London to Dover would have been a piece of cake were it not for the April showers. Thunder and lightning accompanied our early evening run from the capital. The old XS650, two up with more gear than you could shake a stick at, would only do about 60mph on the slippery road surface. Which was OK, it was about as fast as the headlamp and chaotic traffic could take. The night ferry gave us a chance to dry out our soaked clothing and down a few gallons of beer.
I had never been abroad before and was a bit worried over riding on the wrong side of the road. I figured a thoroughly paralytic state was the only way to make an entrance into France. The XS refused to start, something that happened about once a week. Usually, I had to walk away from it for a few hours then she'd come to life first kick. As the ferry company would probably object to such tardiness, there was nothing for it but to push start her. This had the effect of sobering us up pretty damn quick. After falling over in a heap twice, we finally got things together and persuaded the old girl to growl into life.
The XS, despite going around the clock and being over 15 years old, was in pretty good shape. I had done a thorough renovation of the bike - the cycle parts needing more attention than the engine, which was still running a stock bottom end, needing just a rebore, new camchain and set of exhaust valves. I did not abuse the machine too much, limiting myself to a maximum of 90mph (thereafter fierce primary vibes tried to wreck the machine) and not thrashing the balls off the venerable engine in the lower gears. Having owned the bike for five years and about 60000 miles I had great faith in its reliability.
Calais was a bit of a blur that early in the morning. Not too many cars about, I was riding slowly and carefully, concentrating on staying on the proper side of the road. Luckily, the rain had abated before out arrival, the roads still slightly damp but the sun trying to dissipate the worst of the rain clouds. My pillion was an experienced continental tourer in his own right and when his hangover had dissipated would take a turn at the controls. We planned on two hours riding, two hours pillion, hoping to cover vast distances in a day.
Our destination was open to chance, but we planned heading south until we found somewhere cheap, warm and interesting to hole up for a couple of weeks. We were both despatch riders and only had to go back to the capital when our money ran out. We decided to follow the coast, first stop Le Harve. Not a very pretty bit of France, to be sure, and infested with heavy traffic by the time we reached Dieppe, where we stopped for coffee and croissants. I had not been impressed by some of the antics of Frog drivers who appeared to take a British number plate as an open invitation to commit murder.
I had to brake harshly (non-standard double discs off an XJ900 out front) several times to avoid putting the front wheel into the side of some French cage that had viciously cut me up after overtaking with about an inch’s clearance. I had spent more time looking paranoidly in the mirrors than observing what was going on out front. Not that it did that much good, as at most revs the mirrors shook up and down from the vertical twin vibes.
From Dieppe to Le Havre my mate took the controls, as he's bigger than me all I saw was the occasional side view of the English Channel. The King & Queen seat I'd fitted to the Yamaha was brilliant in its comfort, even after a full day in the saddle we were to find ourselves perfectly able to stand upright. My mate reckoned it was essential to visit Rouen, but from the half hour we spent wandering around I couldn’t see why!
Blitzing through Caen as fast as humanely possible, I almost lost the bike when a Citroen appeared as if from nowhere moving at the speed of light. Frog cagers drive everywhere with their foot on the floor and damn the consequences. The XS is normally quite a stable beast at moderate speeds, but I had the forks down on the stops, twisting the bars viciously to the right to avoid becoming dead meat. I had time to manage a blast on the air horns, which judging by the way the car's front wheels suddenly twitched was the first he knew of our presence.
I had both feet down to stop the slithering, twitching beast from falling flat on its side. The XS weighs around 500lbs, which it normally hides well, but when it decides to go it does so fast and furiously. I managed to viciously wrench my leg whilst stopping the bike from falling over. Bending the leg in the normal seated position proved excruciatingly painful. I ended up on the pillion, leg pointed as straight as possible, as we grumbled through the industrial smog of Caen looking for a hotel.
We ended up in a rat infested doss house that even the more dubious parts of London would have problems matching. No shower or toilet that we could find but only 20 francs for the night. After about an hour of resting up my leg I found I could hobble about, so we located a cafe selling cheap wine and drank several litres. Staggering back to the hotel, I fell down three times, but once there we slept the sleep of the dead.
The next morning I thought I was going to die. Through the hangover haze I could see that my body was covered in lumps. My scalp felt itchy, like it was infested with a million ants. My companion was in a similar state. We rode over to the nearest hospital which looked more like a prison both inside and out. The lumps were mosquito bites and the itching lice. We had to burn most of our clothes and have our heads shaved. At least that's what the grinning maniac of a doctor recommended. Two thousand francs poorer and bearing a passing resemblance to Buddhist monks we were able to continue our journey, thoroughly pissed off.
We had to abandon our newish full face helmets in favour of some open face relics that were procured from a nearby moped shop. These did not come with visors, so after riding the Yamaha for five minutes our eyes were turned red with the eyeballs sticking out on storks. By the time we did the 120 miles to Rennes we looked nearer fifty than our true age of twenty! This was not helped by a sudden thunderstorm that was augmented by hailstones. By the time we found a decent hotel, we were shivering like we'd done Everest barefoot and crept into our beds naked, not having any spare clothes left to change into.
The next morning was bright and sunny. New clothes helped raise our spirits. The good old XS growled into life first kick. In a rush of enthusiasm we decided to do the 400 miles to Bordeaux that day. I took the first stint at the controls, a nice fast run down to Nantes, on a reasonable A-type road that suited the XS perfectly. I strung her out to 90mph on quite a few occasions when I felt the need to put some cager in his proper place. Out of town, driving standards improved dramatically, although the cagers still preferred to use the horn rather than the brakes!
The next stage, from Nantes to La Rochelle, took nearly four hours because we decided to use minor tracks that took us in and out, to and from, the coast. Our first view of the Bay of Biscay was encouraging, the wind off the sea being almost warm. A break was called for in La Rochelle. What we thought was a cheap restaurant turned out to be the most expensive in town with a waiter who misinterpreted our every order. We ended up munching through a huge five course meal, drowning our dismay with a few litres of extravagantly priced wine. Total cost, 2500 francs, which went on my mate’s American Express card (flash bugger). We hurried out without leaving a tip.
I took the controls again for the mad dash to Bordeaux, about 100 miles away. By the time we hit Saintes my foul mood had dissipated to the point where I decided it would be a good idea to back off from 90mph a bit. The last thing we wanted to do was add to our financial woes by being dumped upon for a huge fine by French porkers. A few miles out of that blessed town the steering started to go to pot. Anything over 70mph produced a handlebar that twitched viciously. 25 miles from Bordeaux we were down to 50mph and by the time we entered the city no more than 30mph could be sustained.
It wasn't a great problem, the taper roller steering head bearings that I'd fitted had worked progressively looser. A bit of spanner wielding sorted the problem, but I was so obsessed with reaching our destination that I did not want to stop en route. Another cheap hotel was found, but this time we took the precaution of pumping the room full of a couple of cans of insecticide before going out for a night on the town.
The next morning we tossed a coin to decide whether to go on south to Spain, or east towards Italy. The latter won. Further coin tossing revealed that we should spend the night in Marseille. This was another day's hard ride away, so we got stuck into some high speed work, getting to Toulouse without incident in about three hours. Traffic was light as we had left at 5.30am!
Breakfast in Toulouse was OK as we were accosted by a couple of teenage femmes from Paris. Unfortunately, four on the XS would be problematical, but they gave us the address of a squat in Genova if we made it that far. The XS decided it had had enough for the day, refusing to start, even when some locals were press-ganged into helping us push the beast. New spark plugs were tried to no avail. A set of car coils had the engine grumbling to itself again, but they were too big to locate properly. We bodged them on in front of the engine as best we could.
I was pillion all the way to Narbonne on the Mediterranean coast and felt a bit seasick from the way my so-called mate was throwing the massive XS about. We had a bit of time to make up, for sure, but I didn‘t like the way the vibes were making my feet jump off the pillion pegs every so often. In Narbonne we had a lot of trouble from the police. True, my mate looked a dead ringer for a skinhead, what with the shaven head and jeans that were three inches too short for his extremely long legs. I just looked like a pill popping desperado, having decided to compensate for the bare head by not shaving and my poor old eyeballs out on stalks from the excess of drink and XS produced wind.
We were taken along to the local cop shop by gun totting gendarme, stripped naked and intimately searched. Whilst that was going down, the XS and our luggage were pulled apart. When they were finally satisfied that we were not drug dealers or terrorists, they threw us, what was left of our luggage and the XS out into the street. It was already dark, so we had to reassemble everything under the neon glow of the street lamps before heading out of town before they thought of something else.
No way we could reach Marseille in the paranoid, wrecked state we were in. We rolled into Sete, awash with rabid property developers wreaking destruction and havoc on the coast (if anyone should have been arrested it was they) and found yet another cheap hotel. We didn’t have the energy to find some insect spray this time and my mate had to fight off the attentions, of the ancient landlady who had lustily eyed him up the moment we entered the premises. He never did tell me what happened, I dropped off into a deep, untroubled sleep the moment my head hit the pillow.
I was relieved, the next morning, to find a lack of itchiness and no new mosquito bites. It was only a hundred miles to Marseille, a piece of cake if ever there was one, we thought. The gods had other ideas. No sooner had we mounted the venerable twin than a gale brewed up from the south. We should have bedded down for the night there and then, but at first it was just a strong wind that was more invigorating than frightening. It wasn’t until we had passed Montpellier that wave after wave of rain arrived.
The ride became most interesting. The XS, on Roadrunners, was never entirely safe in the wet, often losing a wheel when the tyre slipped. Added to that, the exposed coils meant the engine kept cutting out. And the wind from the sea was so strong that we had to pivot the bike into it at an absurd angle. I don't think we got the speedo above 30mph in the whole five hour journey to Marseille.
Most of the time visibility was so poor 10mph was the limit. This didn’t stop car drivers hurtling past, regardless, at what seemed like 100mph. By the time we hit Arles I was exhausted and mentally vacant from the effort of holding the XS on to something resembling a line. We were both drenched through, but the thought of not reaching our destination this time was too much to bear. Onward, with my mate at the helm, we would have to go.
Just outside this town there was a big accident. A Citroen crunched flat where a lorry had skidded off the road. The police had blocked off the route and stopped all traffic movement. We had skidded and slithered through a line of stalled cars to watch as some poor driver was cut free of the car and hurried into the back of an ambulance... he didn't seem to have any legs left!
My mate had no intention of staying there all day and rode through the assembly of police cars out to the other side. One porker raised his fist and shouted something, but as he rushed over to cut us off he skidded on what looked like blood, ending up on his back. Cheered us up no end, that did!
Perhaps predictably, the storm did not start to abate until we actually reached the outskirts of Marseille. We were both grey faced and shivering by then. Lady Luck finally smiled on us as we saw an apartment complex with a for rent sign within minutes. It was a bit seedy and run down, but nothing that a few tins of insect spray couldn’t sort out. Minimum period of rent was for a month, 1000 francs for a studio flat. We were in such a bad way we would have signed our lives away for a night's decent kip. My mate reckoned Marseille was an ideal place to explore the rest of the area and the way we had been going through money a thousand francs was next to nothing. If we didn’t like it after a few days we could cut our losses and move on. We slept for most of the next day, getting up in time to explore the town’s nightlife.
Funny, I thought, as we wandered downstairs, I was sure I'd dumped the Yamaha next to the entrance. Panic rapidly invaded my mind as I realised that the bloody thing was nowhere to be seen. My mate suggested that perhaps the manager had stashed it away for safe keeping but we were only met by blank stares and moronic nods.
Yes, some bloody bastard had nicked my pride and joy, apparently within minutes of our leaving it. I couldn’t remember whether or not I had locked it up, we were in such an exhausted state that it's likely I clean forgot. When we explained our predicament the manager just gave a Gallic shrug, suggesting that it was such a common occurrence that we should not have been in the least bit surprised.
Especially in Marseille, which is one of Europe’s biggest den of thieves. The bike was not insured for theft, I would only have got a couple of hundred quid back if it had been. After our previous contact with the police I never wanted to speak to a Frog porker again, let alone voluntarily enter a police station. We had no choice but to cut our losses and head back by bus or train.
We had deliberately set out to make the tour a bit of an adventure. We consulted no guide books, knew nothing about the towns where we stayed and had no planned itinerary. When we got really desperate to decide where to go we merely tossed a coin, and let fate take a hand. In theory that was just fine, the way travel should be, open minded and without strict plans. But our innocence meant we were easy prey for poor hotels, greedy doctors, mad policemen and outright thieves. Most of time we did not enjoy ourselves. Next time (yes, there will be a next time) we will take a guide to hotels, read a few books on France to find places of interest and plan our itinerary a bit more carefully. No more coin tossing for us!
Gary
1992 is the celebration of my 25th year on motorcycles. Not many a year has gone by when I haven't had at least one machine in the garage. I estimate I must have done well over half a million miles on various motorcycles. Some have been good, others terrible and many merely adequate. But despite the vagaries of the machinery, the underlying motorcycling experience has been satisfying, exciting and invigorating. It would have to be to sustain me through the bad times!
It ail started in 1967. I was a late comer to motorcycles, being 19 at the time and forced on to two wheels when a job change meant a daily 15 mile commute. It was summer time, there were no helmet laws and an old Tiger Cub for a tenner seemed perfect for the job. In the ensuing year with the Triumph I fell off six times, rebuilt the engine three times and had countless on the road breakdowns. Apart from that, I had a great time, even commuting through the winter didn’t seem to faze me!
Another job even further away, with a lot more money coming in, meant a nice new Honda CD175 was the order of the day. A marvellous bike after the Triumph, totally reliable for the next 42000 miles and two years. Our relationship ended when I was knocked off by a vicar in a Morris Minor. The old gent broke my leg and all but flattened the Honda. I soon found out on whose side was God, they reckoned it was my fault that the vicar had not seen me and that I was lucky to get off without being prosecuted.
I lost my job, being off work for so long, and.it wasn’t until early 1970 that I was able to find work again, albeit at a much reduced wage. I was persuaded by the local dealer that a low mileage Suzuki T250 was just what was needed to perk up my spirits. My first two stroke. I had passed my test on the Honda so could have bought a bigger bike, but wanted to test my bravery aboard something smaller. The accident had left me dubious about the merits of motorcycling.
I was forced to ride everywhere at maximum revs with a fighter jet trail of smoke left behind me. Riding slowly produced ominous rattles and fouled spark plugs. The handling was poor, with much more wallowing than on the old CD but the brakes were better and the speed mind warping at the time. I soon forgot about the accident and was convinced I would never give up motorcycling, come what may.
Come 1972 I was ready to move up into the big league. A huge jump to a lovely new Honda CB750. I was tempted by the Suzuki 500 twin but the impracticalities of stroker life played heavily upon my mind. The Honda was something else. Frighteningly heavy and large, the four cylinder engine was deceptively smooth and powerful. It made 80mph seem like 60mph, until you wanted to go around corners when it would pitch and wallow all over the place. The Jap tyres were lethal in the wet, as was the inadequate single front disc. I spent a lot of money on tyres, suspension and brakes sorting the Honda over the next couple of years. The gearbox had quickly lost its precision and the valves needed 500 mile adjustments of their tappets, whilst the clutch made strange noises, but apart from that I did over 45000 miles in less than two years. The bike was very expensive to run, going through tyres, chains and petrol like there was no tomorrow - I was single, earning good money and with few other outgoings, so it did not worry me.
I was seduced by the new Kawasaki 900. A new 1974 Z900 was purchased, getting a good trade in price for the near immaculate Honda (the whole exhaust system had been replaced 11 months into the warranty). Big had to be better, I told myself. Performance was mind bending but handling was totally naff. After the first couple of 110mph speed wobbles I had to restrain my riding to sub 100mph speeds. Perhaps because of this the engine lasted for 75000 miles in three years with no major problems. Even suspension mods and better tyres failed to cure the wobbles.
A year before the Z900 was sold I was shot-gunned into marriage. With a kid on the way in 1977 the big Kawasaki had to go to a new home and a machine more appropriate to my financially stretched state found. This turned out to be a 1976 Honda CB360G5. I had assumed that it would follow in the path of previous Hondas as regards reliability, but after adding 6500 miles to the mere 12300 already on the clock the camshaft bearings went. A pity as it was a pleasant bike to commute on, having adequate speed and light handling. I was in no state to buy a replacement so another engine was bought from a breaker. This lasted for 25000 miles and the beginning of the new decade. By then the whole machine was decomposing beneath me and was only fit for scrap.
I was forced to sign the HP for a nearly new Honda CG125. I was all set for a slightly older 550 Honda four but the wife put her foot down, with another kid on the way the last thing I was supposed to do was enjoy myself riding motorcycles. The CG lasted for three years and nearly 39000 miles, which was pretty good going as the purgatory of riding such a device was only made bearable by buzzing it flat out everywhere. It was brilliant for slipping through narrow gaps in traffic but little else.
1984 was a year of much sorrow for myself. I was booted out of the house, divorced and crippled with huge maintenance payments. I was forced further down the spiral, on to an ancient Honda C50 which had seen better days. Still, it managed over 10000 miles of commuting in ten months before expiring in a heap of smoke and puddle of oil. I left the poor thing where it had fallen over in the gutter.
1984 was also the year Kawasaki’s GPz900 made it into the dealers. I was viewing one wistfully when the salesman came over and all but dragged me on to the test machine. My 36 year old brain was damaged beyond all repair by the quick blast up the road. The next thing I knew I had written out a cheque for the deposit and signed the HP form for the balance. I could collect the machine in a week when the cheque had cleared!
I had a clear choice. Stop paying the maintenance cheques for the ex-wife or continue a life of near destitution... That GPz changed my whole life. Not even an avalanche of nasty letters from the ex-wife's lawyer could dent my new found enthusiasm for life. Back then, the courts could not force employers to deduct maintenance payments from your wage check, so when a new job came up on the other side of the country, I quietly moved out.
I kept the Kawasaki for four years and 92000 miles. There were a lot of problems with the oil supply to the camshafts and the tensioner went twice, but these were done under warranty (even after it had expired) so were more an inconvenience than problem. The GPz was light years ahead of anything else I'd owned in both handling and performance. It introduced me to continental touring and was the only thing in my life in those otherwise bleak years.
The end of the GPz came in an accident on the motorway. I was lucky not to die in that one as the car cut me up at over the ton. The bike was a total write off and I broke an arm and a couple of ribs. Full leathers had saved me from anything more fatal.
Come 1989 I felt something a little smaller was called for, a new Honda CBR600 fitting my needs perfectly. Handling was better again, although the need to rev the engine so hard was probably not quite so befitting to my mature age. Did a splendid 37000 miles in two years before the dreaded cager got me again. This time in town at about 40mph. I whacked my knee-cap on the tarmac and the expensive GRP was cracked and broken to the extent that the insurance company decided the CBR was a write off.
It shook me up a lot. I ended up buying a GS500E and moving a lot closer to work, the bike used more for pleasure than commuting. It’s a nice, pleasant machine but without the edge of my last two bikes - they encouraged me to charge everywhere at speeds that were not very conducive to a long and happy life. Trouble is, after seven months on the Suzuki, my eye has been caught by the latest Honda 900, and I'm having great trouble resisting taking the money out of the bank to buy one just to celebrate 25 years of survival on two wheels.
Graham
When the oil cooler fell off I thought it was time to start looking for another bike. It happened in town and I saw the fountain of oil spurting out. The fierce secondary vibes, that always attacked the chassis under fast riding, had slowly loosened the bolts until the cooler was hanging on by its hoses. When one of those let loose a couple of litres of oil was pumped over the front wheel and engine.
I quickly switched off the motor, pondering the wisdom of owning a 1984 bike that had almost gone around the clock and was fast falling apart under me. This story really starts three years prior to this act of treachery when I bought the bike for £1275 with 52000 miles on the clock. Already, the engine had been rebuilt twice and sounded like it would be due for another dose of expensive work soon.
I was forced to buy the F2 because there was little else available that could pass for powerful in that price range. It still churned out most of its 95hp, still could put 130mph on the clock and still managed a massive dose of top gear pulling power between 75 and 105mph. In a straight line it was, and still is, a highly impressive piece of machinery.
By the time it was full of oil and petrol, weight was approaching 560lbs. Its wide, DOHC across the frame four layout meant that a lot of that mass was carried very high. The top heavy feel never faded away. It went from merely inconvenient in town to downright dangerous at speed. The CB900 really liked to run wide out of corners under acceleration, holding its suicidal line until I yanked with all my muscle on the bars to change direction.
This weight also had its effect on the suspension. The fork seals never lasted very long, these flexible friends used to get so terribly crossed up under cornering abuse that I was never that surprised when damping went AWOL. They then matched the pogo-stick back end in effect.
The frame, a suitably massive tubular steel affair, was just about up to coping with the power, most of the madness was down to the poor suspension and weight. Mind you, rear swinging arm bearing life was less than 7000 miles a throw however much grease was chucked in at fitting time. Running an F2 on shot swinging arm bearings is not recommended - you might just as well undo the wheel spindles and wait to see which wheel falls out first.
That reminds me of a curious period when the Honda was left parked out in the street in Hackney. Several attempts at sabotage were made by some unspeakable cretins. They filled the petrol tank with sugar but only after wrecking the cap. I suspected foul play and drained off the fuel before it could do any harm. Tyres were slashed in such a way that they did not deflate but would have blown further down the road. The fluid was drained from the front brake and the hoses put back on.
I found that one out the hard way and took out the back of a Ford Escort, whose driver went berserk and started attacking me with a tyre iron. Only the arrival of the plod allowed my survival. I became so paranoid that I started parking the bike in the hallway - it needed the help of my two flatmates to haul the brute up the steps into the house. Our landlady was not too amused by this but as the old hag was being humped a couple of times a week by one of the flatmates she had to restrain her anger.
A night spent in the warm hallway didn’t help cold starting. It was always a recalcitrant starter and an inconsistent one. It was impossible to tell the position of the choke and it churned over on the battery for several minutes, huffing and grumbling to itself. It often needed an early morning push much to the annoyance of my friends as it was impossible to move let alone bump with just one person. As well as the mass the discs stuck on.
61000 miles into its life it refused to start despite our best muscular efforts. Its demise caused by a combination of worn out components that included pistons, bores,camshafts, valves, camchain, tensioner and clutch. I managed to replace most of these with used bits of reputable quality — there are a lot of CB900s in breakers!
The most common cause of falling off has to be wet weather riding. There are any number of factors that can cause an accident - rotten disc brakes, hitting the power in the lower gears, sudden misfiring due to ingress of water into the ignition system and running on worn out tyres. In my opinion, anyone who runs an F2 on tyres with less than 2mm of tread must have a death wish. Also, the bike needs an expensive pair of Phantoms (£130 a set every 6000 miles) to damp out the nastiness apparent with other makes of rubber.
In the early days, before I had become used to its ways, I had some really violent wet weather slides that had the back end twitching about a yard either side of the machine. Its top heavy nature made it difficult to pull back once started on any particular course. I often ended up just sitting atop the machine hoping it would sort itself out. I now ride the Honda in an entirely different manner - you have to show the beast who is boss and dominate forward progress by sheer muscle power. I have forearms like Popeye!
Even in dry weather I have been thrown off a few times, after entering bends too rapidly and finding that the twin discs suddenly decided to fade. Rapidly knocking down the box at such times would often produce a crunchy change, although at others it could be pretty smooth, for a Honda anyway. Playing around with the settings on the air forks and twin shocks does not seem to make much difference. There is basically just too much weight and too high a centre of gravity. Honda’s latest 900 four which weighs just over 400lbs puts the whole thing into perspective.
The second engine rebuild was rather more serious as the crankshaft bearings were shot, as well as all the usual top end complaints (this at 83,400 miles). The gearbox was given new selectors as a treat, although the cogs looked as good as new. An exchange crankshaft put the bike back on to the road. This rebuilt engine was a lot thirstier on oil and fuel than the old one. Down from 500 to 300 miles per litre for oil and consumption going from 45 to 38mpg. It was possible to do as much as 50mpg if ridden sedately but now it has never done more than 43mpg.
Performance was pretty much the same, so I was still quite happy to ride the bike. The three quarter fairing provides enough protection for 100mph cruising which I could do all day were it not for the foot numbing vibes and stomach churning weaves. 80mph is a much more pleasant cruising speed but hardly justifies the power, weight or running costs of the machine.
Apart from tyres, both the chain and front pads are consumed at a rapid rate (7000 and 4000 miles respectively) with a set of pads for the front getting rid of forty notes. I wouldn’t have minded so much if the brakes had been more reliable. I justify the horrendous running costs by occasional flat out excursions that are both very exhilarating and dangerous.
Now, with 97600 miles done, the engine is running off tune and after the oil cooler episode making some pretty horrible noises. In its present state it's not worth very much. I forgot to mention that after 65000 miles everything went into a quick rot mode and even where I tried to touch it up the corrosion has got such a hold that such attention is pointless. It needs to be stripped right down to the frame, blasted and sprayed professionally. Given the way the engine keeps wearing out in less than 20000 miles it hardly seems worth the effort. Ill probably run it until the engine seizes or I crash it terminally then sell off what bits are left over. I want one of the new Honda 900 fours like I've wanted nothing else but there’s no way I can raise the dosh. So, I'm in the market for a nice used four. And, yes, I would buy another F2!
F. Johnson
The guy dragged this ‘82 XJ650 out from the back of his garage. I could see he was struggling with its 430lbs mass and I could guess why. Gummed up calipers and flat tyres did not help. There wasn't much rust, the engine cases had been blasted, polished and covered in clear lacquer; even the 4-1 exhaust was more chrome than corrosion. Shaft drive meant no seized chain worries. The battery was dead, no way it could be started. We pumped the tyres up with a foot pump and took the calipers off... enabling us to push the hulk the three miles to my home. I handed over the stack of used tenners. £280 may not be much to some but it was my life's savings. Hard work indeed pushing the XJ all that way, stopped twice by cops looking for an easy booking but we had the logbook to hand. By the time we reached my house the tyres were flat again.
Next day, a neighbour’s car was wired up to the XJ with jump leads. A lot of backfiring, after five minutes she finally burst into life. Oh, that exhaust was loud! You couldn’t approach the bike without helmet and earplugs! There was some camchain rattle but the gentle rustle of the valvegear was reassuring. I pumped an old can of Finelec into the tyres. The owner had been vague about why the machine had been stored for the past three years. I found out why during the first ride.
Into first gear, lovely growl, brief burst of acceleration. Felt right brilliant. Up into second with a gentle tap of the boot. Nothing. Tried again with more force. Same result. The bloody box was locked into first. Fine if you wanted to do 40mph at 10000 revs all day. With enough noise to unhinge a saint. Buzzed back to my garage, trying to look innocent of all the noise reverberating off our back lane walls. The old crone next door poked her head out, screaming that she wasn’t going to put up with that kind of din. She‘d have the police on to me.
Once the engine cooled it was possible to engage neutral but not work your way up the box. I have owned many bikes and never had to touch their gearboxes so I knew shit all about how they worked. I had nothing better to do, so I yanked the engine out of the frame, pulled off the cases and split the crankcases... took about three days to achieve this, at times, seemingly impossible feat. Corroded in screws and bolts were mostly to blame for this lengthy exercise in tedium. One small allen bolt had come adrift, I bunged in a bit of studding I had to hand with Araldite ensuring a permanent repair.
Araldite was also employed to repair stripped threads and as a gasket seal on the more dubious surfaces where my screwdriver had removed large chunks of alloy. Seemed to work okay, no large oil leaks in the rebuilt engine and most of the gears worked most of the time. The bike would occasionally slip out of third and fourth, blasting the revs way into the red but it didn’t seem to damage the valves.
First proper ride showed up the handling as decrepit. The tyres wouldn’t hold more than 25psi and needed pumping up every day. The suspension sagged on what looked like the original components. The shaft drive was so worn that terrible lurches rattled through the machine. The back wheel hopping about unless you were very precise in matching revs to gears. Acceleration was fantastic in the lower gears but after the ton the urge forward slackened off.
Only plunging down the steepest of hills would allow more than 120mph on the clock. The brakes were mush, totally lacking in feel and liable to take the day off or lock up suddenly without any warning. The well worn Metz's screamed in protest when that happened, throwing the bike into a massive skid until the brakes reluctantly released their grip. This despite much work with emery cloth on the caliper pistons! There was about a millimetre of pad material left all round, which would have to last for at least a year.
I tried whenever possible to avoid hitting the brakes. Which often meant rolling through red lights and not stopping at junctions. I figured the huge exhaust roar was sufficient warning of my coming to save the day. I ended up with just a single front disc working, using the spare pads from the others to keep it going.
Shoving back the throttle helped slow things down, as the four cylinder motor had loads of engine braking. The series of clanking noises and lurches from the shaft should have dissuaded me from such activity but I just turned the Walkman up and pretended they were all like that. Long rides were always interesting. Rather fierce secondary vibes often resulted in bits falling off, the most spectacular being the silencer. The fearsome din became absolutely incredible after that... I had to ride 22 miles home on an open pipe as the silencer had been flattened by a following cager.
When I fitted a can off a GPZ600 the engine sounded very subdued and made riding all the more interesting with a 4000 to 6750rpm flat spot. Things improved a bit after I degutted the 'silencer. Mileage in the first year was just over 7000. Nothing too serious went wrong and I spent naff all on consumables. Only oil and petrol depleted my wallet, even then she did a credible 55 to 65mpg unless mercilessly caned on long motorway trips at 110mph plus. Rare, as the wobbles tended to concentrate the mind on its body’s imminent demise. I couldn’t be bothered cleaning the beast much, appearance degenerated to match its owner’s... I'm not called Rat for nothing.
With something like 67000 miles on the clock the camchain started rattling and huge clouds of smoke escaped the exhaust. I had yet to tear off the cylinder head and barrel and was not too surprised to have to supplement my toolkit with a tyre iron and big hammer. The only way to prise the cylinder off. Rings were smashed, valves bent, tensioner reduced to scrap, among other things, all down to blocked oilways. I spent a week cursing, repaired what bits I could and started doing dawn raids on local breakers.
Anything that looked like it might fit was acquired and bunged in regardless of which model XJ it was supposedly meant for. The cost of new gaskets was impossibly high so a couple of tubes of Araldite were nicked from the local DIY Superstore, my pony sized dog dropping a load creating the necessary diversion. The mutt was famous for the trick in the lowly circles in which I was forced to move. The recreated motor was forced back into the frame, connected up and fired into life. After about an hour, that is.
Performance was not exactly brilliant, put she would still push the ton under favourable conditions and cruise along at 80mph for as long as I felt I could take the vibration. Usually about ten minutes. The seat fell apart under me and then the front guard fell off. I think the rolling wreck was trying to tell me something. I ignored such protestations and did another 2800 miles before deciding that it would be a good idea to sell the XJ before it was too late and I'd only be able to get scrap value.
I cleaned her up as best I could. Put her in MCN for £500 as a good runner, which was still true if you stretched the truth like it was a bungee cord. I was deluged with desperate punters demanding that I reserve the machine until their arrival on my doorstep. I was having none of that nonsense and off-loaded it on the first caller who bunged me a nice pile of fifty notes. He didn’t bother to haggle, informing me that he’d make the money back within the week by taking the poor old XJ despatching in Central London. A rather unfair fate for such an old plodder, I thought, but there you go.
I worked out I'd had nearly 10000 miles for next to nothing. I was impressed with the basic design but not too enamoured with the plastic screws and cheap alloy. Still, for that kind of money you can’'t expect too much. I bought a 400 SuperDream for £200 and spent the rest of the dosh taking the machine over to France for a holiday. The 400 wrecked itself when the engine seized. I walked away in disgust and hitch-hiked home.
L. N. B.
My head was reeling from the list of modifications made. The logbook said it was a 1981 Ducati 500 Pantah. The owner insisted it had a 600 engine, pointing to a large box that contained the remnants of a wrecked 500 mill. The forks and shocks were off something else, apparently much stiffer than the puny stockers. He didn't seem sure if the wheels were original or not. The plastic certainly wasn't, racing thin replica stuff in dull maroon. The seat was just a bit of bare foam that had been roughly cut and glued in place. The electrics had been ‘upgraded’ with Jap stuff that looked like it came straight from a CD175, but despite that the lights didn’t work.
The bike howled into life, bellowing at tickover courtesy of straight through silencers that had more than a passing resemblance to drainpipes. The owner enthusiastically twisted the throttle, I watched amazed as the tacho needle flicked deep into the red. I rolled around on the floor with my hands over my ears waiting for the flimsy garage to collapse about me. I was dumbfounded that the noise hadn’t destroyed every bit of glass within a mile. Helmet on, tickover merely purgatory after that, I gently rode off up the road.
The bike had the most sensitive throttle I've ever come across. Coupled with an engine that supposedly boasted race components, and junking of inessentials like stands, indicators and pillion pegs, the Pantah roared up the road in a series of wild lurches as I hastily backed off and then gently opened the hair-trigger throttle. Whatever, it went like a pocket rocketship, handling was stable yet light and the brakes almost sent the bike into a series of cartwheels.
Back at the vendor’s I offered £1250 instead of the two grand he was demanding. Despite its appalling state and noise, even old Pantahs are expensive things to buy. We settled on £1475 plus several boxes of spares and free delivery to my home 26 miles away. There was no way I could ride the bike in that state, I was bound to be pulled over and non-existent insurance and MOT documents demanded.
I live out in the country, so next day felt fairly safe in riding the Pantah. What a bike. The engine was in a hot state of tune, no doubt about that. The cams were so wild that it wouldn’t run in fourth or fifth below five grand, the point at which it came on cam, hitting yet more delicious V-twin power at 7000 revs, sending the tacho needle deep into the red at 9500rpm. I gloried in the acceleration, having stuffed my ears full of cotton wool to ameliorate the otherwise deafening bellow at full whack.
The Pantah must be one of the best handling bikes on conventional suspension. With all the bits torn off, and the thin GRP, it couldn’t have weighed more than 350lbs, which obviously helped a lot. With low clip-ons and rear-sets, I found I was immediately part of the machine with vast amounts of feedback from the Pirelli tyres. I could lean the thing over until my knee touched down and know full well that there was still a bit of grip left between the tread and tarmac.
Even with the wild power delivery and twitchy throttle, the machine could be safely powered out of corners like nothing else I've experienced. To cap it all, riding fast over the very bumpy straights belied its sheer flickability by impressing me with its on rails like stability. I was able to put 135mph on the speedo in no time at all, the only thing spoiling the good times was the way the thin GRP vibrated furiously, the perspex screen all but flattening out in the massive gale created by the machine.
Back home I was delighted with the machine but my head was throbbing with a terrible headache from the noise despite the cotton wool. There was a huge pool of oil under the engine, the rear cylinder head gasket was leaking copiously. I found it impossible to access the cylinder head bolts with my limited toolkit, so was forced to drop the engine out. This revealed that the top members of the frame had been welded (presumably after snapping) and braced with additional steel sheet...
While I was at it, I decided that the half fairing could be dumped and an old but working Bonnie headlamp fitted. The wiring proved simple enough to work on, as the previous owner had radically simplified the loom by junking most of the electrical components. The reason the lights didn‘t work, I later found out, was because the generator wasn’t putting out its full power - the battery would gradually drain if you were foolish enough to actually expect to ride the machine at night with the lights on.
I found a pair of old Pantah silencers amid the boxes of spares and bunged these on in place of the drainpipes. The machine took about ten minutes to growl into life and ran very rough below 5000 revs, refusing to exceed 7500rpm. With working lights and relatively quiet exhaust I took the bike for an MOT, which was granted despite the lack of horn and stoplight. Riding there and back proved interesting as the limited rev range meant slipping the clutch was mandatory. Back home I was not that surprised by the strong burning smell which the next day revealed itself to be a knackered clutch. No problem, the boxes of spares provided a solution.
The carbs were running without a filter, so I tried putting the old one back on. The engine refused to run. There weren't any other carbs or jets so | was forced to fit the drainpipes back on and buy a pair of proper earplugs. These were slightly more effective than the cotton wool; I was able to do about 15 minutes of riding before suffering from an horrendous headache. I had to take the bike for a quick, mad blast and then pull over for five minutes recovery... the bike was totally impractical and liable to cause normally sedated citizens to go into a frenzy of curses (not that I could hear them!).
Vibration was also a problem. In theory a 90 degree V-twin should have perfect primary balance and a slight rocking couple from the out of line conrods. In practice my bike was so heavily tuned that vibes thrummed through the machine (that slab of foam absorbed absolutely nothing) from tickover upwards, going into a frenzy as the rediine was crossed... the carbs needed setting every 200 miles to stop the vibes from becoming unbearable. Nothing fell off because most of the bolts were wired in position, as per racing practice.
I| tried to avoid heavy traffic whenever possible. In the lower gears I still had not mastered the throttle and the looks I received were one step short of forming a lynching party. Back road riding was the machine’s forte where it could excel in speed, acceleration, braking and handling. I have never had so much fun on a bike on those tight, intricate series of bends so beloved of road makers of times past. Motorway sorties were OK, I could get my head down between the clocks and the wind howled over my helmet with the speedo stuck way past the ton. Even then the exhaust bellow was still omnipresent.
I suppose I did about 2000 miles before becoming totally pissed off with the machine. It never had any mechanical problems save for the clutch, needing a pint of oil every 100 miles and doing only 28mpg! Obviously, a stock Pantah would be a hell of a lot more practical but in the few months I had the machine prices seemed to go up to ever more absurd heights. I was able to sell my bike for £1975 within five hours of the advert appearing!
The purchaser told me I had just sold him a bike with one of the rarer 650 engines, which alone was worth a couple of grand. He was evidently used to Italian iron, as he didn’t seem to notice the exhaust bellow, and roared off with a horribly, insane grin. | was glad to have got shot of the machine at a profit before | went permanently deaf.
Alex Gray
The 1986 Suzuki GSXR750 was three years old, had done 34000 miles and had enough scratches to indicate that it had been rolled down the road a few times. In its favour was a £1950 price tag and just one owner in the logbook. This youth had deemed it necessary to fit a race 4-1 which howled angrily at tickover and nearly took my head off when the motor was revved.
The owner took me for a spin around the block which left my head spinning and heart pounding. It was only after I handed over the cash that he mentioned the brakes might need a bit of attention. I was to find that the understatement of the year! Both calipers were rotten to their cores and even the discs were wafer thin. They were impossible to find in the breakers, I had to cough up a couple of hundred quid for new replacements.
He also forgot to mention that the clutch action was either on or off. The violence of the takeup meant I stalled it a couple of times. Most embarrassing, the youth loped off inside with a huge grin on his face. I eventually pulled off with a huge wheelie that nearly busted my guts when I hastily backed off the power and the front end slammed down on the tarmac.
The bike needed at least 3500rpm before there was any action from the engine. I was cursing the thing loudly when the revs hit seven grand and the beast nearly pulled my body in half. This was more like it. I changed up into... er, neutral. Tried again, nothing. On the third attempt I persuaded the box into third. Third to fourth was OK then there was nothing. Thanks a lot, buddy, I swore.
Crouched down low over the tank, my body soon began to complain at the riding position. My legs seemed very cramped which did not help with the gear change at all. The huge petrol tank dug into my thighs and rattled whenever the revs went over 8000rpm. Vibes also blitzed the footrests. To cap it all, two miles from home bike and I were drenched by a sudden rainstorm. The skimpy GRP provided next to no protection, I ended up soaked right through.
The brakes having proved themselves diabolical in action were the first thing replaced. The front pads lasted an absurd 3250 miles, partly down to the fact that emergency braking was often necessary to avoid running the bike into other vehicles or merely off the road. I left the rear alone, it was one seized mass of alloy and would do no harm as long as I never tried to use it.
After replacing all the bulbs, another thing I forgot to check, the bike was actually rideable at night. After the first month I had adapted to the riding position, becoming used to what was effectively a three speed gearbox and even mastered the violent clutch. The exhaust howl was another matter - a ten minute ride left my head ringing in agony. I had to admit the youth had got the carbs set up perfectly for this exhaust, there were no flat spots and a tremendous wallop when the power came in.
Another problem was high speed weaves. And I mean weaves as in violent wobbles if you wanted to do more than 80mph. I turned the original shock up to its maximum damping and springing settings then tried to adjust the forks but the adjustments appeared seized in position. Oh well. Tightening up the rear shock a little helped but it wasn't until a brand new set of Metz’s were shoved on that the beast quietened down a little. Unfortunately, after 3000 miles they had worn sufficiently to let the wobbles come back again.
I fitted a fork brace which merely caused the forks to bind up. So that was taken off pronto. A mate reckoned I needed to brace the alloy frame, but although he reckoned he was a dab hand at welding alloy I was not convinced that he would not weaken the frame where he wanted to weld in the braces. Playing around with the tyre pressures just made matters worse. If you want to experience a really violent speed wobble just put 35psi in front and rear tyres!
The Suzuki was extremely light, under 400lbs. Perhaps it was this that made it so twitchy at times as to be unrideable at speed. I eventually got around to having the gearbox looked at, some of the change mechanism parts were replaced to produce a full working gearbox. This allowed the top speed of about 140mph to be fully exploited. But not for long. Talk about needing a couple of lanes of road to survive!
I had to content myself with the blistering acceleration in the lower gears. It really was a fast bugger off the line, spinning the back tyre or aviating the front wheel whenever given the slightest chance. At times it was so rapid that it verged on the uncontrollable. After about five months of abuse it started to weave viciously even at low speeds. The rear suspension bushes were shot. I replaced them and the spindles, packed in a lot of grease and fitted some wheel bearings at the same time.
The bike felt much more stable at speed. She was safe up to about 110mph. Thereafter, the weaves came back, but as long as the tyres were in good shape the bike hung on tenaciously to its line however much the chassis seemed to jump about. On one downhill stretch I managed to achieve the fantastic feat of putting 150mph on the clock. I was flat on the tank, hardly able to see where I was going and sure that at any moment the chassis was going to lose it all.
Replacing the well worn out chain and sprockets did wonders for the drive line lash and even diminished the vibes to an extent. The old back sprocket featured severely hooked teeth. Vibration was always present to a slight degree, only becoming nasty when the engine was revved hard. You had to carry a spare set of bulbs as they would often blow, and check over the chassis bolts once a month as they had a habit of falling out. I nearly lost the silencer and pillion pegs once.
In the next six months I did 10000 miles with only the consumable consumption causing any complaint. With just over 50000 miles on the clock, the camchain started rattling. The chain and its tensioner were duly replaced, about £120. I then decided it was necessary to do 5000 miles in two weeks hurtling around as large a part of Europe as possible.
The bike fell over in the ferry, causing enough damage to the plastic bits to effectively write the Suzuki off. The ferry company did not want to know. I repaired it as best I could with the bodger's combination of Superglue and bungee cords. I roared out of Calais, at the first opportunity riding up the wrong side of the road, causing a Citroen 2CV to run into a ditch. I tried to explain to the irate Frenchman that anyone who drove such a horrible car could expect no better, but this philosophy didn’t impress and I had to risk back injury pushing the undamaged car back on to the road. Anglo-French relations must've been set back twenty years!
It was in Geneva that the electrics packed up. It had to happen in the middle of the rush hour. The bike stalling at a set of lights and a huge queue of irate cagers demanding my blood. Not one of them offered to help push the dead machine into the side of the road, other drivers doing their best to run me down. The generator had called it a day. Fortunately, damage was limited to this component, even the battery was still usable - I could charge it up and ride for about fifty miles at a time.
I had to wait for a week for a friend to mail a used one out to me from England. Whilst there I went for a job interview, got the job if I could start the next day, so the GSXR's breakdown did me a great favour - I earn three times what the stingy UK company was paying for doing less work.
I rewarded the GSXR by trading it in for a new GSXR1100! This is a relatively heavy beast but a much more civilised one and faster still. I don’t regret the trade in, I think GSXR motors are heading for trouble by the time they get past 50000 miles. I had avoided any really serious expense, made a profit on the bike and had loads of fun out of it.
Steve Drayton
The bike was picked up by the gale-like gust of wind and thrown into the other lane of traffic. An artic blared its airhorns after slamming on its brake to avoid picking up the GL under its bumper and I visibly cringed. I leaned 675lbs of GRP, steel and alloy over into the wind that was coming off the Severn and seemed to be shaking the bridge to its very foundations.
Passing by a bridge pillar the sudden absence of wind almost made me drop it, only a quick, spine jarring dab with my boot saved me from that disgrace. Hitting the wind again we were all over the place. I had to wrench the handlebars to get the bike back into shape. Cresting the middle of the bridge where the wind was at its worst I thought I could not hold the bike and was going to slip into the central barrier. Banked over at a truly absurd angle, I made it past the halfway mark.
A quick glance in the mirrors revealed that all the other vehicles had dropped way back. I thought I saw one passenger with his head stuck out of the window waving a camera about. I would doubtless have made the news - mad motorcyclist plunges off Severn Bridge.
I persuaded the behemoth gently back into its original lane to give me some more room to slap about. The feeling of sitting on a giant blancmange persisted, however. The next pillar came and went in a series of dangerous lurches. The home stretch, the last couple of hundred yards of bridge, was within spitting distance. I thanked whatever gods looked after motorcyclists and cursed whoever had designed the Honda with such huge slabs of GRP. I upped the speed to 20mph in celebration of the diminution of the wind.
I had already noted the way the Honda shook about when approaching the wake of large vehicles. The first time it happened I thought a suspension unit had fallen off! I upped the rear suspension to its hardest setting using the on board compressor, which helped a little but turned the ride a bit harsh. The Honda was stable under other circumstances on motorways up to about 90mph. Thereafter a marshmallow effect took over the suspension and the bike felt very sloppy.
The slow revving flat six engine storms out an incredible amount of torque from very low revs. Developing just 100hp from 1500cc it is very lowly tuned and in the 18000 miles I've done on my bike has needed no maintenance save for the usual oil/filter changes. The valves adjust themselves hydraulically.
At a 90mph cruise it’s like there is no engine there, complete smoothness combined with uncanny silence. The GL comes with its own radio and stereo system, which can be used with headphones in the helmet to wonderful effect. Such luxury is in line with the rest of the machine. A rolling armchair with enough storage space for the kitchen sink would be an adequate description.
The huge fairing provides brilliant protection from the elements but in the rain it’s a bit of a pain because I couldn’t see over the top of the secreen (which is adjustable in height) and had to peer through the rain splattered perspex. This was like trying to ride with a heavily scarred visor in the dark.
I became so pissed off with it, in fact, that I took a hacksaw to the screen, chopping a good three inches off. What a transformation. I was still protected but could just peep over the top. It made wet weather riding about twenty times more pleasant the chassis was surprisingly stable in the wet, something to do with the low slung engine and huge tyres.
I am short of leg so found parking a problem, even with the reverse gear (which runs off the starter motor). I dropped the bike several times when I lost my footing. Luckily, it just flipped down on to the chrome engine bars, doing no damage to the expensive plastic. Once under way, however slowly, the bike displayed a remarkable stability and could be rolled gently to a stop with feet up. It was possible to sit at a standstill like that if you maintained your balance.
This natural balance made the bike much easier to ride in town than its bulk suggested. It was very long and wide, so could not be twisted through traffic like a 125, but left in second gear it could be rolled on and off the throttle in a most pleasant manner whilst I jigged up and down to my favourite music. True, excessive use of the gearbox was not recommended as the change was about two decades behind the level of sophistication achieved by the rest of the machine. Luckily, no great problem as once out of town the bike would lumber along in top with absolutely no need to change gear.
My trip into Wales also revealed that handling was surprisingly reasonable. Deciding that I'd had enough of motorways, I turned off after the bridge and took the A48 down to Newport. This is a brilliant mixture of dual carriageways and wide two lane roads. It sweeps through fast bends and up and down a couple of hills. The police are usually busy chasing people on the motorway, so it’s quite safe to run along at 90mph. The Honda could be heeled well over until the undercarriage started to scrape. Steering was neutral, despite the shaft drive it was quite safe to back off the throttle midway through bends.
Not surprisingly, on such a huge beast, the front discs were immensely powerful and a bit snatchy at low speeds - their use in slow speed corners upset the steering, the bike wanting to leap up and ride straight off the road. Flicking from side to side needed a lot of effort and it was possible to catch the suspension out if between curves you had to brake harshly.
I was always aware that if I did something really silly then 700lbs of GL was going to bite me back viciously. Being aware of this I made damn sure to ride within the limits of the machine - not so easy when you get carried away with the flow of the music.
I made good time to Newport, having burnt everything off in sight. Finding somewhere to park the bike in the congested town centre proved problematical. A crowd gathered to watch as I reversed the machine up on to a large bit of pavement. I was relieved when I managed the manoeuvre without dropping the bike. The crowd was agog with wonder at the sight of the mighty Honda, as they usually were. I used to be embarrassed by the people who gathered around whenever I parked and the kids who pointed as I rode past, but I seem to have got over that now.
It's not that expensive to run. Not needing dealer servicing obviously helps and fuel is in the 45 to 50mpg range, surprisingly good for a huge, shaft driven bike. The special tyres last well but cost a couple of hundred quid a set to replace every 8000 miles. Brake pads need replacing every 5500 miles and there have been some instances of the discs wearing rapidly, although mine have been OK. Hugely complex if something does go wrong, the six cylinder engine has so far been the epitome of reliability and longevity. Long do I expect it to last!
The Honda was really put to the test on the mountain roads of Wales. Snaking through these single track lanes in second gear, the bulk of the GL was impressive enough to make even the sheep get out of the way. On hairpin bends that snaked back on themselves it was dead easy to lose the Honda, speed down to a pitiful 20mph. The discs sizzled red hot from the necessity of slamming on the brakes to lose speed for each and every tight bend. There was no way I could have done a U-turn on those roads, so I just turned the stereo up extremely high and trundled along as best as I could.
I didn’t feel that unhappy with progress. Seated so comfortably, I was overwhelmed with a sense of well being. I just knew the Honda would never break down and be able to plod on reliability for the millennium. I know a lot of motorcyclists dismiss them out of hand, but they offer a rather unique experience.
I bought mine by chance. I was going to buy a big CBR but that had already been sold. The dealer offered me the GL1500 at a bargain price - a 1989 model with only 12000 miles done, a grey import from the states; a steal at £4500. I was dubious at first, but an hour's test ride removed most of my doubts. I was open minded enough to accept the machine’s oddities and ended up enjoying ownership immensely. I don’t really know why, but the GL's become my favourite bike by a long, long way.
Adrian Greene
Speed is addictive. Take it from me. I am immersed in the business of speed, spending every bit of dosh I can find on making my current motorcycle go yet faster. Having achieved 160mph, I now want more and will not rest until it has been obtained. The cycle is endless, violent and ultimately deathly. The faster you go the more it is a case of diminishing returns. A vast increase in power is required to go from 160 to 170mph. Either that or very special attention paid to aerodynamics, which at those kind of speeds is so complex that it's more of an art than science.
Riding very fast is a test of reflexes and sheer nerve. The complex array of mechanical components that make up a motorcycle needs only one small part to fail to cause the whole to turn into a rolling death-trap. Unlike most forms of fast transport there is nothing to fall back on. If a motorcycle fails in any way when going fast the result is going to be rapid, frightening and very, very painful.
I can only admire characters like Barry Sheene who having fallen off numerous times, suffered the indignity of brutal surgeons and massive pain, get back in the saddle for yet another dose of high speed insanity. I know if I ever lost it all at really high speed and survived the experience, I would not readily put a leg over a motorcycle again.
I have experienced wild speed wobbles at 120 to 130mph, which for some reason is a speed most vehicles seem prone to start weaving at. It took me all my nerve to relax my grip on the bars but not back off the throttle nor brake. The old codgers, with fond memories of Vincents and Bonnies, would tell you to speed through it - something on old British iron more likely to seize up the motor than damp out the wobble. I prefer to just back off the pressure to see what happens next. I may have been lucky, but this usually has the required effect on the wildly oscillating handlebars. Once the wobble has abated, and if the conditions are right, I wind on the throttle. I know that to slow down then would be an act of cowardice, one I might not readily recover from.
A more general problem is that speeding is considered not just illegal but a graven affront against society and civilisation. It never ceases to amaze me the length that authorities go to in order to apprehend speeders, who at least on motorcycles are unlikely to do any major damage to. anyone other than themselves. Not just radars, outrageously powerful pursuit vehicles and road blocks, but huge bloody helicopters careering across the sky at massive expense to the tax payer. It would make me hopping mad were it not for the minor fact that I never stay anywhere long enough to pay tax!
This attack on individual liberty makes speeding all the more dangerous. Forced off the major routes, which are ideal testing grounds both of man and machine, older roads, criss-crossed with a dangerous array of junctions and covered with neglected surfaces, are the only way left of enjoying one’s God given right to ride motorcycles rapidly.
It really hurts me to have to arise before dawn just to enjoy the capabilities of a modern motorcycle. My brain is still half asleep as I burn off expensive rubber and find the front wheel somewhere up above my head. This is the worst time of day for cohesive thought and mastery of reflexes. If I die from these highway excesses at that time of day it will not be my fault, but merely a result of mentally retarded policemen who can’t catch thieves, muggers or rapists and keep their daily tally up by pursuing those who dare to break the speed limits at more sensible hours of the day.
There are compensations to early morning speeding. No need to wear a helmet - if you come off at 160mph it's better to kill yourself outright than survive as a vegetable. There have been times when I brought in the sunrise with a 150mph on the clock, the bike bouncing about, cutting a whirlwind dash through the early morning haze. An almost mystical experience.
I don’t know if it's worse to ride into the sun, not being able to see where you are going, or ride with it at your back, making you invisible to cars coming at you. In the latter case I almost lost it all when hurtling along at 140mph, this car decided to cut into the main road, totally unaware that he was about to be cut in half by my rapidly closing motorcycle. The editor may see disc brakes as an affront to his engineering sensibilities, but I thanked whoever invented them as I hit the front stoppers with fear inspired strength. The tyre howled, the suspension locked and we were down to 65mph in what seemed like an instant. With a death grip on the bars I was forced to ride on to the grass verge to avoid Noddy, the resulting skid put me and the machine in the hedge. The car driver drove on totally unperturbed by events.
I was left to pull the mangled machine out of the bushes, myself luckily not injured other than a few bruises and cuts. The bike was still rideable. I should have been impressed by the way it had responded to my urgent need to lose speed and avoid impact with the auto, but I decided in a fairly typical superstitious manner that the machine was unlucky, as well as not being fast enough. Within the week I had traded it in for the yet latest bit of crazed reptile from the Orient.
I do feel that these Japanese have a lot to answer for. For too many years I happily pursued speed on a Norton Commando. In retrospect this dubiously engined vertical twin was one of the most unsuitable bikes I could have picked for my efforts. I was blinded by the majestic torque, the way the acceleration went straight to my stomach and the sheer charisma of the machine. In reality it was a rebuild every other week. I could not resist the temptation to put in higher compression pistons, wilder camshafts or ever more radical valves. The result was wild bursts of power, adrenalin charged acceleration and ever more frequent maintenance sessions. I ended up spending more time wielding spanners than riding the thing.
Something had to give. In the end it was the engine which all but exploded, leaving large holes in the crankcase, almost every component wrecked and a rider who was amazed that he could still breathe after the horrendous seizure took place at 125mph. At the time it felt like the whole machine was cracking up. We slewed viciously across a couple of lanes of motorway, pulling in the clutch having no effect on the locked solid rear wheel. I ended up falling off in the fast lane at about 70mph, rolling over and over and then much to my surprise finding the co-ordination to leap up and lunge at the central crash barrier. Vehicles roared past, jamming on their brakes and sounding their impatient horns. I was wearing full leathers and survived the experience bruised but intact. What was left of the Norton was scattered over the motorway, the totally wrecked engine embedded in front of some poor sop’s Escort.
The pigs, when they turned up, shook their heads in wonder and spent a couple of hours trying to think of something for which they could arrest me. There was so little evidence that the Commando had actually existed that they could not dispute my story that the front tyre had blown out. One suggested I be arrested for loitering on the motorway without a vehicle but this was hastily forgotten when I claimed my father was a famous lawyer.
I did the only decent thing by buying another Commando. But this one was never quite the same, although I applied all the same tuning tricks I had previously so laboriously learnt. During all this, a dubious association with the UMG meant I felt the full force of the editorial wrath whenever I managed to mention British bikes (if you think what appears in his mutterings in the UMG is bad, you should hear him in full flow!) and managed to get my leg over several pieces of Japanese iron. It was only a question of time and opportunity until I abandoned the Holy Grail of British Biking.
And that's where all the madness really started. With British bikes there were so many things to think of, so much work to do to just keep them running and so much mind blurring vibration when you ran them into the red, that speed is only one slice of the honey cake. With the Japanese stuff, with the odd exception, they are so damn reliable and civilised that the only way you can experience some kicks is to ride them beyond the limits of their often appalling chassis and, of course, the red line. More than anything, it's probably my sheer disbelief that these Oriental gents can produce such strong engines that drives me to thrash the living daylights out of them. Rule Britania and all that guilt trip. Now that modern Japanese iron handles so well, there is nothing to do but go faster and faster and faster and...
Johnny Malone
