through the gears I was well pleased with the way the front end went light and my arms were torn out of their sockets. Passing 110mph in fourth, happiness was dissipated by the combination of enough vibes to stimulate an earthquake and a rather large wobble.
“Ride through it, boy,” I heard a small voice say in my head. Up to 120mph then thump her into top without the clutch. It was difficult to discern which lane I was in - there were about six according to my vision. The bike rocked about on its suspension as if it needed all of them. The twin shocks had turned into pogo sticks, whilst the forks twisted all over the place. I think I put 140mph on the clock, but the way everything was moving about could not swear to it.
Losing speed fast, the worst was yet to come. I had always wondered what people were talking about when describing frames as being hinged in the middle. Now I knew! Only after 90mph had been reached did the chassis settle and my vision return to normal. I eventually arrived home with a huge grin on my face. I knew I was going to have some real fun with the Kawasaki.
Next morning it was down some country lanes. The kind of snakey run where the TZR had excelled. The Kawasaki, at first, felt ponderous, then when I started digging big holes out of the ground with the centrestand prong bloody dangerous. The few straight bits were exhilarating, running the Z into the red in second or third then slamming on the anchors.
Sometimes the discs faded a little, causing us to run off the road. Nothing too serious, by way of machine damage, but we left one farmer’s wooden gate in about a hundred pieces and a large, motorcycle sized hole in another’s hedge. I decided there and then the Kawasaki was a tough bugger and unlikely to end up a lump of molten alloy as happened with the Yamaha.
Further attempts at defining the limits of the machine’s usability were tried. I decided that all the poor handling traits were down to low tyre pressures. 40psi each end would sort the beast. I immediately noticed the increased feedback from the tarmac.
Heading on to the motorway, I gave her a blast up the slipway. Merging with the general traffic on one wheel at 110mph proved momentarily mind warping but a bit of emergency braking by a Sierra I cut up soon saw me in the fast lane.
I didn't stay there long. If anything the stability was even worse. I had not thought that possible. By the time the speed was back to a more moderate 90mph, my arms ached from fighting the lurching bars and my eyes felt like they were bulging out of their sockets. Various profanities uttered from my mouth - I could do 90mph on the little Yamaha so what the hell was the point in the big Kawasaki?
Arriving back home I looked the machine over. The shocks were original! I must have the only one in the country that hadn’t been upgraded. The swinging arm moved sideways a few millimetres and the forks were loose in the headstock. I had checked them before for play so it could only have been my frantic riding that had done for them. Unless the old duffer was really a cunning bastard!
Some new bearings, a set of Koni shocks (not new and not really for a Z1R but...) and a bit of tightening of various loose bolts saw the machine all ready for the next great caper.
This involved travelling around the country for charity in the company of mates on equally dubious iron (Z1, GS1000 and XS1100). A complex arrangement of mileage and time penalties meant we had to ride like lunatics for the whole 3000 mile outing - four days of utter madness followed. No-one managed to kill themselves or wreck their bikes. There were several close calls. The one where my back tyre blew (the pressure was back down to stock) at 120mph will always stay with me. We narrowly avoided totalling each other’s pride and joy in a mass pile up. I ran off the road (an all too common phrase you will have noted) at about 70mph, the Kawa ploughing up a Kent field in the process. I kept prodding the ground with my feet to keep the Z upright.
If all that wasn’t enough, the farmer came over to berate us as hooligans but we outnumbered him four to one so just rode off after kicking the Z1R straight. There wasn't any serious damage! None of the bikes could handle well above the ton, even after I'd fixed the Kwack it still ran all over the place and blurred my vision. We sort of encouraged each other into wild speeding. We looked at each other’s crazed antics and said if he can do it so can I.
After that race around the country the Z1R’s appetite for oil improved remarkably. Every time I went for a pint the engine demanded one as well. Greedy bugger. One less hassle, so much was consumed that I never felt the need to do an oil change. Other maintenance? Don’t be damn silly, man, if it runs leave well alone. Fuel for those who care about such things was just better than 30mpg!
I developed a great delight in shredding tyres from a standing start. The other guys on ancient fours used to join in as well. A great sight for the bored shoppers in the town centre. We used to buy worn out tyres from the breakers at a few quid a time. The winner was the one who blew the back tyre first or, better still, set it alight. The XS1100 almost went up in a blaze of glory on one occasion. The only problem with this scenario was that when the cops turned up one or more of us was stranded with a perfect bike but no back tyre!
The police usually let us off, demanding we turned up at the nick with the documents. Which we never did. The bureaucracy is so slow witted that by the time they get around to the summons we’ll be drawing our pensions, or more likely have killed ourselves.
There is something very strange about riding these old fours; you become used to their handling deficiencies, adapting your style to make the most out of them. They often get completely out of hand but even running off the road doesn’t seem to wreck them.
I love my Kawasaki, I think it's a brilliant way of scaring the life out of me and achieving some fast lane kicks. That doesn’t mean I'm blind to its faults now I'm used to the bowel bursting acceleration it's becoming a little slow for me! Next stop a Kawasaki Z1300 six!
Mike