I bought a 1986 Kawasaki GPz750 with the intention of using it as a long distance tourer. 26000 miles of abuse by just two owners and £1800 made, to my mind, a reasonably good buy, especially as the local dealer wanted £2750 for a similar bike. It pays to buy private even if it means running around a lot, wasting time looking at thrashed machines and having to be a bit flexible in choice of bike.
The 750 is basically similar to the GPz900, a machine, in its time, famed as much for its chassis as its four cylinder, water-cooled engine. The 900 was once a leading sports machine but now has been redefined as a sports tourer. So successful was the bigger four that the 750 sold only in small numbers, its combination of 85 horses and 490lbs rather less attractive than the 900’s 115hp and 500lbs.
85hp was quite enough for me, even if the 750 needed a bit of action on the throttle to make it really move and a change down from top gear if some exciting acceleration was needed to take a line of cars at, say, 70mph. The aerodynamics of the bike were good, though, allowing the speedo to play with 145mph, maintaining just about any cruising speed under that, so it was never, once it got its sails up, a slow bike.
It is a complex one, with water-cooling, 16 valves, four carbs and a complex array of black boxes. Kawasaki are not famed for the durability of their ignition systems, so before I did anything else all the electrical stuff was given extra rubber mounting. The battery was found to be lacking in acid, with a bit of white corrosion around the terminals. It was then three years old so I thought I'd play a safe hand by replacing it. Further experience revealed that an eye had to be kept on the level as acid would burn off at the approximate rate of 10mm every 500 miles.
The switches were easy to use but they got a dose of WD40 just to be on the safe side. The front headlamp was well up to 70mph jaunts down country lanes at night but the rear lamp blew twice in the initial 500 miles. This caused by a dodgy earth connection rather than the vibes that came in at 5500 to 6500rpm. A direct wire from lamp to battery solved that one. I bought some bulbs just to be prepared but, typically, never had to use them in real life.
As I intended to use the bike for long distance touring, with as much as 750 miles in a day, I took off on some milder excursions to test the water. The seat didn’t impress after the first 150 miles but the riding position was on a par with one of the older boxer twins (i.e. excellent) and smooth cruising at around the ton on motorways proved a cinch. I sent the seat away to be recovered and upholstered, the returned article providing vastly superior comfort.
The engine wasn't ideal for really long distance work as a bit too much effort was needed on the gearbox, itself not the smoothest and slickest item in the known universe. Better under acceleration than changing down but trying to pull away in top from 40mph with any suddenness on the throttle had the transmission leaping around, making some most disturbing noises. The engine never ran entirely cleanly on the carbs, only when there was a bit of dampness in the atmosphere did it run with any fluidity. On really cold mornings it seemed to be seizing up, only just stopping itself from cutting out; early Kawasaki fours being famous for carb icing but it wasn't that cold and the bike was supposed to have been modified.
The engine certainly gave every indication of running very lean. In Europe, careering around the mountain passes the temperature gauge went deep into the red only reviving when I pulled over and switched off the motor, the electric fan swirling away furiously. In the high passes it would run OK for ten to fifteen minutes until the thin air caused the engine to overheat again.
Through miraculous hairpin bends with sheer drops I had my heart racing as the huge mass of the Kawasaki threatened to let loose on the dubious road surface. Coming back down to normal altitudes, the Kawasaki coughed a couple of times and then ran away with the throttle as the engine ran fine and hard. I almost melted the disc pulling up for the next set of curves, which twisted every which way and by the end of them I was down to 25mph with shoulders that felt like they'd been dislocated. It was only afterwards, when I caught my breath, and my heart beat had returned to normal, that I revelled in the sheer buzz of it.
The big fat Metz’s were worn out in 3500 miles of high speed abuse. This led to some amusement finding a shop that sold replacements where the Frogs spoke enough English to understand my strange needs. Buying from motorcycle shops cost twice the mail order price in the UK but fitting and coffee were thrown in for free. On worn tyres it didn't feel safe above 70mph, a real downer as I relied on fast cruising to break the back of my need for high miles, wanting to visit France, Spain, Portugal and Italy in a few weeks.
The expensive O-ring chain was much more impressive, hardly ever needing any attention and lasting for well over 10000 miles. The pads were OK as well, but mainly because on the high speed bashes I rarely used them, relying more on looking where I was going and backing off the throttle. Save when some lunatic tried to run me off the road with sudden brutality. Then the brakes were harsh enough to lock up the suspension and squeal the wheels. Saved my life about three times.
And one time not even the brakes were enough. It happened on an Italian autostrada when I was roaring along at 90mph and some Wop lunatic shot out in front of me, joining the motorway at 70mph, or so, from the slip road. I caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye, had time to lose maybe half my speed before the side of his car hit my bike. I went flying into a chorus of horns as the cagers behind tried to avoid running me down. I was wearing full leather and some body armour, having suffered bruising and gravel rash in my youth, and as I rolled in between a couple of cars I thanked god for having such foresight. By some minor miracle I came to a rest next to the central barrier, grabbing hold of it as I spewed my guts out.
The bike had wrecked its fairing on both sides, crushed the silencers and lost mirrors, indicators and most of its paint. There seemed to be about twenty cars that had piled into the back of each other, a thousand Wops who were screaming at each other, waving their hands around like Ken Dodd on speed, and a million wailing police cars and ambulances suddenly descending on the chaos. By the time the first plod had reached the scene I'd pulled the GPz750 upright to stop all the water, oil and fuel pouring out.
An act of charity that caused the policeman to go berserk, waving his pistol under my chin and screaming incomprehensible Italian at me. It was only then, as the shock was wearing off, that I realised why he was holding his nose, the violence of my departure from the seat had made me shit myself. About a week later I was let out of the jail, after beating the shit out of a couple of amorous perverts, and allowed to push the Kawasaki out of the pound. Exactly what happened I'm not sure but it seemed like a good idea to get out of town as fast as possible. This involved tearing off great chunks of plastic, using six rolls of insulation tape to hold important bits together and fitting a Fiat 500 headlamp on to the front of the bike (it was the nearest car and it popped out with a few taps of the hammer, he had two after all).
In this state I continued the trek home, having already covered 7000 miles on the GPZ. Speed was restricted to about 60mph as the frame went into frightening wobbles above that, down to slightly bent and twisted forks. After a while I just dumped the bike in third, relying for most of the time on engine braking as the forks tried to jump out of the yokes every time I used the twin discs and the back brake had been cracked in the crash!
This nerve racking journey took about a week as my durability had been shattered by the bruises from the crash and the terrible time in jail. Leaving Italy I gave them a reverse Winston and have no intention of going there ever again. Back home I set to the bike in a frenzy of activity, picking up GPz900 parts cheaply as the bigger bike usually blows its engine before 50000 miles, so there are loads of chassis bits on offer.
Resurrected, I seemed to have lost my nerve, cursing the machine’s heft, sure in my mind that had it been 100lbs lighter I would've had a chance of throwing it out of the way of the speeding car. Taking a job in Central London meant the bike was as suitable to the daily commute as using a Yamaha Townmate to do long distance touring.
After a week the temperature gauge stayed firmly in the red despite the fan making more noise than the engine. I was tempted to ignore it, run the bugger into the ground as an act of retribution, but dripping coolant was making a mess of the garage floor so I put in a new length of hose to replace the torn original.
After a month of commuting hassle I decided the bike would have to go, so I asked at a nearby DR office if anyone was interested and almost caused a fight amongst potential purchasers. I went for the one who carried the ready cash in his underwear. He tested the GPz by doing a hundred yard wheelie, crashing down on the straightened forks and then burning off half a layer of rubber with a 180 degree turn. As it didn't fall apart under him or blow up it was obviously alright and a deal was struck that made the pair of us happy. I later learnt the bike spat him off on a greasy road and he landed up in hospital with multiple fractures. The bike was a write-off that no-one wanted to buy back. A fitting end!
Rick Trench