Speed Tribes: Riding with a bunch of Japanese hoodlums

Down Town Tokyo, on the outskirts of Arakawa. Away from the glitz, skyscrapers and salarymen. Old, low-rise houses and shops, worn down by the heat and pollution. And the noise! A gathering of cars and motorcycles, screaming their engines in neutral whilst the drivers and riders pose. Brylcream hair slicked back, stripped off shirts showing tattoo muscles; wide grins with hard eyes.

I had tagged a ride with a group of Japanese drop-outs who didn’t make it through the rigorous educational process that the Japanese deem necessary to inflict on their kids. There were still plenty of manual jobs where they could earn easy money and the ever open option of finding a career in one of the gangster groups whose influence went all the way into the top companies and highest political positions in the country.

I wasn’t sure how seriously I should take this mob, calling themselves the Midnite Devils. Oh sure, they were evil looking bastards but the badass image was highly stylized - how can you take someone who wears flared trousers with turn-ups seriously? And the machines wouldn't have raised an eyebrow at any half decent custom show.

Harsh licensing practices in Japan made it difficult to attain the seat of anything more than 400cc, not that the massive car park that most of Tokyo resembled gave much point or need in buying anything bigger than 50cc. The rush hour in Tokyo was gridlock time when even a nifty fifty had trouble navigating a path through the endless rows of stalled cars.

My own attempts at riding a CB125 through the chaos had ended when I'd been viciously cut up, crashing over into a group of startled pedestrians. The police had not been very amused at the lack of licence, insurance and valid registration documents. I was only let out of the police station after telling a pack of lies about representing an international magazine and that their tourist industry would be profoundly damaged if I was locked away in prison. They kept face, mind you, by confiscating the Honda.

It was whilst at the cop shop that I met this dubious character, who after hearing my litany of complaints about brutal police behaviour decided I must be a hardcore kind of chap, inviting me to a motorcycle run on the back of his machine.

One thing led to another, more out of boredom than anything else, I turned up at the appointed time and place. Five taxi drivers had refused to take me there, the sixth demanding cash up front and about six times what the meter registered. Still, a bunch of bikers that actually obeyed the law and played along quite happily with a crowd of auto toting thugs failed to impress me.

The Midnite Devils were part of a growing Japanese cult of disaffected youth, Bosozoku maniacs who bored out of their heads with conventional Japanese life become speed tribes that deliberately set out to upset the rest of society. As laughable as these youths might seem to a superficial western eye, they are so intricately interwoven with the Japanese Yakuza (gangster) scene that the better part of valour was to keep a straight face and avoid direct eye contact. I was getting enough hard looks for just being where I shouldn't have been.
 
These speed tribes are not just famous for roaring up the road at an inconsiderate pace, they are also feared for their massive and frequent abuse of methamphetamines, having developed a strain of speed that gives you a six hour high then suddenly switches you into a murderous depression so black that the only way out is to consume yet another handful of pills. Couple that with a liking for potent brandy, and I was pretty sure that the night’s run would turn up some very interesting antics.

I was to be pillion on the back of a Kawasaki GPz400, a bike of inordinate ordinariness only made tolerable by our lack of crash helmets and the nervous way the pilot's hands shook. The bike’s only modification as far as I could see was a pair of clip-ons that were ill suited to the standard pegs and a couple of decals with weird Japanese characters that could have meant anything from Fuck You to Have A Happy Day.
 
You could tell that these kids didn’t have that much spending power... the cars were jazzed up Toyotas and the like that would have had the editor of a custom car magazine in hysterics... weird Japanese stickers were stuck over the worst rust patches and the interiors were velvet bad taste. Having noted a collection of large knives in the back of one of the autos I naturally refrained from expressing my thoughts on these, er, hot-rods!

All these vehicles had one thing in common. A lack of silencing. After a minute or two of madly revving engines my head was throbbing with the pain of it all. The convoy, maybe twenty bikes and thirty cars, sped off towards Joban Expressway after the late evening rush hour had dissipated.
 
Cars skidded out of the way, narrowly avoiding causing mass pileups. The sheer noise of the convoy was enough to send car drivers scurrying out of our path. The wind whipped my head from side to side, other pillions punching their fists in the air, either in sheer joy or repressed anger. The pilot wobbles as the crowd of machines slows down, all this effort and pose is apparently wasted on speed and it’s much more fun to block off the whole Expressway with a 5mph crawl.
 
The Kawasaki wobbles about so much that I’m fingering the back of the machine, trying to work out if I'd be able to step off without doing myself permanent injury if the rider loses the bike completely. Looking down past the guardrails of the elevated expressway I can see the midnight lights of northern Tokyo and my mind is filled with visions of being flipped off the side, spinning down and down until flesh is torn asunder.

Once the traffic is piled up to the back of us as far as the eye can see and the road in front is clear of vehicles, a race to Moriya begins. Vibes blitz the poor old Kawasaki as the rider misses the second to third change and the revs go right through the red. I’m perched high above the near midget at the controls whose head is anyway buried in the clocks, so take the full wind blast in my face. Even with my eyes closed in an Oriental squint, tears begin to flow as the bike wobbles up to 100mph or so. We can’t burn off the cars, they might look pretty mundane but have had their motors tweaked.
 
Some sport flashing purple lights in imitation of the Japanese cops who so far have been entirely absent from the proceedings, others an assortment of orange, red and blue lights that flicker on and off with enough intensity to throw a disco maniac into the wildest of frenzies. 

Speed doesn't seem to faze anyone, there are some pretty strange antics. Women on the pillions climb up on to the seats, others in cars stick there bodies out of the windows. Flags are unfurled and stuck out of windows in victory at having taken over the road. Lights flash, horns blare and disembodied screams manage to filter through the rush of wind.
 
This rolling convey of anarchy and rebellion roars over the landscape in total exclusion to every other, sight, sound and sensation. I was already slightly drunk before slinging a leg over the saddle and am now finding it hard to sit in a composed, upright stance. The temptation to join in the screaming is great!
 
When there are no vehicles left behind the procession slows right down again. Cars start doing handbrake turns spinning through 360 degrees with such precision that they avoid colliding with each other. Some of the motorcyclists try to imitate these manoeuvres and cause a mild pile-up of tangled limbs and broken machinery. Luckily, my pilot limits his excess to a number plate scraping, seemingly endless, wheelie. My head feels dizzy and my stomach was left behind a long time ago. I have to cling desperately to the rider to stop myself falling off the back, feeling foolish as well as frightened. I am not a very good pillion at the best of times and this is certainly not the best of times. More like sheer hell!
 
The cars at the back form an effective road block whilst the rest of the motorcyclists turn around to go back to aid their fallen colleagues. About fifteen minutes later there is a massive tail back of cars, who strangely don’t sound their horns in anger, and still no sign of the cops. One girl had broken an arm and is bungled into the back of a car which speeds off to the nearest hospital. The rest are merely bruised and bloodied, the machines kicked straight. No-one has turned off their engines and the almighty row has left my head feeling like it's been pumped by a pneumatic drill.

The rest of the journey is mostly clowning around. Everyone trying to cross each other up without actually knocking each other off. But there is more youthful exuberance than dedicated skill in evidence. By the time we hit Moriya there have been two more collisions, one of which degenerated into a fight. I stayed well in the shade as the participants flayed each other with knives and vicious kicks. All out war was but narrowly avoided. The horde descends on a huge parking lot belonging to a restaurant. It’s 3.45am and what few diners are around at that time hurriedly dash for their cars and exit with squealing tyres. No-one tries to intercept them, and apart from sheer numbers and noise there has been no violence vented on innocent citizens.

Tokyo is normally one of the safest cities in the world to wander around, the iron grip of the Yakuza makes indiscriminate, raw violence a rare occurrence. The gangs will cut each other up like no-one else but unless there’s lots of money up for grabs they stay within their own orbit. At least that’s what I kept telling myself!
 
To add to the chaos of cars and bikes, the surface has been dug up and showers of loose gravel rain down on everyone as wheels are spun. Everyone takes this as an excuse to go completely berserk, whatever little decorum and cohesiveness there was on the road dissipates. I leap off the back of the Kawasaki just in time to watch the owner drop the clutch with what must be 12000rpm on the clock. His face turns to surprised shock as he loses it all and turns the bike over on its back wheel. The GPz lands on top of him, his head hitting the ground with a sickening crunch.

He’s out for the count. Hands grapple with the 400lbs of alloy and steel in time to stop him being covered with a couple of litres of fuel. His mates gently boot him back to life, the blood streaming out of a large gash in the back of his head. His previously lacquered hair is all over the place which probably causes him more concern than the loss of blood. A bandana is used as a bandage and he starts picking over the Kawasaki like a concerned parent with a child who has just suffered a fall.

Meanwhile, several mini-skirted girls who look no more than 14 have emerged from nowhere. They eye the riders as if they are movie stars rather than juvenile scum. It takes no more than a few minutes for them to scurry off to a barely lighted grass area besides the restaurant. I quickly lose count of the number of men they pleasure but feel pretty damn sure that worries of AIDS didn't enter their heads nor affect their actions.

Brandy is passed around, quaffed with handfuls of pills. Everything is falling apart rapidly. The restaurant had quickly closed its doors and no doubt summoned the cops, so the real fun is only a matter of minutes away. A group of distraught Japanese youths are pointing fingers in my direction, trying to give me the evil eye whilst I look into space pretending that I am invisible, couldn’t possibly exist and therefore couldn't be beaten to death by a bunch of irate, drunk and drugged youths.  

Our attention is suddenly focused on two beat up Datsuns that have turned the car park into a chicken run. The heavens rain gravel as they viciously spin their back wheels, snaking off the mark, each at an opposite end of the car park. They close rapidly, no-one willing to give an inch they crash head-on at maybe 50mph. Amazingly, the drivers crawl out of the wreckage, shaky on their feet but apparently avoiding serious injury. The cars seem to have fused together and not even the combined efforts of the assembled mass are able to pull them apart.

Another fight has broken out, this time over a girl. Not any girl, maybe 17, she had enough looks to make it on to the front cover of Vogue. What the hell she was doing with this motley crew of hoodlums I could not comprehend. She looked on as two louts, stripped to the waist, showing off vivid tattoos on their backs, tried to kick and punch each other into oblivion. I felt weak at the knees, whether from all the alcohol I'd been consuming or the all pervading atmosphere of violence and madness I couldn't be sure, probably a combination of both.
 
The GPz400 owner was frantically trying to start his machine. This caused me some concern, the last thing I wanted was to be stranded in the car park when the pigs turned up. Blood was seeping out of his bandana and his pupils had disappeared into pinpricks. He gave me a vacant look as if he’d never seen me before.
 
The Kawasaki eventually clattered into life but the poor idiot didn’t have enough energy to clamber back on board. He fell into a heap next to the machine, adding to his injuries by trying to clasp the hot engine with his left hand. The fight had progressed to the stage where one of the youths was writhing on the floor, curled up into a foetal ball whilst the apparent victor rained kick upon kick down upon him. The girl had a wild smile on her face and eyes that were popping out of her head from an overdose of pills and alcohol. Suddenly, the guy on the floor unfurled and tried to rip a hole in the belly of his opponent with a flick-knife that had appeared from nowhere. There was a sickening crunch as his arm was broken over the knee of his intended victim and the knife clattered on to the tarmac.
 
I had prised the apparently dead Japanese youth off the Kawasaki, stopped myself throwing up at the sight of the bone deep burn and decided it was time to do a runner. The sudden intrusion of wailing sirens produced all the diversion I needed for a quick exit. About twenty police cars sped into the car park and disgorged riot clad cops waving big sticks and guns.
 
The rest of the youths ran to their vehicles, laughing maniacally and throwing their fists in the air in an anti-salute to the law enforcement agencies. I was moments ahead of the mass exit of screaming vehicles, taking the Kawasaki on an assault course over a large embankment which dropped the machine right back on to the expressway. The back wheel skidded every which way, making me think the bike was going to pitch me off but we soon rattled and thumped back on to the tarmac.
 
I was unsure how the gang would react to my half-inching one of their fallen members’ pride and joy, so rode with the lights turned out at about 110mph until I could find the relative safety of the first exit and abandon the machine. By then the first hint of the rising sun was trying to break through the darkness of the sky and I could join the hordes of Japanese salarymen commuting back into central Tokyo.
 
It wasn’t until I got back to the hotel that I realised why I was getting so many horrified glances. I looked a complete wreck. My face covered in exhaust fumes, my clothes dishevelled to the point where I'd have no problems pasting muster as a tramp and my eyes bloodshot, out on storks, making my face look about twenty years older than it really was and madder than a mass murderer who'd quaffed a bottle full of sulphuric acid.
 
The incident at the restaurant made the early evening news, twelve arrests had been made and my pilot carted away in an ambulance, not dead but brain damaged, although he was probably halfway there without the help of the accident. Earnest politicians tried to play down the problems, social workers blamed the harshness of Japanese society and well adjusted youths shook their heads in a mixture of awe and horror. It seemed pretty obvious to me that the report had done a good PR job for the speed tribes and yet more disaffected youths would be joining their merry if mad band. As for me, once was more than enough.
 
Mike Prescotte

Despatches:Trying to make ends meet

I've been at the despatch game for nearly two decades. Started out as a way to make some money out of my favourite hobby. A few years on, having more or less mastered the art, I was into serious dosh, mortgages and marriage. I was relatively lucky that when the last crunch came I had paid off most of the mortgage, owned a relatively decent machine and could survive on a modest income.

Some youngsters were in serious trouble, not helped any by vicious raids from the Inland Revenue and SS. They could only service their huge loans by riding rat motorcycles for 60 hours a week, paying no income tax and claiming the dole in at least one name. When they finally met up with reality they were utterly destroyed. All they could do was flee the country.

So, come the early nineties, there I was with all my experience, a nice enough Honda VT250 and an income that was about a third of its peak. It was pretty obvious that the 8000 mile VT had at least a year's worth of life left it in. If I indulged in a bit of native cunning, as was my normal practice even in the good times, I could probably get it to run for three or four years. Just a matter of picking up a couple of engines from crashed bikes and using two decades worth of discarded cycles that were littered around the garage and house.

I'd bought the VT cheap from a civilian who couldn't take the jittery handling. It was still on the OE Japanese tyres it came out of the showroom with. The merest hint of rain turned the poor thing into a vicious, violent and vile handler. It only took a few yards worth of wild slides to figure out that it was time to hit the tyre shop... a set of Avon Roadrunners utterly transformed the feel of the Honda.

This V-twin is perplexing in its complexity with water-cooling, four valves, DOHCs, etc, etc but runs extremely well up to the ton and then dies a death. Vibes are minimal and torque sufficient. The engine layout means it's narrow enough to charge through tiny gaps that would turn a C50 owner psychotic. Cut and thrust lunacy was slightly limited in tight traffic by the heavy feel of the steering. After a twelve hour day the last thing needed is a mad, maniacal wrestling match.

One advantage of a mere 250 in current circumstances is frugality. 60mpg or more was OK by me, as were consumables that lasted for well over 15000 miles a set, even when they were often the cheapest I could find. The only thing I had to keep an eye on was coolant level which could disappear faster than beer at an Aussie rugby meeting. A couple of desperate times I had to empty my bladder into the coolant holder.

The disc brakes always seemed fierce enough to suit a bike of twice the capacity, but were sufficiently sensitive to avoid locked wheels in the wet. This was just as well as the chaotic traffic in London was running wild. I knew some DR's who'd gone completely psycho under the stress of the crazy cagers.

One chap had taken a hint from Happy Henry, whacking cars with a tyre iron huge enough to rip the rubber off tractor wheels. He hasn't yet got it chrome plated but we reckon that it's only a matter of time. Another had acquired a fake revolver and would shove it through the window of petrified car drivers. It often seemed as if I was in the midst of urban warfare rather than trying to merely earn a living.

There were still some good times, though. The long summers and relatively mild weather for the rest of the year, meant there were quite a few fast runs out of town with a blazing sun and blue sky for company. Even the cagers snarling up the roads filled me full of pity for their utterly pathetic lives rather than with anger for the way they slowed down my progress.

The one long traffic jam that represented London at peak times was rather a different matter. I never, unlike many fellow DRs, became at expert at pavement excursions. The one time I tried the front wheel caught the kerb, the bike flicking itself and I horizontal. I landed well but was lucky to avoid being run down by a grin toting Negro behind the wheel of a red bus. The VT shrugged it off, tough little bugger, even though it bounced off more than a few cars.
 
No, in that kind of really heavy traffic, where even a bicycle couldn't get through, all I could do was grin and bear it. With the relative scarcity of jobs there wasn't much point rushing around like a juvenile delinquent; many an hour was spent lounging around reading library books when there was no work available. It beat listening to tall stories from equally aged DRs that I'd heard before.

The VT proved amenable to 20000 mile service intervals as long as it got regular oil changes around the 1000 mile mark. The most I got out of an engine without a major strip was 62000 miles. Impressive, I thought, for such a high revving 250. One engine wore out its pistons and bores (letting me know by locking up solid), the other threw pieces of cam lobe all around the mill. Both happened in heavy traffic when I was, for once, overloaded with parcels to deliver.

Some of the DRs with rat machines had blow-ups every week, leaving them stranded miles from their deliveries. They often ended up in a vicious circle in which the boss refused to give them much work because of the unpredictabiity of their machines.
 
That meant there was no way to buy anything better and the next bike would turn out to be an even bigger rat. A couple ended up seriously injured when the machines seized in the traffic, leaving them to be mowed down by the cagers. Rumour was that the car drivers actually cheered!

In both cases of engine demise the gearboxes had become tres nasty, nearly finishing me off several times when I suddenly found the bike stranded in neutral with screaming cagers converging for the final kill. This kind of combat zone at my advanced age was rather more than terrifying. Frantic footwork and enough prayers to put a devout fan of Allah to shame somehow managed to save me from becoming hospital fodder.

The present engine has done a mere 34000 miles and has a gearbox that still works in a predictable rather than Russian Roulette manner. The cycle parts cost next to nothing to fix, since when anything major went wrong I merely replaced it with something vaguely similar from my collection of parts. In twenty years I've written off six bikes and blown at least 15 engines, so there's a huge assortment to choose from.

I always put on a new set of Avons before the old ones get down to the bare carcass... experience has taught me that it pays to fit decent rubber. Especially on the capital's treacherous roads, which when they aren't covered with spilt diesel, engine oil or gravel are often as not a churned up mess that should've been repaired months before.
 
And, it's difficult to keep a constant eye on the road surface as well as clocking the antics of the car drivers and peds. Taxi drivers have been mentioned before as being especially psychotic but I've found them relatively skilled - it's only when you actually bump into one of them that they go very wild. From time to time, especially in the winter months, I have become so sick of the game that I've tried other jobs.
 
Whilst 20 years experience does mean I can get a job with one of the better DR firms (the stories about the snakes would fill up the whole of the UMG...), it means that in any other field of employment I'm no better off than a school-leaver. The best job I picked up was as night clerk in a Paddington hotel - until the police closed it down because of the way dubious ladies would hire the rooms for an hour at a time. So, I've always come back to despatching.
 
It does seem to go in cycles. A couple of really good years when the money's better than most, then a year when it's tolerable, followed by a couple of desperate years. By my reckoning things should be looking up by the time you read this. Bloody well hope so, anyway!

Clive

Suzuki GSX750

Going straight from a mild Honda CG125 to a relatively wild Suzuki GSX750ES almost did for me. I bought a one year old bike that was in prime condition. Vast quantities of power were just a throttle’s twist away. It was so willing that I found it almost impossible to potter along at 30mph. The engine wanted to scream up the rev band every time I touched the throttle. Power really flowed in at seven grand, but the engine had an hard edged feel at as little as 3000rpm. Probably helped by the delightful if somewhat loud note of the Motad 4-1.

A long conversation with a police officer who wasn’t very amused with my doing 60mph through some quite busy town streets gave pause for thought. As did the time I nearly rammed the bike into the back of a Volvo which seemed to be reversing rapidly towards me. Believe me, the kind of acceleration these straight fours put down is startling. I have been lucky enough to drive some fast cars but they are as nothing compared with large motorcycles.
 
Luckily, despite its mass getting on for 500lbs, the big Suzuki was surprisingly easy to throw around, down to its tiny 16” wheel. Shod with Metz tyres, stability was brilliant after the way the little Honda had been thrown about by each and every bump in the road. Suspension soaked up all but the worst of the pot-holes, the mono-track rear end being especially effective once the shock’s setting had been turned up high.

The curious nature of the anti-dive on the front forks took some getting used to, as it was so effective I was never sure when the brake was going to lock up. As these were twin discs of immense power the removal of all feedback proved problematical, at least to this relative novice. The first time it rained I grabbed a handful of brake, to avoid a mad Sierra, only to find the front wheel had locked up. The really bad thing about small front wheels is the way they suddenly let loose without any warning. The first I knew of the catastrophe was when my leg hit the deck and the GSX slid away in a pile of sparks. I was shaken up but too worried about my pride and joy to take much notice of the pain.

By some miracle the bike had missed all the cars and ended up laying forlornly in the gutter, pissing out petrol. In one adrenalin inspired movement I righted the beast, a feat of considerable strength under normal circumstances. Relief mingled with pain from the lacerated leg when I saw that the cycle was merely slightly scratched. The fairing and bars took the worst of the tarmac smashing.

After that little affair I always rode in the wet in a state of terror, using engine braking and the rear disc, itself totally lacking in feel. But a locked up back wheel was much easier to cope with than a front wheel slide. I did begin to suspect the tyres but a set of Avons were even worse, with a tendency to slide on slightly damp roads. Just to really annoy me, the calipers seized up with the first dose of winter salt.

Whilst I was pulling the front wheel off, I decided to disconnect the anti-dive. This much improved the feedback from the front brake, although having the forks bounce on their stops under heavy braking was almost as worrying as having the front wheel lock up, until I became used to it. Front tyre life was never better than 5000 miles on Metz’s and when the tyre was worn out the GSX became most sensitive to white lines. The 17” rear managed about 6000 miles, so that made the bike very expensive to run.

Cruising speed was anything you'd care to dial in, up to about 120mph when the 80 horses had trouble cutting through the wind turbulence, despite the half fairing. A couple of times I put 135mph on the clock, only a slight weave upsetting the stability and very little secondary vibration coming off the across the frame four. On fast motorway curves the back wheel bounced about just enough to make you aware that you were on a Japanese motorcycle and not some extortionately expensive Wop thoroughbred.

As the 1986 engine had only done 8000 miles when I got my hands on it, I expected and got total reliability over the next two years and 17000 miles. To be honest, the 16 valve engine was such a complex beast to my eyes that I did very little to it, only doing an occasional oil change when the gearbox became less than smooth. I know people say you should change the oil every 1000 miles but the engine purred away so reliably that I ignored such well founded advice. I was determined to get my hands on a GSXR1100 eventually, so treated the 750 merely as a stop gap rather than a long term proposition.

After the first few months I became a little blase about the power and speed of the beast, partly because my mates had acquired even more rapid race replicas and I was hard pressed to keep them in sight. I did quite a few long tours in their company; what the Suzuki lacked in speed it more than made up in comfort and range, the 4.3 gallon tank lasting for nearly 180 miles before I had to hit reserve.
 
On less insane throttle use I could get as much as 65mpg out of the beast, about half what the CG did but about ten times more fun, so good value. The same could not be said for drive chains. This was down to pure bad design on the part of the GSX, combing an extremely long swinging arm with a tiny engine sprocket gave the chain a very hard time - about 5 to 7000 miles, the sprockets not doing much better. All the chain oil thrown off protected the rear wheel from corrosion which ate into the front wheel at a terrifying rate. There was supposed to be a gold and alloy finish, but it had all but disappeared under the white rash. The frame paint was just as dubious but the finish on the plastic bits and petrol tank still shone nicely when I came to sell the bike.

The range is famous for blowing its rectifier, burning out its alternator and destroying its battery, but my bike never gave a moment's cause for concern in the electrical department. I didn’t even have a bulb blow. The electric starter churned the engine over for quite a long time from cold, the motor being very temperamental until it had five minutes of warming up, such was the leanness of the carburation. It may just have been down to the Motad exhaust disturbing the mixture at low revs, but I could live with that in exchange for the reasonable fuel economy.

The other area of concern is the top end, some reports of burnt out exhaust valves and premature piston ring demise had reached my ears, but again my bike never had any failures in this area, despite my neglect of valve clearances. Both faults will probably turn up on higher mileage examples, but there are plenty of bits in breakers, so the possibility exists for cheaply fixing up one that has been neglected.

A friend of mine has owned a similar bike from new, doing over 140000 miles with no major problems. He admits to two new camchains, one rebore and a couple of refurbished alternators plus associated electrics. His bike still looks OK but has been treated to a weekly clean and monthly service throughout its life. The gearbox, crankshaft and gear primary drive are incredibly tough on these engines, never seeming to give any problems.

When I sold mine there were a couple of minor faults that would have turned expensive had I had to attend to them in the next couple of months. A new set of calipers were due all round, there was a bit of looseness in the Full Floater back end and the fork seals were shot. Luckily, the dealer was so keen to make a deal on the bike against a new GSXR1100 that he didn’t notice these things and I got almost what I'd originally paid for the bike in part exchange.

After the first long ride on the GSXR I began to wonder if I'd made a grave mistake, the bloody thing appeared to be designed as a particularly painful form of torture. I could hardly walk after doing a 100 miles and began to understand why a lot of my mates had strange postures and were looking old before their time. I had no choice but to adapt to the thing over the next two years, there was too much money and face at stake to make a quick change. I have much more pleasant memories of the GSX750 than I do of the 1100!
 
Adrian Bryce

BSA A65

Riding in the rain can be pleasant on a motorcycle. Modern waterproofs stop the ingress of water, so no sitting in wet underwear for hours. Of course, choice of machinery is very important. Believe it or not, my 1972 BSA 650 Lightning is an ideal mount. What’s needed is a very secure chassis, decent tyres and a power delivery that lacks viciousness.

Although the Lightning was the twin carb version of the A65, I'd fitted some milder compression ratio pistons which had the twin benefits of reducing vibes and making the machine much more pleasant at low revs. The engine would pick up on just a hint of throttle and roar up to 6000 revs when power did a rapid disappearing act. It might seem strange to go to great lengths to reduce the stock machine’s 50hp at 7000rpm but beyond 6000 revs the vibes blitzed so fiercely through the chassis that in practice such extra power was not easily employed.

Another major modification was to the electrical system which used to send the bike into a coughing fit at the merest hint of wet weather. Electronic ignition, a complete rewire and lots of silicone sealant on things like coils and HT leads, completely transformed the electrical reliability. Admittedly, the Zener Diodes don’t last for much more than 5000 miles a throw and the headlamp bulb’s power was constricted by the meagre output of the Lucas alternator and, also, by the vibes which would cause its failure every few thousand miles.

A most pleasant side effect of the electronic ignition and lower compression pistons was much easier starting. When I'd first bought the bike it had required a dozen or so manic plunges on the starter to bring it into reluctant life from cold. It took about fifteen minutes to warm up, often stalling and requiring a repeat performance. For someone over forty this was more than knackering, my only other form of exercise, was leaping up and down on the wife once a week. Once modified, though, a much milder kick started the bike after two or three attempts, taking only a few minutes to warm up.

Another worrying aspect in the wet was the unique TLS conical hub. Once set-up correctly (about half an hours work every week) this was pretty good in the dry, able to put enough braking forces on the forks to have them bouncing on their stops. Something quite impressive as the suspension is as stiff as an early Ducati. However, the cooling vent was perfectly sighted to pick up water, with the predictable consequence of making the front brake very unpredictable. This was largely cured by blocking off the vent with some very dense mesh and a change of shoe materials.
 
Fortunately, the 654cc OHV engine had bags of engine braking and a rear SLS drum that was as sensitive and predictable as could be. The art of riding fast in the rain is to go as smoothly as possible, looking far ahead to work out what actions are needed before they become necessary. I particularly liked the 19” front wheel, shod with an Avon tyre, which always felt immensely secure on damp roads and didn’t do anything really nasty even when I had to suffer the sudden locking up of the wheel before I’d sorted out the brake.

Perhaps the only major horror was the way the centre stand prong dug into the tarmac when leaned over at quite moderate angles. Having the back wheel pivot off the road, sending a massive lurch through the chassis, did wonders for constipation. That was easily fixed by sawing off the prong, although use of the centre stand is now a two man job, It’s not unknown for the side stand to let the machine fall over; the chassis is basically tough and can withstand such abuse.

With its small petrol tank and relatively tall seat, the Lightning takes a bit of time to adapt to. It never feels like you're sitting in the machine, rather that you're perched way atop the beast. The seat becomes as hard as iron and the bars leave you perched perfectly to pick up the maximum amount of turbulence. It’s bloody hard work to hold on to the bars at anything above 70mph for any length of time.
 
With the aerodynamics of a brick shit-house, it’s hardly surprising that fuel is run through the engine in the 45 to 55mpg range. It didn’t improve any, as I'd hoped, after I’d fitted a pair of almost straight through megas. There’s nothing like the glorious snarl of a big twin on open pipes, though. As the engine has always been a rattly bugger, I took the increased exhaust noise as a sign that I could ignore the engine noises, but was never brave enough to push engine services beyond every 500 miles.

If that sounds extreme, all I can say is that the valves always needed adjustment, the spark plugs replacement and oil had turned a murky cream colour, no doubt not aided by being run through the frame to the oil tank cum upper frame tube. It wasn‘t particularly easy to drain off the oil or fill up the tube with Duckhams finest. Oil coolers are available and worth fitting. As the engine is fitted with SRM main bearings, the major BSA engine problem, weak crankshaft support, is neatly sidestepped.
 
The valvegear lasts better than most Triumphs, with no need for major attention until after about 8000 miles of abuse. Pistons and bores last about three times that distance, and the engine's barrels are now on plus sixty pistons. I don’t know if I can say that the mill is easy to work on, but I’m used to it now and get it out of the frame and down to the crank in a couple of hours. Apart from a very slight leak from the head gasket, the unit is commendably oil tight. It wasn’t when I first got it, pouring out the stuff as fast as I could put it in. Much work flattening engine surfaces and careful application of liquid gasket has got the engine in its present splendid state.

The four speed gearbox is still precise but needs a firm foot. The clutch is heavy enough to build up hand muscles and failure to use it when changing gears caused the box to throw the machine into a false neutral. I haven't actually had to touch the gearbox’s internals, so I ain‘t about to complain. Clutch cables fail to last for much more than 6000 miles despite being religiously lubricated and routed in the best possible way.

The Lightning is not the kind of bike that takes kindly to less than involved owners. It would be dead easy to run the machine into the ground in just a few thousand miles. The vibes are its biggest problem. I’ve had things break off from time to time, I even had one exhaust pipe crack so badly it fell off, making the engine sound like a Sherman tank running through a pile of dustbins. Even with meticulous maintenance and good engine internals there is still enough uncertainly to make each trip a bit of an adventure.
 
But having owned the bike for the past four years, I’ve sorted out most problems and have no reluctance in stating that my A65 is in a much better state than when it came out of the factory! It’s still fast enough to see off most cars on all but motorways, where the need to maintain a constant speed on a dead straight road leads to as massive a dose of boredom as it does vibration. The latter ensured by the need to keep 80 to 85mph on the clock to avoid being run right off the road! The riding position ensures that the my back aches for days afterwards, even if the pillion pegs are used in conjunction with a nose in the clocks posture. I’m really rather too ancient for that kind of thing.
 
No, where the BSA shines is on more minor roads where its bend swinging abilities come to the fore. Where the growl from the exhaust causes a wide grin to spread across my face. Where the way it accelerates on an excess of torque rather than power hits me in the gut with a lovely sensation of overcoming the laws of motion against all the odds. And yes, even when its pouring cats and dogs, and you can hardly see where you're going, the A65 still delivers the goods, more smiles per mile than most other bikes!

Tiny

Dunstall Commando 750

I have owned, ridden and played with many a motorcycle in the last twenty years. The only one that has stayed the course all that time is a 1971 Dunstall 750 Commando. I bought the bike in 1975 with just 4000 miles done. Cynics might suggest that such a paucity of mileage was caused by the Commando engine's liking for self destruction, early examples being reduced to mechanical wreckage well before the warranty expired. But they would be wrong, at least in this particular case. The motor had been carefully rebuilt by the Dunstall crew, fitted with mild cams, low compression pistons and a single carb. The one owner was aged and obviously had trouble draping himself over the large tank on to low clip-ons.

Commandos, at that time, had received lots of accolades from the press and only had to deal with wimpy Honda 750 fours and insane Kawasaki triples. I had just tired of a Honda CB500 four, which although civilised was bland to the point of boredom. Which certainly couldn't be said of the Norton, it had all the character of a particularly crazed baboon, leaping about at tickover like the engine was about to pop out of the frame, whilst chattering along at 5000 revs could in no way be called relaxed. The Commando was part of a brash, brave new world where the maximum amount of enjoyment had to be extracted for the least amount of effort.

That may seem a wild thing to say about a big Norton twin, but the 750 was in such a mild state of tune that it could be bunged in fourth and rolled off from anything but a standing start on the throttle. Not that the angle of the clip-ons nor the heaviness of the clutch encouraged you to play around with the heavy, slow gearchange. The trick was to lurch the brute into fourth at the earliest moment and let the torque slog it out against the 400lbs of steel and alloy. Riding most other bikes after the Norton, was like being forced to have sex with a condom after enjoying the real thing.

In those happy days, with loads of money coming in and nothing much more than motorcycles to spend it on, I usually had a couple of machines in the garage. Which will explain how the Dunstall did less than 30000 miles in the next ten years. Apart from regular vaive checks and oil changes every 2000 miles (the bike had electronic ignition) in that time I did not even have to tighten down the head bolts. Starting off with an engine that was put together properly and in a reasonable state of tune obviously helped longevity.

The Isolastic mounts did a lot to help damp out the ferocious vibes that a British twin of this capacity would normally produce. The Norton was never actually as smooth as a similar capacity four, but most of the destructive effects of the vibration were successfully absorbed by the mounting system. Any engineer, except those working for Norton, would have isolated the motor rather than both the engine and the separate gearbox. Given that you have one of the few pre-unit engines still in existence it would have been the obvious thing to do. Norton, however, decided the whole unit had to be isolated, leading to an arcane shimming system at the swinging arm.

This piece of engineering malpractice needs attention every 1000 miles or so and leads to the owner going bald, kicking the shit out of stray cats and becoming generally anti-social. Failure to attend to the shims, or, worse still, get the clearance wrong, leads to either excessive vibration or a chassis that weaves and wanders all over the road like a decrepit dhow in heavy waters.

Handling is generally par for the course for a British twin when the shims are set up properly. The Norton doesn’t change line as fast as a Bonnie, but weaves less in rapid curves and has a bit more suspension movement, which helps over modern, rutted road surfaces. The Dunstall comes with twin front discs that are harsh enough to twitch the forks and cause a few moments of concern on wet roads when their hesitancy is often quickly translated into a locked up front wheel. The age of the machine is revealed by the way the calipers are mounted in front rather than behind the fork legs.

The Dunstall’s seat is a gratuitous piece of violence on the rider, going hard after as little as 25 miles. Placing a heavy pillion on the back had the seat buckling all over the place, the GRP base finally deciding it'd had enough, snapping off and throwing the poor old passenger off the back. The way he was jerking around with all the elan of an ace kendo artist indicated that something was seriously wrong; he didn’t fall off until I'd got the speed down to 25mph!
 
I carefully picked up what was left of the seat before I went to his aid. I had to phone a friend to come to collect him, he so dazed that he was wandering around in circles muttering something about it being time for tea. Poor chap, refused thereafter to go near anything with two wheels. The seat was repaired with a bit of steel plate for strengthening and some GRP. As the unit contained the rear light and a useful space in its hump, it would not have been so easy to replace. I did add some foam to the seat but it was basically too poorly shaped to help cushion one’s weight. Also, so high that it left me perched atop the bike looking rather ridiculous, whilst the big tank spread legs in a way that only some decadent young lady would enjoy. I usually had other bikes that would serve as long distance cruisers, so it was no great loss. I usually enjoyed myself immensely carving through country roads on the Norton.

The Commando is one motorcycle that could never be called epicene, its character more macho than the most egotistical of Essex men. Even painted azure blue by the past owner, it was not the kind of motorcycle you could easily dismiss, the cement mixer exhaust note made damn sure of that. Even in its mild state of tune it would still put 120mph on the clock, doubtless aided in that feat by pulling very tall gearing and having a svelte half fairing that allowed the rider to crouch out of the wind.

Any wimp who got close to the Dunstall would soon be put off the idea of ownership by the amount of effort needed to fire up the motor. Even with electronic ignition and mild compression ratio it steadfastly refused to come to life on anything less than three gut churning kicks. Sometimes it took as many as ten kicks and you always had to be a licentiate in the language of gentle encouragement. Any belief you might have in this kind of heavy metal being a living, breathing creature was confirmed by its need for endearments every time you went near the kickstart. Swearing. or cursing at the Commando would result in one solidly dead motor.

I soon grew used to the mechanical patios needed to keep the machine going. If neglected on a run, it would stutter, threaten to stall on you, until some words of encouragement worked their magic. Call me mad if you must, all I can say is that it worked for most of the time. The Norton grew most distressed when subjected to the usual deluge of water. In the early days it would often grind to a halt, sit their sulking whilst I swore my head off and threatened it with the largest spanner my tool roll held. I knew it was a narcissistic brute that would not at all like having its shiny surface dented. Actually, all it really wanted was some decent HT caps, relocated coils and the occasional dose of WD40.

In 1984 and 1985 I was deeply involved in an affair with a cafe racer Z1 which had a turbo charger bolted on. The frame had been much strengthened and the boost from the turbo was even more exhilarating than the low speed torque of the Norton. Consequently, the Dunstall was rather neglected for these two years, its once shiny alloy oxidizing in protest to a degree than would shame a 20 year old Honda. It indubitable character had responded by refusing to start unless the motor was kicked over at least 30 times - I usually gave up after five and caressed the Z1 into life on the button instead.

When the Kawasaki finally blew its innards every which way I had to reluctantly convince the Commando that it was once again the centre of my attention. It didn’t respond until I'd cleaned up all the alloy, given it a new coat of paint and fitted a set of spark plugs. Although it started OK after that, a bout of punctures had me cursing and swearing again.

With nearly 35000 miles done, I was trundling along in town in second gear when some jerk in a Volvo slammed on his brakes. As the road was clear the only possible reason he could have for such an insane act was to make me fall off. I braked harshly then threw the bike around his hideous auto, letting loose with the throttle. If nothing else, the exhaust noise would blow his eardrums away! With a large grin on my face, I held the throttle wide open in second. With the rev counter flirting with 8000 revs a tremor ran through the machine with such intensity that I backed off instantly and fingered the clutch lever.

The bike still ran but it sounded really sick, so I gingerly rode the two miles home, looking out for a Volvo to kick. I whipped the valve covers off but couldn't see anything obvious. Off with the head for the first time. Bent exhaust valves, ruined valve guides and a cracked piston. Could be worse, I consoled myself. Unfortunately, it was. Took off the cylinder to find that the small ends were gone, the pistons were scored and the bore worn heavily at the bottom. Then I noticed that the con-rods were a bit loose on the crankshaft and that, er, the crankshaft itself rattled about on its main bearings. Bloody hell!

I knew the bike was down on power a bit, that it had rattled and knocked somewhat more than I would have liked, but I would not have guessed that the engine was so worn out from the way it had been running. That night I had to be physically restrained from going around the town battering Volvo cars to death.

This was the one time in my life when I didn’t have a running machine in the garage. I‘d sold what little was left of the Z1 off for a pittance and had been laid off at work. Norton parts were readily available new but I would have to spend a few hundred quid to put my machine to rights. The small ads in Classic Bike turned up a good crankshaft, con-rods and pistons, so I only had to pay out for new valves, guides and a rebore.

Nothing is straightforward, though, I managed to get the valve timing way out and was lucky not to have ruined the new valves. The engine didn’t actually start, so I was able to save the day. Old Brits have to be carefully run in when rebuilt, so a gentle saunter up the Welsh coast seemed ideal. As it was high summer the roads were chockablock with caravans; I don’t know who felt most disgruntled at our slow pace, myself or the Norton. I had to lope along in second with just a hint of throttle for most of the time, which meant the engine shook in its lsolastic mounts like a pneumatic drill.

I was overcome with neuritis after the first day. When someone tapped me on the shoulder from behind I jumped about a yard and I was shaking like someone in the throes of an epileptic fit for the rest of the night. For some reason, this recreated engine, even when thoroughly run in, never achieved the levels of smoothness of the older bike - perhaps the Dunstall had its original crankshaft dynamically balanced.

For the next two years the Commando was my sole machine, doing 18000 miles in that time. Riding more than a 100 miles in a day was certainly no picnic. The hard seat, harsh vibration and crippling riding position combined to make me lumber around like a woman about to have a miscarriage. The suspension had also started to flop about, so I'd bunged on some really harsh Girling shocks that were trying to live out the rest of their life in a quiet corner of my garage and put about a pounds worth of steel washers in the front forks. I was thrown about like a jockey doing the jumps on a particularly violent horse.

A new job meant a fast commute across town was necessary, something the Norton objected to as the gearbox was playing up and the clutch had become so stiff I needed to keep on a course of steroids to cope with it. A test ride on a GS125 revealed a whole new world of smoothness, civility and pavement hopping, so I borrowed the bread from an ever compliant bank manager, this before the feud broke out between banks and their customers. The Norton was sidelined to the back of the garage during the week, only’ seeing the light of day on sunny weekends.

It objected to such ignorant behaviour by burning the whole electrical system to a frazzle. The battery usually only lasted for a year, anyway, and was due for replacement. The alternator was a charred mess, as was the Zener Diode, rectifier and large capacitor. The wiring had melted to an extent that made me lucky the bike had not been consumed by fire. All this happened sixty miles from home. I had to push the bike two miles to a farm, convince them I wasn't an Hell's Angel about to rape and pillage the place, leave the bike there whilst I hiked and bussed back home to convince a mate that it was his duty to take his rat Bedford van on a perilous journey to collect the Norton. He broke down on the way back, but was in the AA, so the mechanical duo were safely carted back to our town.

The Norton was left to languish for nearly a year. I even took the GS on some long runs, quite amazed at the way it coped with such distances in a comfortable, quiet way. But | could not quite bring myself to sell the Norton, I had too much of a sentimental attachment to this machine even to be moved by the large amounts of dosh they were beginning to fetch. I slowly picked up the necessary electrical bits over the months and eventually rewired the bike.
 
That was three years ago, the bike now has just over 62000 miles on the clock and is still running OK. It’s had a new exhaust system, oil tank, some better suspension and the rear wheel re-spoked as it started breaking up. It won’t do better than 50mpg or 105mph, these days, although that lovely wide burst of torque is still there for the taking. I took the gearbox apart to find some teeth missing off the cogs which were replaced with good used ones. A new, nylon lined, clutch cable has lowered the amount of hand muscle required.

I also reluctantly ditched the fairing and put on some more comfortable bars that don't threaten to wreck my back or kill my wrists off. With a better seat the machine would just about make it as a useable tourer, but the way the engine rumbles past 70mph in top means it’s really no faster than the little GS125! To be honest, the machine is way past its prime and probably due for another major rebuild before it gets to 65000 miles. It says a lot about the sheer character of the beast that I’ve already got all the bits waiting for the moment of decline!

Dave Crutchly

Harley Davidson 883

 

Last year I was on holiday in LA for a couple of weeks. I had always wanted a Harley, so when I saw one advertised for $2500 in the local paper I was on the phone in an instant. A two year old 883 Sportster with a mere 12000 miles on its clock. The owner agreed to thump over to my hotel if I had the cash to hand. I was taken for a wild ride on the pillion that soon convinced me the motor was OK. It took a while for the feeling to come back into my crotch and bum, what with the skimpy seat and harsh vibes.

The owner was of dubious sexuality and seemed more into black leather than motorcycles. He suggested that I come to some kind of party that night but, fortunately, the presence of the wife limited his overtures. I was later to see the venue on the late night news, a riot had broken out when the transvestites had argued with the transexuals. Strange creatures, these Americans. I'd played along a little and gotten a few hundred dollars off the price for my pains.

I had a week of riding around riot torn LA streets, getting used to the strange nature of the Harley. Luckily, I had spent most of my youth growling around on British bikes so the character of the Yank was not so strange as it might otherwise have been. I was, however, convinced that the gearbox was seriously amiss. The change was incredibly heavy, made noises more like a BMW boxer and often fell out of gear just when I needed forward momentum - this disappeared later when I'd got the hang of the change.

I rumbled over to the nearest Harley dealer. These were even weirder chaps than the previous owner. Huge fellows with the air of ex-convicts and enough hair on them to go into the wig business on their own account. One of them jumped on the Harley, roared up the road, coming back five minutes later with a dangerous scowl written on what I could see of his face. Hell, I was lucky to get out of there in one piece, having apparently committed the cardinal sin of insulting the great God Harley! What I did gain from this traumatic experience was that the gearbox, as awful as it was, was quite normal for a Harley and not in need of expensive surgery. 

Which is more than could be said for my foot, which had protested at having to whack the gearchange lever - I was only wearing trainers, not having come fully prepared for buying a bike. Large blisters made it painful to walk for more than few feet. I found the only way to ride the Harley was to start off if second and whack it up to third or fourth at the earliest possible moment [Sounds fuckin' marvellous - 2019 Ed.]. The tractor like torque of the motor would have made that OK had not the rear chain flopped about hysterically below 2000 revs. The transmission could only be called vintage inspiration. The only problem with riding a HD in the States is that they are so popular that just about everyone else on two wheels is similarly equipped. My naked and basically standard Sportster was slightly odd in that most people had gone to great length to customise their own brute: the minimum was a flash paint job, more usually huge amounts of luggage or wild choppers.

I actually dig the aesthetic purity of line of the base Harley and had few qualms about being the odd man out. I did a couple of long freeway runs on the Harley, doing a couple of hundred miles in a day. Rumbling along at 65mph (anything faster is likely to make you a target for hovering police helicopters) was a fine experience, the bike feeling perfectly contented. There were plenty of gas stations and cafes in which to make a brief stop, so the small tank and minimal seat were never of any great concern. The vibes even got to the wife which improved our sex life no end.

I arranged packing and shipping to coincide with the end of my holiday. Then I had to wait eight weeks for the ship to turn up in England and hand a bundle of cash over to the UK customs. Still, the cost of everything came to just over two thousand pounds (the pound bought $1.95 then) which is cheap for a Harley of this vintage. The MOT was no problem even though I hadn’t changed the headlamp for one with the correct dim, er, dip, beam pattern. Stock Harleys come with such pathetic headlamps that they are one of the first things to be chucked even on proper UK models.

I had read elsewhere that the headlamps do suffer from blowing bulbs so I fitted my new unit with a triple dose of rubber mounting and experienced no problems in the next 13000 miles. The beam is limited by the meagre output of the alternator, and the car unit I fitted wasn’t much good for more than 50mph on unlit roads. I gave the bike a thorough going over, gratified to find that the previous owner had dumped the pathetic chain primary drive in favour of an expensive belt conversion.

Everything was looking very nice indeed, the bike leaned over on the propstand outside the house, the neighbours casting most envious glances whilst I dug out a suitably tatty leather jacket. I came back to find that the Harley had rolled off the side stand and come crashing down on the tarmac. A neighbour helped me right the beast, damage was limited to a few scratches and a bent indicator. Even though I took great care parking the beast, the same thing happened a couple more times, That stand is diabolical.

It may have been these doses of tarmac rash that caused the indicators to become very weird, flashing on and off at varying rates, often refusing to work at all. It may just have been the vibes, which played havoc with both the rear light and the battery, the latter being reduced to rubble after about six months. With electronic ignition, the last thing I wanted was surging voltages through the system so I took great care to make sure all the connections were OK. The electric starter made strange grinding noises but invariably fired up the motor after registering its protest. The handlebar switches were fine when I'd bought the bike but very finicky after another year’s abuse.

English roads are rather different to those in the States, the Harley proving somewhat cantankerous in the daily commute. Especially in the wet, when the tyres would skid all over the road and the front disc didn’t seem to know what it was doing. It was never a powerful stopper even in the dry, requiring incredible amounts of pressure to bring the front tyre near to squealing. Fierce engine braking helped aid loss of momentum, but the bike required a lot of forward planning to avoid serious loss of face.

Although not that heavy, at around 450lbs, the Sportster always required hefty shoulder muscles to throw around. Ground clearance was laughable and the rear shocks more likely to be of use on a child’s mountain bike than a big mother of a motorcycle. The front forks were OK, but limited in their movement and prone to binding up. Despite all that, the bike seemed to run through bends with a reasonable degree of faithfulness and didn’t weave to any appreciable degree on straight motorways.

The motor did not encourage fast riding, anyway, as the prodigious production of vibes once past 75mph in top gear made a mockery of the machine’s name. If you gritted your teeth, grasped the bars in a firm grip and could take the way your feet leapt off the pegs, the old warhorse could be persuaded to breach the ton for short periods of time. God knows what the bigger vees are like. I’ve owned Bonnie twins that were smoother at 90mph than this Harley!

Despite the way it shook about, it didn’t go off tune between 2500 mile service intervals. There wasn’t very much to do, the valves were hydraulically adjusted automatically, the ignition was electronic and the OHV heads obviously did not suffer any of the camchain nastiness of the Jap iron. The single carb precluded any insane juggling of vacuum gauges and the belt drive primary chain did not so much as produce a moment's worry. The bloody drive chain did, though, the enormous power pulses and mighty torque of the vee able to destroy the cheaper variety in as little as 3000 miles. The most I've managed is 6000 miles.

As mentioned before, the transmission was rotten, but it seemed to become no worse with age and I was becoming a dab hand at getting into top gear as soon as possible. This had the excellent effect of not having to use the clutch lever too often, the action being Norton heavy with a spiteful take-up that could cause a stalled motor despite the easy going nature of the engine’s torque delivery. My temperance on the throttle and gearbox probably aided fuel economy, which hovered around 60mpg.

Which would have been fine had not the tiny petrol tank, with the most minimal of reserves, made going more than 70 miles a frightful prospect that could easily end in disaster, with either a dead motor stranding you amidst a mad traffic flow or a long, long push to the nearest petrol station. Either join the AA or strap on a gallon can. The seat did not make doing long distances an easy prospect, either, although the pillion perch placed well endowed ladies’ juicy bits at a perfect height for resting one’s head — shame about the helmet, though. Of course, a large body of suppliers are waiting with hands out to take large chunks of money in exchange for a wide range of bits that would solve most of the minor problems encountered on the Harley.

Everything from high performance brakes to large petrol tanks and engine tuning kits. The bike did have slash pipes which burnt a lovely roar into the passing landscape but probably didn’t aid overall performance to any useful degree. There was a disturbing amount of backfiring in the exhaust on the overrun, evidence of an air leak somewhere but I was never able to track it down, although the vibes would often shake loose the exhaust clamps. Other bits that tried to fall off included the rear light, the odd indicator and the front guard. A weekly check over of the bolts was necessary.

What did surprise me was the way the Harley reacted to being ridden through an English winter, even a relatively mild one. The exhaust rusted, paint fell off the petrol tank and the shining engine alloy was blitzed with enough corrosion to make the Harley an object of open derision in the eyes of any owner of an old Honda hack! Its previous beautiful black and chrome finish was ruined. I had to pay out for new bits and have the bike resprayed. Asking around other Harley owners the answer seemed to be to store the bike away over the winter months. OK for some rich gits, but the bike was my only means of transport.

The Harley was hell on wheels in the wet until I’d replaced the OE tyres with some Avons. These made the bike a bit twitchy at low speeds but stopped the suicidal slides that I'd been experiencing. The disc brakes were horrible but as the pads didn’t seem to wear out | had no chance to try patterns. The controllable torque made an otherwise unpleasant experience just about bearable. Speed was so reduced that the HD was turning in nearly 65mpg before I'd replaced the tyres!

After the aforementioned work, the bike is once again looking like it should, but needs a weekly going over to keep it up to scratch. Now that the sun has come back and the roads are mostly dry, I’ve got back into the swing of hustling the Hog. Once all its many idiosyncrasies are overcome, the bike can still put an ear to ear grin on my face, there’s just something so majestic and elemental about these V-twins that they keep hitting you in the stomach and sending shivers of joy up your ~ spine. Ancient, antiquated and agricultural in nature, they may well be, but they still capture the raw essence of motorcycling. Also, the bike’s been flawless in its engine reliability!

H. L. M.

Kawasaki Z1000A

At 58 I am what is perhaps known as a mature rider. My '78 Kawasaki Z1000 is certainly now a mature motorcycle. I bought the bike as a nearly new bargain, the owner deciding he couldn’t cope with the power. This was 14 years ago, when I still considered myself in my prime. I scoffed at his fear, but 80 horses and 550lbs of mass were a dangerous combination back then. I have averaged about 18000 miles a year, so total mileage has added up to just over a quarter of a million! Somewhere along the line I got to grips with the beast.

Back in 1978 the Japanese had mastered the science of making reliable four cylinder engines, but not the art of making a decent chassis. Kawasaki learnt their techniques on such unlikely animals as the H1 triple, taking a while to get to grips with such complex subjects as high speed stability. The Z1000 came to me in completely stock set-up, including lethal Japanese tyres and high, wide handlebars.

The first day was enough to convince me that a radical shake up was required. A set of Avons, some flat bars and rear-sets soon transformed the feel of the machine. By today’s standards the riding position is almost laid back, but for the day it would have been considered very sporty. With more weight over the front wheel from this riding position, and the rider crouched lower, stability improved dramatically. The tyres actually managed to grip the road when the machine was leaned over.

The bike was fine up to about 80mph. After that lots of weaves and wobbles appeared. They became worse the more the throttle was abused. Also, the re-positioned footrests meant that the first thing to touch down was the centre stand prong, which tried to lever the machine off the road. Incredibly frightening! The centre stand was all but useless as I found it impossible to lever the machine on to it without wrecking my back. It was junked quite quickly. I had an hydraulic jack ready for tyre changes and chain adjustment.

The one time I had a puncture in the back wheel, the AA man was not too amused at the antics involved in removing the wheel. I had a spare inner-tube but no way I could fit it on my own. We ended up with the bike perched precariously on its side after removing the back wheel spindle. It really was a heavy beast to lever back upright. The AA man reckoned the next time he came across a similar case he would call for the recovery vehicle to take the machine home.

The bike was incredibly heavy to ram through the corners and also liked to be set up way in advance... touching the front brake when banked over was likely to throw you off and the back end twisted when the throttle was backed off. The narrow bars I'd fitted made it a heavy beast in traffic, I often ended up sitting in traffic jams rather than hustling through narrow gaps. As top speed was only 130mph and far too unsafe to maintain for more than a few moments, I initially thought I‘d ended up with the worst of all worlds.

The engine impressed with bags of torque, lack of oil leaks and a feeling of being bulletproof. The DOHC unit was derived from the earlier 900 Z1, which had soon made a reputation for itself as being extremely tough. 80 horses is chicken feed, these days, but there is a lot to be said for the pleasant way the Z puts down its power. When I'd sorted the handling I felt quite safe riding hard in the wet, which is more than can be said for some of the high powered, lightweight machines of today.

Not wanting to lose face by trading down, I persisted with the beast for the next two years in its stock state. Sudden poverty meant I could not improve its suspension, which to be fair never became any worse over those years - it was too naff to begin with. I could get as much as 55mpg if I rode the colossus gently but throttle craziness soon reduced that to a mere 35mpg. The average has worked out somewhere in the 40 to 50mpg range, although I did once manage 31mpg. That was a really fast, flat out motorway bash with the Z1000 leaping about all over the place. My arm muscles were wrecked after a couple of hours of that kind of insanity.

Vibration has always been apparent as there are no balance shafts in the engine and little by way of rubber insulation in the chassis. It doesn’t cause any damage to the bike, but can reduce feeling in hands and feet after a couple of hours at high speed. 70 to 90mph cruising is okay for as long as the fuel holds out, although 60mph in fifth can be almost as rough as a 100mph. I can’t say it has got any worse over the years, but that’s probably me just getting used to the Kawasaki.

The engine whirred away reliably for nearly 40000 miles during the first couple of years. It needed the odd shim job on the valves, a couple of carb balances, a few adjustments to the twin contact breakers and the usual regular oil changes. Unlike its smaller brothers, the Z1000 has a hefty roller bearing crankshaft and gear primary drive, neither of which were to give any trouble over the whole period of ownership.

By the third year my finances had improved, so I set about upgrading the suspension. First priority was a set of taper roller bearings in the steering head. The old bearings were pitted and difficult to set up so there was no slop. These new bearings had a remarkable effect on the stability, pushing the weaves and wobbles up to about 95mph. As far as value for money went, they were by far the most effective improvement I made to the machine. These bearings have a life of about 35000 miles.

Encouraged, I put a set of needle rollers into the swinging arm, the rotten old ones having developed a dangerous amount of slop. It helped tighten the back end up, lessening the amount of twittering when rolling off the throttle. Life of these bearings was never more than 25000 miles, more usually around 20000 miles. With just these two changes I found it possible to cruise along the motorway all day long at 90mph, with brief bursts up to 120mph. The Z1000 was still potentially dangerous, though, certain combinations of speed and bumps causing it to twitch.

In this form I did a couple of long tours on the bike. As I had fixed the riding position to suit me to perfection, I was quite happy doing 400 to 500 miles in a day. Even if the seat was far from perfect, the clutch would start to drag badly and the vibes sent my feet dead. Without a fairing, wind blast above 90mph was rather tiring but when I was on an empty motorway I could not resist opening up the throttle.

On a very long road it was possible to put 135-140mph on the speedo. The aforementioned handling deficiencies and huge pain in my neck muscles meant I could only hold on to such speed for a few minutes. Still, it was a pretty exhilarating experience and gave fresh energy to see me through the rest of the day.
 
The front suspension was next on the list. Stiffer springs and thicker oil didn’t make that much difference to high speed stability but gave the machine a much more taut feel. A set of Koni shocks had more effect, allowing the machine to hit the ton without so much as a mild weave. The bike was still heavy and ponderous, becoming brutally twisted up at really high speeds. The forks are still there, gaiters have ensured that the chrome has not pitted. The shocks last about 30000 miles before they go off tune.

By about 50000 miles some major expense was involved. The back wheel had started breaking up, so | had that and the front wheel refurbished with HD spokes and alloy rims. The wheel bearings were showing signs of wear, so a new set was bunged in - life of the wheel bearings has varied between 50000 and 72000 miles. Also, the four into two exhaust had become rather loud, with cracks appearing in the silencers. I had a mate with a tube bender, so we made up some 4 into 1 downpipes out of stainless steel and put a universal mega on the end of it.

We found it impossible to set up the carbs to suit this device, so handed the machine into a dealer for jetting alterations. The result was that the Z needed ten minutes to warm up but made more power right through the rev range. It was also a lot noisier and makes a lovely bellow with 140mph on the clock. The lighter wheels and exhaust saved 35 to 40lb. I started looking for other ways to save mass, getting so into it that I started drilling holes through bolts and screws to lighten them.

As the seat was seeping up water I took that as a sign to make a new one with a GRP base and some heavier foam that would not flatten after a mere 80 miles of riding. Plastic guards, cleaning up the back end, dumping the indicators and throwing away the grabrail were other minor ways of removing some mass. When I took the machine to the local weighbridge I was surprised to find that all my efforts had reduced the mass to 480lbs (with about two gallons of fuel on board).

The Z has a massive frame that doesn’t bend in minor collisions, so even more could be saved if this was replaced with a more modern lightweight structure, although I rather like the reassurance of having a bike that can take the odd meeting with the tarmac. All my crashes have been at low speed when the mass has got the better of me or when | couldn‘t get out of the way of some clown in a car fast enough. Nothing more than a few bent ancillaries were the result plus a few bruised bones. Not bad going for the kind of mileage I’ve done.

I'm still not sure about the brakes. When I first had the machine these triple discs were exemplary in the dry and just about passable in the wet. Pads lasted a reasonable 12000 to 16000 miles and the calipers didn’t give any trouble for the first 35000 miles. Then they started seizing up something chronic, needing attention every 5000 miles. After 55000 miles they were replaced with a new set, which lasted 60000 miles. I’m on my fifth set now! The discs are still usable. Modern pad compounds improve wet weather feel at the expense of reduced life (8000 to 11000 miles) and some almost unbearable screeching noises.

One thing I hate about discs is the way the pads drag on at low speeds. Pushing the Z_backwards is a real trial of mind over matter. I once had to push the beast two miles when I ran out of petrol, having left the petrol tap in the reserve position. I almost collapsed from the pain of it when the petrol station finally came into sight. I had to sit by the roadside for half an hour just to recover and I had pains in odd places for days afterwards. I must be getting old!

Of late, the front forks have started juddering, despite having several new sets of seals and one complete refurbishment. It makes the handling rather hairy once past 85mph, with lots of twitching and wallowing. Jamming on the front brake makes it feel like the forks are about to pop off. I am seriously thinking about fitting a whole front end off something rather more modern, although the large size of the Z’s front wheel makes this difficult.

I've tried various tyres on the beast. They all have one thing in common, if you try to ride with less than 2mm of tread the handling becomes very vicious. I rather like Michelins on the beast, they are cheap, last over 8000 miles and feel safe in the wet. Avons take second place with slightly poorer wear. A set of Metz’s lasted only 3500 miles - totally unacceptable.

The Z demands a decent O-ring chain and sprockets every 15000 miles. Running on a worn out chain wrecks what's left of the gear change, which was never exactly smooth even from new. I've adapted to it as the years have gone by.

The only part of the gearbox that has needed attention has been the clutch. New plates at 78000 miles, a whole new clutch unit at 157000 miles and another set of plates at 211000 miles. Even when new there’s always been a bit of drag, when it’s well worn it becomes very difficult to hold the beast steady at the lights when in first gear. Neutral is all but impossible to find and it has lately started slipping out of second and third gear.

The top end of the engine is tough but not so tough that it has survived 250000 miles without attention. Bores and pistons have lasted 75000 to 92000 miles, camchain and tensioner have been replaced three times and valve seals and guides go every 60000 miles or so. The valves are still original but have been reground once. Points are OK for about 30000 miles then have to be bodged for the next 10 to 15000 miles. I should have fitted electronic ignition but never got around to it - I quite enjoy mucking about with things that I can understand.

The ignition coils have burnt out twice, the first time causing erratic starting and poor running until they went completely. Most annoying to be rumbling along nicely, only to find you are suddenly riding along on a most constipated twin or triple. I had a merry time trying to find another cause of poor starting until the local Kawasaki mechanic pointed me in the right direction. The rubber inlet manifolds had hairline cracks in them. Too expensive to buy new, I had to scour the breakers for a good set. This problem occurred every 70000 miles or so.

Most of the electrical system is still original. Rear bulbs do blow once or twice a year, the handlebar switches have become very loose and I've never got more than 18 months out of a battery. The starter has had its bushes refurbished twice. The bike is easy enough to start on the kickstart, but with the endemic clutch drag in town it’s nice to have the electric boot to hand if the motor stalls in the middle of traffic.

The original headlamp wasn’t really good enough for fast riding but the quartz halogen unit I fitted solved that problem. Giving oncoming car drivers a blast of main beam has them scurrying for their dip switch. The horn was pretty pathetic as well, so I fitted twin air horns that make enough noise to make lumbering artics think twice about getting in my way. Or they did until a year ago when the vibes fractured their bracket, sending them tumbling down the road, never to be seen again.
 
A spate of blowing fuses, which left me stranded in fast flowing traffic, was traced to a corroded earth lead. The wiring has otherwise shown as little sign of losing its insulation as the tank and frame of throwing off their paint. I was most impressed with the standard of finish on the cycle parts. Although side panels that pulled off their spigots were not so amusing. The engine alloy needed a lot of attention to keep it from corroding. I ended up bead blasting most of it and polishing to a mirror finish. It’s now a weekly task to keep in shape.
 
The bike is very straightforward to work on. You can even take the head and barrels off without levering the engine out of the frame. The valve shims can be changed by any half competent home mechanic and even though the carbs are original and therefore now a bit finicky they can be set up in half an hour with a vacuum gauge set. There are not too many nice ones left, the basic reliability of the engine encouraged owners to radically tune the motor, which usually resulted in their falling off when the chassis threw a wobbler. Look for sensible chassis mods and a stock motor if you’re in the market to buy one.
 
I still use the big Z every day, it’s my only machine. With its polished looks it’s dead easy to pass the machine off as one of the new retro Kawasakis, although I would probably have trouble keeping up with the larger Zephyr. I’m pretty sure that someone who rode my machine would find it a bit of a dog, especially until I fix the front end (again), but to me we've been together for so long that I can’t conceive of life without the big bruiser.

Adrian Lawrence

Learnin': Doing the Training School Twist

 

The craziness came upon me in the spring of last year. Driven to desperation by ten years of tin box piloting, I was gasping for a fresh road bound experience. Once, a very long time ago, I had eagerly leapt into the driving seat of a steel coffin at the least excuse. I enjoyed five hours hammering along a motorway, hungrily lapped up a cruise through Shit City and drove out of my way for a chance to swoop down country roads.

Then the delays seemed to get longer, the blood pressure higher, more flat capped, pipe smoking Marina drivers trapped me behind them on the once alluring but now claustrophobic twisties. Something had to change, something had to be done, and then on a rain soaked 10mph M25 revelation came in the shape of two lads on a green Kawa plastic rocket, filtering through the jam... I had to do it, freedom, a bike!

Two things had stopped me considering bikes before. One was my unenlightened parents. My mum still can’t work up much interest in that bloody thing, though dad likes a spin on the pillion once in a while. The other was a yellow streak down my back a mile wide. So, to accommodate the yellow streak I decided to enrol in the BMF learner's course with a mate who was similarly pissed off with car travel and felt the lure of two wheels.

One happy Sunday morning we pitched up for our CBT, which went something like this: Here’s the bike, here’s the kickstart, here’s the clutch, here’s the throttle... ooh, you’ve stalled it... Here’s the brake, here’s the indicator, here’s a road... oh well done, you didn’t fall off; here’s your CBT certificate. Hmmmm, all very brief, but afterwards we were legal to get out on the road. It was better than nothing.

The course was very good in that it was a great introduction to different types of L-bikes. We both used the school bikes to start with, the idea being to hire bikes to take the test. I took my CBT astride a CB125, on subsequent Sundays had the joy of 3 hours each on an MZ 125, Suzuki GS125, Honda MTX50 and Kawasaki 80 trailster.

The GS125 impressed most with its big bike feel, power and smoothness. It tracked eagerly and sure-footedly around corners whilst the gearchange was a smooth, slick delight. The previous week I had battled the smoking MZ, with its agricultural gearbox, around the district. This machine did not impress. Though it was big and felt right, it just refused to be ridden and endlessly flicked out of gear into neutral. When in the hands of a more experienced rider, it could be made to perform, much to my annoyance, but if I came anywhere near it, the blasted thing coughed and spluttered, lurched in and out of gear and was an out and out pig. Sorry, MZ fans, if it’s an acquired taste it’s not one I want to acquire.

We would have been happy to potter about on the school’s bikes for several months but three things happened. Firstly, the weather started to improve, and with it came many spotty youths out to pass the CBT. They had first call on the bikes so it became pot luck every Sunday whether we'd get a machine. This was a heavy pisser.

The second event occurred to me on the MTX50. Hurtling along at the breakneck speed of 35mph at 7000 revs, I braked to a stop at a junction. The engine didn’t want to stop with me. Despite taking my hand off the throttle and pulling the clutch in as I braked, the rev counter stayed resolutely at 7000rpm. A cloud of blue smoke surrounded me. I dropped into neutral and manually tried to wind the throttle closed... no go.

By then the instructor was getting fed up, thinking I was taking the piss, he dismounted from his machine, marched over and snatched the keys from my mount. The engine kept going af 7000 revs. The instructor reckoned the throttle was stuck - I could leave the machine there or ride it back. I chose the latter, slipping the clutch and belching smoke all the way.

The final event was the seizure of the disc brake on one of the bikes, throwing the hapless learner on to the tarmac. Much though I valued the BMF’s teaching, in which many of the instructors gave very valuable pointers on safe riding, the school bikes were far from ideal.
 
It was time to buy my first bike. The excitement was unbearable. Being boring by nature and anti two-stroke after my MTX and MZ experiences, I wanted a four stroke. However, my limited budget would not run to a decent GS125, try as I might to get one. I quite fancied a CB125 Superdream, but again, those in my price range were dogs. In the end, I went for a two year old CG125. How proudly I rode her home. She was in good if not perfect nick, starting well second or third kick.

I rode the CG all through what was left of the winter, much to the amusement of my Sierra bound work mates who couldn’t see why I would give up the heated, dry interior of my box for an icy, windswept perch atop a buzzing blue 125. Heathens... I was very happy with the machine, it never let me down, apart from two times when I flooded the engine. It seemed prone to this, it burnt quite rich all the time I had it, needing the plug cleaned every 1000 miles. This appears to be a unique problem to my bike as I have never read of it elsewhere.

The bike performed adequately for a learner. It cornered well and could be coaxed up to 65mph on a good day, which with my six foot frame on board was not bad. My mate had purchased a KH100 which though a nice little bike had tiny tyres which never inspired confidence. In comparison, the CG’s tyres were monsters and cornering twitches never an intrusion. The TLS front drum was a fine stopper with the SLS rear being surprisingly effective, especially in the wet.
 
The only thing I had to fix on my machine was the brake light switch at the pedal. This had seized up with road crud and required replacement. I bought a new switch with cable attached and settled down to replace the old one. Imagine my dismay when I discovered the new switch had a female connector and the old one a male connector. Easy enough to remedy with wire cutters and a cable connector, but bloody annoying. Here was a two year old bike still in production but the new spares won't fit it. And what was the point of changing the connectors around?
 
I would still heartily recommend the CG125 to any learner or economy minded commuter for that matter. 3000 miles together saw us still on very friendly terms. She was easy and pleasurable to ride, every journey was filled with excitement, tinged with sadness when I arrived at my destination. Still, June came, I took my test and passed first time. Within two weeks my CG was traded in for a bigger bike.
 
If you've ever thought of taking up motorcycling, the training courses are a very good idea. You don’t have to splash out on a machine as you can use the school’s bikes to see how things go. And, of course, the tuition and advice will set you on the right course for safe and enjoyable riding.

Matt Toy