Kawasaki KLR250

The bike bucked a little as we ran across the roundabout but it was so light and narrow that I maintained control. I don't normally take the shortest route through roundabouts but the sudden convergence of a couple of cages left me with little choice. The grass was slightly damp but the knobblies held a reasonable line. We were only doing 30mph, some of that speed gradually lost as I shut off the throttle and the increased resistance of the foot high grass began to bite.

The cages were still playing silly buggers. Squealing wheels in first or second, the engines screaming so that my eardrums were threatened. I glanced over at them, not that surprised to see midget sized kids, swilling beer, barely able to see over the steering wheels. They charged out of the roundabout, going wild on the horn when they made a pensioner jump back on the pavement, falling right over and showing the world her bloomers.

As I hit terra firma again I was gobsmacked to find a plod vehicle wailing out of a side turning and trying to run me off the road. When I pointed out the antics of the car thieves, which they must've been blind not to see, they merely said it was policy not to chase such people as it could cause serious accidents. And, anyway, I could hardly talk about breaking the law, using the roundabout as a trail course, could I? I was left clutching the ticket, amazed that they had been so annoyed with my lack of tax disc when so much criminal madness was going down nearby.

Phew! Got that lot of anger off my chest! Where were we? The KLR250’s a spiffing little bike that’s quite nifty off-road. I use it for shooting through the local woods, not just for kicks it’s also a short cut that saves ten minutes on the tarmac alternative. Some of the trees are dying, probably the effect of acid rain, the track littered with fallen limbs and odd whole tree trunk. The KLR gets up on the back wheel with little effort and when confronted by the more massive tree can be slid sideways with a twitch of the body and touch of the rear drum brake.

The only thing to watch out for is wet leaves when the invariably worn out knobblies will try to slide in different directions. Deeply corrugated MX boots hurriedly hitting the track are usually enough to save the 260Ib hack from losing it all. Most of the bike is well tucked in, hitting the earth only likely to crack the plastic around the radiator or bounce the bendy front mudguard. It doesn't like riding along river beds, though, the spray will cause the thumper engine to stutter or completely cut out.

The ’87 motor still puts out most of its claimed 28 horses at 9000 revs, although it did have one serious rebuild just before 30000 miles. The engine’s quite an advanced unit, water-cooled, four valves and DOHCs, it'll rev to about ten grand but run quite freely at low revs.

One thing you shouldn't do is fit a non-standard exhaust as the carburation goes to pot, with flat spots between 4000 and 7000 revs and an engine with the same kind of power as a C90 at 9000 revs. I spent a small fortune on carb jets and air filters to no effect whatsoever. This is bad news as I found that exhausts rust through after as little as two years. Welding metal over the holes helps for about a further year but by the time the baffles have rusted right through the bike’s become very poor running.

Another chronic problem is the Uni-track bearings. Off-road abuse, with all the associated gunge that attacks them, means a strip and grease every three months with new seals mandatory. Even with that care I’ve never had the bearings last for more than a year. It almost makes me yearn for the old fashioned twin shock set-up. Almost because despite its wear problems the back end, with damping and springing turned up high to compensate for wear, always felt secure and controllable however mad the riding. Such are the mixed blessings of progress.

The air adjustable front forks are still running on the original seals even with 48000 miles on the clock. This thanks to the bright red gaiters, although these crack up after a couple of years and can usefully be replaced with superior aftermarket items. The ten inches of travel does mean they are a bit vague at speed, with the large guard catching the air and throwing the bars about if the motor’s thrashed hard enough to put more than 80mph on the clock.

The ultimate top speed’s 90mph. If I went for taller gearing it might even touch the ton. Vibration’s always present but it’s not so bad that it makes me back off or becomes tiresome on along ride. When the rings were worn out the vibes became frenzied. By the time I'd stripped the engine down the bore, piston, rings, camchain, tensioner and valves all needed attention. Good used bits from a breaker were available cheaply so I went that route rather than getting into serious engineering. The motor was fairly easy to tear apart and light enough to carry into the comfort of the house, although the sump full of lubricant that somehow congealed on the hall carpet didn’t go down too well with she who must be obeyed.

Road work's a varied bag. In town the 34 inch seat height gives a useful view over the top of stalled cars and it’s dead easy to sneak through the lines of autos. It’s certainly fast enough to roar off from junctions way ahead of the cages and the suspension makes even the most intense pothole feel like a minor surface aberration. I didn’t like the front disc much, though, as it lacked feel and would howl the tyre in the wet with no warning. The resulting slides enlivened the ride to work at times but I usually tried to combine the rear drum with a bit of engine braking.

The KLR was also jolly good fun through the back roads, where it could be leaned right over until the tread started to deform. Fast turning as it was, the tighter the bends the better. I had great fun annoying normal motorcyclists on big multis who'd find me sneaking inside their line, forcing them to head for the apex of the road and an involuntary game of chicken with oncoming traffic.

Of course, any kind of straight would see just about everyone blasting off into the distance, leaving me shaking in their wake. I found the Kawasaki incredibly boring on motorways as it didn’t have the guts to safely make it out of the slow lane. Braking late into bends was also a no-no, unless you actually liked a locked up front end that sent the bike way wide.

Most of my riding was either town work or off-road. The limitations were no great thing until I took the bike touring. The 120 mile range from the two gallon main tank, with fuel around 60mpg, was limiting but no more so than the uncomfortable seat. I quickly gave up the planned route, amused myself by doing 200 to 300 miles a day down winding, bumpy country roads.

The lights made night riding dangerous but after a day in the saddle I was more interested in finding a pub or disco than hustling the KLR. After a couple of years I was inspired by a Paris Dakar racer that sported three huge headlights... these were powered by a large car battery in the top-box. With about 200 watts of power suddenly switched on it caused the cagers to scatter and gave a clear view down the road for about a mile. Brilliant, in every sense of the word! They didn't last long because the bulbs kept blowing due to the vibration. It was good while it lasted.

The KLR’s very versatile, then, up to most things that don't involve licence endangering speeds. If I was buying another one I'd definitely check the engine out with a compression tester, especially if there was more than 20000 miles on the clock. There are a few good engines in breakers so if you come across a blown one, which is quite common, then there’s the possibility of doing a cheap renovation.

The chassis is generally tough, just a matter of replacing the bearings when they wear out. The electrics were solid enough if not inspiring, the caliper only needed two rebuilds and the exhaust is the only bit likely to be affected by serious corrosion. As an alternative to the more mundane commuters they make a lot of sense. Prices start at about £200 for a rat that needs loads of attention but it’s probably better to buy a good one for around a grand that will have a few years life left in it. When mine gets to 50000 miles I’m going to fit a newish motor.

FEL

Yamaha XS1100

What can you say about the XS1100? Lots, as it happens. I bought a 70000 mile job just over a year ago. Almost immediately, I did a 9000 mile tour in a month. All over Germany, France, Italy and Spain. I went for a big old bugger like the XS because my mates all had similar devices - Z1000, GS1000S and CB900. Hoary old beasts with modern spec brakes, tyres and suspension added.
 
Anyone who buys an XS1100 without a fork brace is probably buying off either an old codger who's never been over 70mph or something that’s already been run off the road and hastily repaired. Mine had a hefty set of Suzuki GSX forks, modded with a fork brace and so stiff I thought I was on a Ducati. Rattle and roll time when the going got bumpy.

It made all the difference between persuading the reluctant beast around corners and finding myself bounced off the road. I'd actually thought about buying a new XS when they first came out and still have vivid nightmares about the test ride. I’d given the bitch a bit of stick coming out of a bend and a bump had left the forks waggling from side to side. The bars were wrenched out of my hands, the XS, more or less vertical, hurtling across the bend. Only the fact that the throttle had snapped shut stopped us from battering our way through a yard deep hedge.

The mechanic, who was riding behind to make sure I didn’t do a runner, berated me for crashing their demo bike. The dealer tried to make me pay for the repairs, although to my eyes it was just a matter of a few scratches. Everything was pretty heftily built (apart from the bearings and bushes) and it was my left leg that had taken most of the damage when it'd stopped it flipping over. No mean feat with 550lbs trying to meet the earth.

It was my friends who persuaded me, some 13 years later, that a suitably modded XS1100 was quite safe. That, and the fact that for £950 there were few other ways of obtaining 95 horses. These are grunt engines, fantastic power coming in just off tickover and really grating muscles after 5000 revs. It's such a nice motor that it maintains its popularity in FJ1100 and 1200 guises despite still being a heavy old nutter.

The FJs weigh a little less but the steering is much quicker than the XS which turns as slowly as a fully loaded artic. Slow speed worked convinced me that there wasn't sufficient air in the front tyre but, no, it was just made that way. The top heavy feel didn’t go away until about 90mph was on the clock, when the back end, even with alloy arm and Koni-Dial-ARides, started to feel loose.

The bike felt incredibly dangerous when trying to run through small Continental towns with quaint cobblestone roads. The tyres were newish Phantoms but at low speeds they were slipping and sliding as if we were on black ice. Strangely, the CB900 rode straight through without a care in the world (on dubious Avons) and the Z1000 fell on its side (thanks to bald Metz’s).

On that tour we were all overloaded. Being our first serious tour we'd taken everything we could thing of, only the fact that the kitchen sink was bolted down stopped us loading that as well. Consequently, the XS had two massive haversacks strapped down on the back and a voluminous tank bag on which I could rest my chin! This radically affected weight distribution but had no discernable effect on the performance, the bike still good for 140mph in the crazier moments.

I'd set the XS up with flat bars to complement the rear-sets and the envisaged high cruising speeds. For normal commuter chores through town I had some ape-hangers that gave much better leverage at low speeds but tried to turn me into a sail above 65mph. Between 90 and 100mph the XS burbled along quite adequately, but my mates preferred 120mph which caused massive secondary vibes and enough chassis movement to keep me awake.

An hour of that kind of abuse was more than enough for me, but such protestations were totally ignored. From their incoherent mutterings (I think my hearing was going or it might just be the residual shakes) I gathered they were determined to do a 1000 miles in a day. The XS, when thrashed, was turning in 35mpg, although it might manage 40mpg under mild cruising, in town it did less than 30mpg.
 
The only maintenance the bike had on that extended tour was an oil change every 3000 miles. The engine didn't seem to mind. The CB900, by contrast, was rattling and ticking away like a time bomb awaiting its chance to blow up in a big way, although it did make it back. That lack of fidelity with half the XS’s mileage! The greatest piece of design on the XS was its shaft drive. I could look on with amusement as my friends furiously adjusted their chains every fuel stop. It’s one of those things that you don't appreciate until experienced.
 
Of course, the shaft drive does whirl, grate and shake around when backing off the throttle in corners. The XS much prefers to be set up on its line, after some frenzied braking, and accelerated gently out of corners. That’s the sensible way to ride a big old Japanese multi, but when your friends are adrenalin junkies with twitchy right wrists such sanity is soon submerged beneath the good old cut and thrust.

Having come from an eminently flickable GPz550 that blew its guts out at 82000 miles, the XS took a lot of adapting to. The easy way to master the brute would've been to go on a course of steroids and muscle building. However, I didn’t think that even the joys of the XS were worth shrinking marital tackle and pinhead looks. The XS never loses its heavy feel and it always seems on the verge of falling off the edge of its tyres. I can actually feel the rear rubber distorting as the gobs of torque are fed in. After a year I've arms that Popeye would envy and a beer gut like an eight month pregnant woman! The latter from evening fuelling feasts to recover from the terror and trembling of burning off everything in sight. I didn’t fall off, but had a near miss every day!
 
Wheelies were great fun but by 85000 miles I'd burned out the clutch. The drum was cracked up and the plates were scorched earth material. Secondhand bits went in at minimal cost. Interestingly, the side cover had never been off before. I knew this because the original screws had corroded into the crankcase. They refused to come undone even when attacked with an impact driver and sledgehammer. I did the usual trick of whacking my fingers with the hammer. A mixture of drilling and chisel work removed the screws, leaving ruined threads in the crankcases. New allen bolts smeared with Araldite worked better than I had any right to expect.

The other problem with this apparently simple job was that I’d had to take the 4-1 exhaust off. Disturbing this rust bucket caused it to crack up. Trying to weld rusted through metal completed the destruction process. The CB900 owner had a spare 4-1, which after a weekend's cutting and welding went straight on! I didn't even have to change the carburation.

Not surprisingly, after all that trauma I gave up doing wheelies. In this state the bike has run on relentlessly, albeit expensively in the consumption of tyres, pads, fuel and oil, until there’s 102000 miles done with no signs of imminent engine demise. That makes it tougher than the Z1000 which needs a camchain every 25000 miles and the CB900 which needs a complete rebuild at that kind of mileage.

For cheap kicks the XS1100 takes some beating. The engine’s a bit brutal not civilised, the chassis will scare the hell out of you, and the grunt will blow your mind away. I love the old horror! 

G.J.L.

Confessions of a Motorcycle Instructor

Back in 2002 a mate wanted to do his full bike ticket and asked me to run him to the training school he'd chosen, as he'd be wearing full bike gear and couldn't drive in it. I agreed as I was a biker up until 1997 and was interested in seeing how learning to ride had changed since my day of a test consisting of a trip around the block on a GP100 as it was in my day. I got chatting to the instructor and we hit it off, so when it came to the road element of my friend's CBT he threw me the keys to one of the ER500 Direct Access bikes and invited me to come along for a laugh. Obviously I agreed as it'd been 5 years since I'd had a bike. When we got back to the compound the senior instructor was for some reason impressed with my riding and laid back attitude and made me the offer of being down trained as a CBT instructor giving newbies lessons, in both the classroom and on the road on our scooters and CG125s. For some reason I jumped at the chance as it gave me the opportunity to ride bikes and get paid for it.

Now time for a little description of what the bike school set up was like. Every other school had instructors that acted and behaved like wannabe police motorcyclists, even down to their choice of ex-plod BMW and Pan European bikes they used for lessons. We were somewhat different in being a school who were more interested in the fun aspect of biking and didn't take ourselves too seriously. When the call came out for marshals to assist on the annual Wirral Egg Run we declined due to not wanting to have anything to do with authority. The other main training school in the area had an after Egg Run family friendly get together at their premises involving bouncy castles and a BBQ while our effort was different, the senior instructor had a pub as well so we had an after run party involving a bawdy rock band playing while our girlfriends served drinks dressed in fishnets taking it in turns to dance in a cage... anyway, I'm getting ahead of myself so let's get back to the story. 

As I had yet to attend my instructor assessment course in Cardington I was only allowed to teach CBTs and our younger learners who weren't allowed to do Direct Access due to their tender age. Some were genuine bikers in the making but I also had to deal with scores of 16 year olds who knew it all and wanted you to finish so they could ride home on their scooter and suffer two wheels until next year when they could buy the Corsa of their dreams. A good 90% of these already had the machine control element pretty much licked before they got to us, the other 10%, mainly girls, were somewhat challenging to say the least. The number of times I asked the question can you ride a push bike only to be answered in the negative is more than I dare remember. 

One such girl, who I shall call Chantelle-Marie for the purposes of this story, was a particular pupil who illustrates this point perfectly. She came to us as she had a job offer and the DWP did/does have a scooter commuter scheme where if you had a firm job offer but public transport wasn't an option they'd bung you a new scooter, helmet and CBT to get you off the dole queue. She was utterly fucking hopeless. Both myself and the senior instructor tried to get her to stay upright on our Honda Vision without any great success. When we eventually got her to go in a straight line she'd promptly fall off to one side when she was told to stop. Undeterred I ended up running around the training compound in front of her getting her to aim for my arse! Sadly, she was distracted by one of our fence posts and, as your eyes are connected to your head, which is connected to your body which is in turn connected to your arms she made a full throttle beeline for said post uprooting it and writing off our scooter at the same time.

A little about the fleet we ran. To begin with we had, starting from the bottom up, a Honda Vision Met-In 50cc scooter, two Lifan CG125 clones, three consecutively registered Kawasaki ER-5s, an older blue ER-5 and finally a Kawasaki GT550 that was given to me as a company bike. The Vision was about as fucked as you'd imagine it to be as it spent its life being crashed on our compound every day. The two Lifans were a disaster, they were both W plated and even back in 2002 they both had totally fucked chrome and starter motors that refused to work. An unusual quirk of them was that they both had no less than three sets of foot pegs for some reason. Our ER-5s were divided into two groups, two were dedicated DAS learner bikes and of the other two one was a mint condition example used only for tests and the older blue one was used as an instructor bike.

Now let's talk about some tricks of the trade. A load of bollocks is talked by many instructors about if you're good enough to pass a test you're good enough to pass anywhere. This is total shit. Any test taken away from your local test centre should be treated as an "away match" with a greater chance of failure. Several times I've taken pupils to Chester, St Helens, Widnes and the like just because a punter has managed to get a short notice test only for them to come home with their tail between their legs and a quivering bottom lip just because they had no idea about the sneaky stop signs and slightly unusual junctions, so my top tip is stay local! Another thing to bear in mind is that we would always strongly advise you to book the 3.27pm test and turn up 20 minutes early, our local examiner liked to get home sharpish and he'd be more interested in an early dart than your rear observations! 

Now our local examiner was, and still is, a decent bloke. He hated working for the DSA and out of all the local training schools he had the best rapport with us as we were the only outfit that didn't claim that he used us to train his own kids which was a common lie told by other instructors. In fact for the record, his son was at the time 18 and had a Max Power Corsa with no interest in bikes and his 21-year-old daughter was a hairdresser who would cut her own head off before wearing a helmet. This lead to a few perks for us like when the examiner was given money to replace his helmet he'd buy one and sell it to us cheaply but the biggest perk was the Saturday morning scam. Part of his job was to visit training schools and observe us giving CBTs and we had an arrangement, we'd sign off that he'd been to visit us and he'd not bother to turn up and still get the overtime.

During my stint as an instructor, a police officer was killed when his ST1300 Pan Euro crashed into a truck. What this meant for us is that the DSA immediately stopped examiners using their DSA provided Pan European bikes for tests which meant that most, but not all (and I'll come to that later) bike tests were conducted with the examiner following in a car. Now because we had a decent relationship with our examiners we were often invited to 'ride along' with the examiner while he was testing our candidate. Now this was a perk only offered to us over other training establishments because we would never spend the 40 mins talking shop or DSA procedures but we'd listen to him moan about his job, talk about a plumbing course he was thinking of attending, make various sexist comments about our lady pupil's arse, you get the picture? All in all we managed to swing it for a few of our punters while in the passenger seat.

Now I've already told you about our local examiner so let's discuss the other two who were not only based in Chester and Widnes but used to cover our local test centre on holidays and overtime. This is a tale of two Daves.  Firstly there was Daffy Duck Dave, so called because of the Daffy Duck tie he wore to the office. He's the sort of prim and proper person who put his immaculately ironed hi-viz on to walk to his Mk. 1 Toyota Avensis and then fold it up on the back seat before getting in to conduct a bike test. I never knew him to ride a bike although he was a decent guy and friendly enough. He used to invite me along for a ride along although I never summed up enough courage to ask him why he drove his Avensis automatic locked onto second gear for the entire duration of a test.

The second Dave was someone we referred to as Dave The Cunt. He worked almost exclusively out of the Chester test centre and was unaffected by the Pan Euro ban due to being a BMW rider. An ex-military man, he expected candidates to be turned out in the right gear and for it to be clean and presentable which if I'm being totally honest was a higher standard than even us instructors managed! It was hard work to keep yourself from uttering 'Oh fuck, it's him' over the one way radio when turning up at a test centre and seeing his 1100RT parked outside.

Sometimes things don't go according to plan...  now your average CBT candidate counts down the days until his 16/17th birthday when he can finally hit the road. It's his/her first taste of independence and if you're 16 you can't wait to be signed off and collect your scooter and cause mayhem while a 17-year-old sees this as their first step to a full licence and finally getting that restricted SV650 or Bandit. In both cases, they're jumping up and down outside the gates before you get there in youthful excitement. Sadly for the instructor, whether he be a taxi driver or a publican it's just another day at the office and to be honest we'd rather be still drinking or tucked up in bed. Most of us are capable of conducting a CBT in our sleep and according to my then girlfriend, I actually did just that once! The DSA have strict guidelines on how long the off road compound element of a CBT should last but as this is a work of fiction and I'm amongst friends I'll tell you the truth and say it lasts as long until the instructor thinks he stands a sporting chance of passing a police breathalyzer. Sometimes things go almost well with both pupils having similar levels of ability and learning curves my I can assure you that this is rarely the case. CBTs were booked in where one guy was a 16 year old who'd been riding stolen scooters for years and positively romped through the compound work while the other punter was a lady who couldn't even ride a push bike and had zero balance.

Over the years a few incidents are burned into my brain, for example, the other instructor had a test scheduled and all went well until the test finished and the happy punter had passed their full A licence, all good so far but when it was time to return to base the instructor realised that his ER-5 had run out of fuel. No problem, give the pupil a pilly back and then summon help. I walked over to the test centre to recover the dry Kawasaki from what was then my home a few hundred yards away from the test centre with a can of unleaded but no funnel. Fortunately, the pupil had left their complimentary copy of Ride On, the magazine given to all newly passed riders behind the test centre wall so I made a cone out of it and filled the bike up.  Having no way of carrying the can back to base I left it behind the wall before returning the ER-5. So far so good. The other instructor then offered to give me a lift home which I obviously accepted and made a mental note to pick up the petrol can on our way back. We got back as far as 250 yards away from the test centre only to find the whole area cordoned off by the police due to a bomb scare at the test centre. Yes, a car examiner known as Grizzly Adams had seen my fuel can and as this was the week following the 7/7 bombings had decided to report it as a suspect package. Needless to say the bomb squad were less than impressed with his somewhat overzealous reporting...

Being a biker focused outfit as opposed to wannabe bike plod we were somewhat treated with disdain by the other training schools. One instructor decided to have a sign made saying "Advanced Instructor" stuck to his fairing, needless to say within 24 hours I had a sign made saying the opposite on the front of my bike.

Here's a handy tip. You'd think it was perfectly reasonable to ask what the pass rate at a school was right? Well, pass percentages only tell half the story. Other outfits would never dream of renting out a bike to a customer just to take their test on without selling them a full training course first, we'd happily rent you a bike under those circumstances. Whether the punter passes or fails isn't exactly our fault, is it?

Anyway, one such lad was taken to the test centre by myself and no further thought was given until after an hour neither him or the examiner had returned back to base. The time ticked away and I was getting worried when after an hour and a half both returned back to the test centre. It turns out that he was doing a double length test after a disqualification! He passed quite comfortably and our favourite examiner mentioned that the lad had been to his house several times before, no problem until the punter said he had to take an extended test because he was caught riding under the influence of drugs! Needless to say the examiner went home that night and quizzed his son about his mate's drug use and whether he was using himself!

One lunchtime back in 2005 I'd nipped over to Liverpool (on the boss's Fireblade) to collect some legal stationery, and as I was on my way back I noticed a couple of lads on sportsbikes having a hoon. Naturally, I joined in and much fun was had between the traffic lights and general two-wheeled delinquency. Eventually, we were getting close to the training compound so I backed off only to be surprised to see the aforementioned sports bikes pulling into our compound! Obviously, I was shitting myself that they were going to report me because the recognised the bike I was riding so I mentally prepared some bullshit excuse and followed them in. I took off my helmet and the senior instructor calmly said that "I believe you're already acquainted with your 2pm CBT". Yep, these two lads had been riding illegally for decades and now Merseyside Police had started getting themselves ANPR cameras they'd decided to finally get their full licences. The irony was that although both were highly skilled riders one of them took three attempts to finally pass the ministry test. For a non-judgemental training establishment like ourselves, the 2005 introduction of ANPR was a great moneymaking year for "teaching" learners who'd been riding for decades. Plenty of times we put hardcore 1%er riders through their tests with little or no effort required. Some of these fuckers you really wouldn't argue with so I was happy that they all seemed to pass without any issues. 

One Saturday I was taking a couple of pupils out for some general road work, nothing too taxing and easy money for yours truly. One pupil was a truck driver and the other was a recently divorced lady who fancied herself as a bike chick. We left the compound on time and headed over to the petrol station to fill the bikes up. After topping up I headed into the shop to pay and was greeted by an attendant that knew me a bit from going there in the middle of the night to fill up my taxi. The conversation went as follows...

"That girl you're teaching today has a great figure" said the attendant.

"Yeah but she's got a face like a smacked arse" I replied.

I then casually strolled back out to see her hunched over the bike crying. Yes, dickhead here had totally forgot that he was wearing his one way microphone and both pupils could clearly hear the conversation I had with the attendant.  The following two hours seemed one hell of a lot longer.

Another time I'd dropped a learner off for his test who I'd actually taught. Now this lad was fucking huge, complete with a moon pie face and learning difficulties but I'd managed to get him up to the required standard and was hopeful of a pass. 20 minutes later the examiner rode back into the test centre car park alone. Now that had never happened to me before but I was pretty certain it wasn't a good omen. Apparently, he'd got as far as the U Turn exercise and put his foot down, an automatic fail as he very well knew and then promptly got off the bike, took his helmet off, launched it over a wall and started crying! He was sobbing "I want Warren" at the top of his voice while seated on the kerb...

Let's talk about the police for a bit. Nowadays if you're a serving police officer and fancy becoming a police motorcyclist Merseyside Police will no longer train you to pass your CBT and full licence before training you up on their motorcycle traffic division, they only choose riders with a full motorbike licence. This, coupled with an apparent macho sportsbike riding on your day off culture of serving police officers meant that we always had a policeman or two going through our system at any one time. They could be neatly fitted into one of two groups. The first group was the perfect type of pupil, they listened attentively and were great at following instructions while the second group were by far the biggest bunch of know it all arseholes you could ever imagine, ironically serving traffic officers usually fitted in the second group and regardless of riding ability hated to be corrected on the proper riding procedures, especially off some scruffy fucker who they'd already made a mental note of to breath test them next time they saw me on the road.

Another issue that was personal to me was that they had a police traffic officer who loved picking on us taxi drivers. This prick took great delight in singling me out because he was the brother of our next door neighbour from hell who still goes out of her way to make my ex-wife's life a living nightmare. Now, this prick was keen on the "nothing personal, just doing my job and how's Alison (my ex-wife)?" attitude whenever he decided to visit our compound to distribute Bikesafe leaflets.  Obviously I never once bore a grudge and made him a coffee after rimming the cup with my cock... Ironically the only other time I've done that was to Anneka Rice and her glass of orange juice but that's another story. 

Now picture the scene. It's a sunny Saturday morning and I thought I'd take my two learners out for a little ride around rural Wirral. I find this lovely little country lane that's a dead end with no through traffic and as I'm due a fag break I decide to pull over and let my pair of newbies practice their U turns on our shiny, new and whisper quiet CG125s. all was going well until a pair of wrought iron electric gates silently opened and a bloke who looked like the chairman of the local golf club strode out with a face that nowadays we'd call "gammon" demanding that we take our lesson elsewhere or we'd feel the full force of the law upon us. Now being a responsible citizen I did just that. As an aside we had a display rack back at our base full of cheap motorcycle chains and locks which I most certainly didn't grab a handful of and chain his electric gates together that evening.
 
CorsaBoy used to work on the docks (Sounds like the opening of a Bon Jovi tune) and loved to tell us tales of collecting and delivering various supercars along with his stories of when he was a rally navigator and liked to tell us that he's buying an R1 when he breezes through his test despite us saying that he'd be better with a 600 Bandit. Undeterred, the owner of the training school was keen to move on his 2002 Honda Fireblade (after bodging the gearbox) and after finding out this info demanded that we give him first refusal. Now there was no fucking way we'd let him test ride it without either paying for it or at the very least passing his test first but to silence his whining I agreed to give him a pilly run on the back up the M53. CorsaBoy insisted that he wouldn't be scared by a bit of speed and requested that I showed him what the bodged Honda could do, fair enough. As it was a quiet Sunday morning I took him on the back at sane speeds around town until I hit the start of the motorway whereupon I then unleashed all 160bhp in all the gears (except the bodged third) until we ran up to about 160ish before looping a fast roundabout at junction 4 and then nailing it again of the homeward leg of our fast and very illegal test ride. After returning back to our compound I discovered to my dismay  that my arse was wet through, CorsaBoy despite his demands for speed had managed to piss himself and in the process piss over me as well. Lacking any excuse that would leave him any credibility he apologised and ate humble pie for the next two hours. Eventually after passing his test, first time in his credit, he bought a GSX600F and never spoke again about his tolerance of speed. 

Another lad I remember was a 20 year old that we called Marilyn due to his habit of wearing Marilyn Manson T Shirts. Now Marilyn had a few quirks. He was a diabetic who was into self harm but was gifted at IT and wasn't short of cash in his job of troubleshooting EPOS systems at supermarkets. He drove a 18 month old company Focus that he had picked all the foam off the steering wheel because it distracted him from cutting himself with a razor blade. Now Marilyn was a pretty good rider but for some reason he just couldn't get himself to get through the test much to our dismay. On his third and final unsuccessful attempt with us we rode back quickly to our training compound because his diabetes was playing up and he urgently needed sugar which shouldn't be a problem as he had left a Mars Bar in our office. Sadly Andy, the new owner of our school, had seen said Mars Bar and thinking it was mine had decided to eat it...

Another pupil we called Danny Six Tests due to how many attempts it took him to get through. Danny was a nice enough lad but he sure had his quirks. He had bought a 535 Virago in anticipation of getting his full licence and left it with us at our compound while he was learning and used to visit often to modify it to how he wanted it. Now Danny was resigned to never getting a girlfriend so he modified his Virago to being a single seat. When I say seat I mean some sheet steel covered in vinyl. Sadly his Virago shat its main bearings a week after passing his test so he pushed it to a local bike shop. When he was told how much it'd cost to fix it he asked the owner of the bike shop to buy it. Now obviously the owner of the bike shop wasn't really interested so for a laugh he offered £15 which Danny happily accepted. Obviously, this pissed me off no end as I'd have offered £20.

Warren T Claim

Triumph Speed Triple

Sometime things go so right you start looking over your shoulder for the armed mugger, irate cop or the Grim Reaper himself. I’d been away from England for so long that it seemed a strange land. Full of crack gangs, armed police and, er, a full blooded range of Triumph motorcycles. I'd seen their pictures before but viewing them in the flesh was when it dawned on me that here were motorcycles worthy of the name. That no excuses need be offered or compromises made when handing over loadsa hard earned dosh.

And there was the rub. I’d actually escaped the Big Apple with a large enough wedge of cash to indulge whatever fantasy entered my head when I woke up. But we won't go into that here, at least not for the tiny wedge the editor throws in my direction. Scanning good old MCN, which didn’t seem to have changed much, I came across a nearly new Triumph Speed Triple. With that kind of dosh how could I resist?

Anyone who’s ever actually ridden a Speed Twin would probably run a mile. Those old buggers had such rubbery back-ends that they'd spray themselves all over the tarmac given a moment's inattention or diminution of grip on the bars. I’m sure it was the nasty handling of these devices that gave Triumph its reputation for making relatively tough twins in the fifties. Everyone was shit scared of riding them faster than a BSA Beagle, so the motor never got beyond 3000 revs.

Time, of course, heals such memories and these days the Triumph name is full of nostalgic machoness but, luckily, the bikes are able to back up the image. Handing over six grand for the Speed Triple had me so nervous that I immediately set to forgetting reality by playing with the big triple. The styling’s along the brutalist lines so beloved of early Jotas, with a lean, hungry look about the flanks, although whichever way you look at it, it’s a big bugger with a dry mass of 460lbs that quickly escalates up to 500Ibs when fuel, oil and coolant are added.

At its heart is the 900cc watercooled, DOHC three cylinder motor. A lot has been written about the modular engine range, allowing triples and fours to be produced in various sizes using a common base of parts, but with the benefit of hindsight all Triumph need to make is the 900cc triple, an engine that manages to combine the virtue of excess torque so beloved of British bike fanatics with the willingness to rev happy on a surfeit of power so well defined by the across the frame Japanese four. The latter design is so well implemented by the Japanese that there's no point in any European manufacturer trying to emulate it.

These thoughts were far from my mind as I played with the throttle and first gear, during the first minutes of ownership. At first I was a little disappointed, as the gearing’s tall enough to diminish the immediate effect of the torque. Snapping open the throttle, though, totally transformed the nature of the beast. The bloody front end went vertical so fast that it almost tipped right over. Controllability on one wheel, at least to my reeling brain and shocked body, was marginal.
 
The instinctive shutting of the throttle was like slamming the thing into a wall. The front end flopped back down to earth, knocking the forks down on to their stops as well as sending the bars all aflutter in my hands. I had both feet down by then, as it’s quite a top heavy brute at low speeds, especially when it’s trying to bounce all over the road. I didn't know whether to be exhilarated by the grunt or scared out of my wits. I used to be able to go on at length about the torque of a well tuned, well running 850 Commando, but this little bugger makes such fantasies pretty pathetic.

I hooked up to second as soon as I was moving again and treated the throttle with a bit more care. It’s one of the illusions of styling that the Speed Triple looks leaner and lower than the Trident. It does weigh a whole seven pounds less but the seat height is actually half an inch higher at 31 inches. The seat/tank interface is reasonably narrow but I did find my knees stuck out in the breeze. The tank could have been more sculptured to good effect. The bars were low and narrow in the British tradition though far away off from real cafe-racer clip-ons to preclude strained wrists or a stiff neck. The pegs were a touch cramped for the Malone frame but within tolerable limits.

Within half an hour of acclimatisation I felt right at home, the riding position made me feel part of the machine; an intimate dance between body and chassis possible. Helped along by the exhaust note from the triple cylinder layout. The engine whirred, sometimes rasped, but beyond 50mph that was submerged beneath the symphony emitted from the 3 into 2 exhaust.
 
It wasn’t the loud racket you could expect from an old British twin but its moderate volume was part of its charm. Just loud enough to warn drivers of their impending doom - if anyone knocked me off a six grand machine they were going to eat my knuckles and feel the quality of my leather boots. There was no way I was going to pay out for comprehensive insurance, which seemed to have trebled in my absence. All ageing juvenile delinquents will find the Triumph’s exhaust note the only excuse they need to hustle.

Triumph claim 98 horses at 9000 revs, but more relevant is the 88Nm at 6500 revs. Fast road work, as I experienced on my first ride, didn’t need any footwork once in top with more than 70mph on the Triton inspired clocks. Just whip the throttle open and it'll try to snap your head off like little else. I was hurtled up to 120mph so quick I almost went through the fast approaching corner. Up to that kinda speed I could brace myself against the footrests and seat hump, not too much pressure on my arms. Luckily, an excellent pair of mirrors stuck out far enough to see how far behind I'd left the cages. There was no way at that kind of velocity that I could look back, the wind would've ripped my helmet off.

Killing the throttle dead bounced the back end around a bit, just like a Commando, even when we were fully upright. There’s a massive alloy swinging arm and a quite sophisticated single shock arrangement, so there shouldn't have been much slack. I suspected weight transference as a touch of the back disc stopped the mild twittering without any excessive effort. Fatter riders who put more weight out back might not have the same experience.
 
The Speed Triple goes around corners rather well. It's just a matter of ignoring the intimations of mortality resultant from its mass, showing some faith in the fat 17” Michelins and leaning over as far as you dare. Modern rubber and chassis allow well set up superbikes to do wonderful things in corners. After a week I was able to fling the Triumph about like some hotshot 600 yet it retained straight line stability on a par with the ultra high-tech Yamaha GTS1000. Top speed was a disappointing 140mph. Disappointing? Well, the thing felt like it had so much go in the midrange that it came as a bit of a disappointment to find it running out of puff after 125mph.
 
Undoubtedly, the lack of a fairing (available on other models) limited the aerodynamic efficiency as speed rose. Something backed up by its 25mpg when ridden flat out against 40mpg under normal itchy right wrist abuse. The lack of ultimate top end speed was a hindrance on motorway runs as the police seemed equipped with fast cages, that proved difficult to shake off. Some wild action on the front discs, whilst clenching sphincter muscles, and swerving through some surprised cages for the slip road usually had them overshooting the turn in a blaze of siren and horn. Ooops, only joking chaps but it did seem strange to have all the cops loitering in cars when crime was on the rise in the cities...
 
Blasting down a favourite bit of deserted country road that had mile long straights and lots of twisty stuff, I was in seventh heaven until a sixth sense told me to slam on the anchors. I had the speed down to a moderate enough 80mph by the time the cause of the premonition turned up. I waved to the cops sitting in their cage in a side turning that was conveniently obscured by a hedgerow. What the hell was going on there, the road was almost completely deserted, just moi and the odd lupine farmer trying to waste me with his combine harvester. What a waste of public money. It ruined the rest of my ride as I was continuously scanning the mirrors, waiting for them to come charging out of nowhere. They never did.
 
I went back there a week later and checked them out but they'd done a runner. On that journey I had a dice with a TZR125. The bloody kid killed me dead on the tighter curves but I left him beat about the head by my exhaust noise on the straights. He caught up with me only when I had to pull in for fuel, the tank being good for over 200 miles. We swapped insults and I declined his offer to swap bikes for a few miles. I could just see some juvenile used to a flyweight throwing the very hefty Triumph down the road.

When the rains finally fell I wasn't too amused by the naked nature of the bike. I always yearn for standard bikes when riding a faired behemoth and vice versa. I'd bought some modern waterproofs but the water concentrated on the chest and groin seeped through the seams after an hour of cursing. The way to ride a Triumph in the wet is to select fourth or fifth, use mild revs to motor along serenely. The butch tyres couldn't cope with the torque pulses when the throttle was seriously abused in first through to third. Ridden sanely the Triumph was easy going in the wet, the fearsomely powerful front brakes tolerable when gently caressed with a single finger. Some inexperienced yob could quite easily find himself sliding down the road courtesy of either the brakes or throttle, but then that’s even more true of big Jap superbikes.

One young lady | took on the back wasn't too amused to find her trousers covered in oil thrown off the chain, the back of her jacket splattered with road grime and becoming soaked through in a fairly mild bout of rain. I was more worried at how quickly the once immaculate finish was covered in grime. There's a lot of nonsense about the finish of old British bikes written, I'd always found they had chrome and paint that fell off over the first winter of abuse. The new Triumph started out with a beautiful finish and after three months of use retained it. Couldn’t fault it I'm glad to say. The same goes for the motor, which seemed to run better as the mileage piled up from the 2500 on purchase to the 11000 when this was written. Yes, I couldn't keep off the thing.
 
Any excuse was enough to have me rolling down the road, be it an extended excursion to the shops or going the long way to Scotland on a whim. It deeply depleted my bankroll, though. Tyres were churned through in 3500 to 4000 miles and brake pads didn't last for more than 5000 miles out front. Fuel, as mentioned, was heavy, and an eye had to be kept on the oil level during long distance rides (it was comfy for 500 to 600 miles in a day).
 
There are doubtless lots of small cars that would be much cheaper to run but incredibly dull after the joys of the Speed Triple. In retrospect I might perhaps have been better off going for a Daytona or Super Three, but the naked bike has enough character to make it in its own right. It’s miles ahead of any other Brit bike produced in the past, a whole new experience. Perhaps the nicest thing that could be said for the 900 is that it’s the kind of bike Triumph might've made had not they gone bust in the first place; and it’s unlikely that they could have done a better job. 

Johnny Malone
 

Kawasaki Z550

Ten years is a long time in the life of a Z550. This particular example had been around the clock and then some. But only with one owner and a lot of tender loving care I'd guess. Unfortunately, the bike was in a dealer’s who reckoned it was worth at least £1000. Something along the lines of a nice little classic. These people make you sick! Three months in the showroom was enough to convince him otherwise. £400 changed hands. He reckoned he was taking a loss and I hoped he was, for once, telling the truth.

He had gone to the trouble of fitting a new pair of tyres, pads and sprocket set. I got the bike out of his shop before he had the chance to take them off. I don’t think he’d expected me to pull the money out of my pocket right there and then. The cycle parts weren't 100000 miles old. Sometime, a new tank, guards and seat had been fitted. The forks were off a GPz550 or similar and Hagon shocks held up the back end.
 
The only real signs of its age were the hand painted frame and engine alloy that was submerged beneath white corrosion. Solvol made no difference to the alloy. I left it like it was, intrigued to see how the motor would run. I changed the oil as it'd gone stagnant sitting in the showroom, and was rewarded with a promising rustle, the engine screaming to nine grand when I hit the throttle.

On the road that added up to a willingness to rev up to 90mph in top gear. After that there wasn't much extra performance but an easy 80mph cruising speed could be maintained. With the various mods, including a Motad 4-1, weight was under 400lbs, the Kawasaki was easy to throw around town and quite reasonable in races with hot cages. It seemed like a good buy.

After the first month I had second thoughts. These motors have a weak spot in the camchain and tensioner. Mine started rattling. The cause was a sticking tensioner which freed up. After another week a lot of rattling came back to the top end. I started to check the valve clearances but got no further than the left cylinder’s exhaust camshaft. The lobe was breaking up, where it rubbed on the valve the hardening had worn away.
 
Engine out, cylinder head off. Three of the eight valves had worked their way into the head. Perhaps I shouldn't have been using unleaded petrol. The camshaft bearings allowed a little excess movement. The top end was so far gone that it wasn’t worth spending out on all the parts to renovate it. A week of phoning breakers followed until someone turned up a good head. I was lucky, these are not common motorcycles. I grumbled a bit about paying out for a new head gasket but it was necessary if I was to convince the world that we were going to have a serious relationship.

The bores had looked good so I hadn't pulled the barrels. The motor was easy to work on, the camchain being of the split-link variety. The only real difficulty was physically man-handling it in and out of the chassis. Really a two man job but I managed on my own, at the cost of slivers of pain shooting up my back. Luckily, the Kawasaki's non-standard riding position had evolved into BMW-like efficiency that always, however the bike was ridden, gave my back an easy time.

The Z had lost some of its earlier performance, now reluctant to do more than 85mph. For the next three months it didn’t matter because we were into serious winter commuting when the cold was so numbing that I couldn't bring myself to do any open road riding. The only engine problem was one or two cylinders cutting out, but letting loose with a can of WD40 removed this disturbing adventure in back wheel hopping. Of course, the salted roads corroded the calipers, they needing a strip every month. But that could be said of just about any hack of this era.
 
With the relative heat of the spring I began, once again, to explore the performance envelope. Imagine my surprise, then, to find that top speed was only 75mph! Instead of 55 horses the motor shoved the bike along like it was developing a mere twenty. Even down the steepest of hills it refused to go any faster. 100 miles later smoke started pouring out of the exhaust. What now? After a little exploration with the compression tester it became clear that the rings were not sealing.
 
Had not the consumables still been in fine fettle I might've have cut my losses by dumping the hack in the nearest canal. Engine out, head and barrels off. The same breaker who sold me the head had barrels and pistons. A new camchain and polished, greased tensioner completed the rebuild, old gaskets deemed more than sufficient when combined with a bit of Hermetite. I then had to run the bike in for fifty miles. I decided that the bits, all having come from the same source, should be already worn into each other. Top speed was a disappointing 82mph down my favourite hill but it'd growl along at 75mph in the motorway slow lane for a couple of hours.

The rest of the bike was in much better nick, the chassis snowing no signs of stress and the front GPz discs throwing the Z into stoppies. The Kawa was stable enough to clown around on, a fact not missed by one pillion who climbed up on the seat and mooned following motorists. One Volvo driver followed us for miles afterwards, presumably hoping for a second viewing. My pillion throwing a can of paint he’d stolen from my pack at the Volvo's windscreen finally got him off our tail. It was unlikely that the Z would ever put out sufficient power to burn him off.
 
I wanted to do some serious miles in the summer but the bike didn’t seem up to it. My mates all rode newer bikes that, to a machine, were capable of cruising at the ton. I had the choice of selling the bike or going off on my own. As it happens a quite fit bint came along and decided to come with me. As my friends had wholly failed to attract any women it was much better to tour solo with the frail that risk it with my frenzied friends who could barely restrain themselves from frothing at the mouth whenever they saw her.

What a laugh we had. Some 200 miles down the road to Scotland (from Chelmsford) the Kawasaki decided to fall apart. I was taking it easy at the time. There was a sudden huge roar like some great bloody artic was about to knock me off. No, it was the silencer falling off. Pulling over, looking back there was no sign of it until I saw a bit of metal that'd been flattened into the tarmac.

By the time we reached the nearest town the girl was almost crying from the pain of having her eardrums shattered. There wasn't a motorcycle shop in sight but I tracked down a car accessory store that sold those chromed end cans. It was only a third of the length of the proper silencer but went on without an excess of bodging. The noise was tolerable up to 5000 revs. Beyond that the motor wouldn't pull. The pace became even more relaxed!

Just as well because crossing the Scottish border coincided with the rear wheel bearings breaking up. I've never ridden a camel with a red hot poker shoved up its wotsit but I'd imagine it'd be similar to an overloaded Z550 with shot rear wheel bearings! I managed to run the bike on to some soft grass at about 20mph before we were spat off.

The girlfriend rapidly became an ex-girlfriend. Losing her hearing was bad enough but being thrown head first into a stagnant pond was just too much of a shock to her system. She staggered away, mud streaming off her, to the nearest town, clutching her bag and muttering away like she had lost it all. I had to push the dented Z to a nearby house and beg them to look after it whilst I braved public transport. Three days later I returned from Glasgow, the only place in Scotland that stocked Z550 wheel bearings.

After that traumatic experience I had two weeks of spirited if lonely riding in the Scottish highlands. I’d even found a proper can for the exhaust but coming home top speed was back down to 70mph, smoke was pouring out of the exhaust and the camchain rattled like it was trying to turn into a chainsaw. I had visions of it whipping through the barrel, gallons of oil spewing out of the engine whilst it melted into a moderm sculpture. I arrived home in one piece and there was enough life left in the bike to sell it for £275. The new owner reckoned he was going to fit a GPz550 motor. Good luck to him, I'd had enough. 

Pete Young

Fashion Victims

Sitting at the lights in the chaos of the Huddersfield Ring Road I glanced to my left to check out the bike that had chugged up alongside. It was a Suzuki LS650, previously named the Savage, complete with midget rider dressed in what he obviously thought the politically correct garb for a wild Suzuki rider. Winding the throttle open on my trusty MZ and glaring at his diamante studded jeans and tasselled headband I began to consider the notion that bikers choose their bike to match their wardrobe...

I hear your scornful laughter through my ‘plugs but this intriguing thought circles my frontal lobes as did a litre of Castrol’s finest as I hurtled away from the dandy on the Savage. Further research was called for - before I present my findings for your critical analysis I ask you one simple question: When did you last see a Superdream rider in Kushanti leathers or a GSXR ridden by someone wearing a wax cotton jacket?

I offer the following observations of bikers to support my theory. I suggest that certain bikers, from the Fat Arse on a Wing to the supine lounge lizard on a ZZR600, are but motorised fashion victims. In the interests of good taste this article excludes mention of the fashions sported by step-thru/scooter owners. There are some life forms that even an MZ rider can't come to terms with...

Consider the following and make your own observations. I refer to the male of the species but feel that the same comments can also be ascribed to those females astride a bike.

Hein Gericke - He wears the complete outfit, the Brando jacket, police pants and tour boots. Rides an TDM850. The bulge in his pocket is one of those nifty tubeless repair outfits. He’s a bank clerk and drives his mum's Metro during the week. Avoid eye contact as he may show you his H-G thermal underwear.

Army Surplus - Wicked looking boots, Desert Storm trousers with too many pockets. His GS Thou Rat-bike leans up against a wall. Thinks Terminator 2 the best bike movie ever and can’t wait to buy another bit of kit as worn by former eastern block conscripts, possibly an external crotch protector.

Leather Boy - a wilder version of Hein Gericke, this time with tassels, cowboy boots and a rather odd wallet with a Harley logo on it chained to his bottom. A sad sight, all he can see is Peter Fonda in his reflection all we can see is Liberace on wheels.

Master Derriboots - His wife likes him to ride her roughly but insists he wears plastic bags from Tesco over his Derries on the bike. His clean-from-new Superslug goes well with his one-piece Frank Thomas Aqua suit that neatly folds up into a rather fetching bum-bag.

Blue Denim & White Paddock Boots - Last seen on local runs during the summer months, usually recuperating from that last burst of gravel rash over the winter and ordering new denims/paddock boots from his mam's Littlewoods catalogue. His outfit matches his RG125 with slack chain, missing panels and horrendous exhaust note.
 
Yellow & Green Luminous Bib - The traffic parts as a weary despatcher blats his way through terrified car drivers. Pony Express Man rides an indestructible CX500 dressed for the worst in a baggy one-piece purple oversuit under his Dayglo vest. It’s the middle of June but he doesn’t notice, it’s bonus time and he’s running on a lean mixture of coffee and uppers.
 
The Sensible Bright Yellow Waterproof Person - Visible from 30 miles on a foggy day. How they laughed and danced when he left the shop clutching a suit on sale since 1978. He bought a GS450 with vast fairing to match the pus coloured suit. He dreams of a spanking new GS500 with even more power. He will keep the suit until the EC makes them illegal for frightening small children.
 
The Wannabe A Racer - Kushanti leathers and Arai lid with matching splash graphics on his GSXR750, seems to appear at petrol stations, mumble incoherently and disappear - to another petrol station.
 
Kaptain Smug - BMW mounted, only allowed to wear a Gortex riding suit on Club orders. Rather than actually ride on a regular basis devotees often parade their new jackboots outside the main dealers every weekend. Anyone found wearing other than monochrome garb is expelled into the lowest orders of German motorcycling - see below.
 
Orange DM’s & Rubber Bunny Suit - Can only be the MZ rider! Cool incarnate he dresses as the fancy takes him, could be tired black leather matched with faded denims, even a Parka. The footwear has to be orange DM's - no way you'll start this rattling heap of crap with Captain Kirk’s finest footwear. [All the MZ riders I ever met were immediately identifiable by their thick woolly jumpers waterproofed by human grease, filthy bucket hat replete with three decades worth of rally badges and beards containing enough food to sustain a whole village - 2019 Ed.]
 
Fat Arse In Stretch Denims - Has to be a Goldwing driver. Matching helmet (open face of course) stereo blasting Dire Straits (appropriately) as he wallows in the town traffic, eyeing his reflection in the TSB window. He wears a shiny black leather and the essential stretch leggings. The plum paint matches his complexion - his other bike is a Volvo.
 
Pudding Basin Benny - Brit biker in grimy Belstaff complete with oil stains on his crotch, oblivious to the traffic. The noise and vibes have long since divorced all feeling from his matching wax trousers and black boots. A derivative of this species of fashion victim is the Brit Special - inspired by the Wild One - his Triumph embossed jacket is set off rather nicely by the US bars.
 
The Greaser - An odd combination of clothing, including an Oxfam sourced overcoat over a grubby leather. The helmet often sports an anti-establishment essay about pigs and/or Hondas and the size of his willy.
 
The Angel - Not to be confused with the above lesser breed. Obligatory back patch refers to him being a relative/slave of Satan. The dress is black and casual, a headless chicken may be worn in season with perhaps a hint of crack about the nostrils. Best not to ask where he got the scarf - it’s human skin.
 
I rest my case. Now it’s time to lace up the orange DM's, shove the toolroll down the front of my jeans, zip up the rubber bunny suit and go find another TSB window...
 
MZ Sidepanel

Loose Lines: Insurance Insanity [Issue 55, Dec-Jan 1994]

I think more than anything else, more even than the pathetic, irrelevant designs churned out of Japan during the past decade or two, the huge insurance hikes in the last couple of years have taken the heart out of motorcycling. The essential element of which has always been having lots of fun on the cheap (which probably seems like getting away with murder to those wedded to a new car every three years).

Even though new bikes sales have been terrible for the past five years there are still lots of cheap bikes on offer. Between £100 and £1000 there's a vast range of machinery, from usable 125 hacks on which to learn or commute, to middle-weight fours or twins, that will kill the fastest cage dead in town and keep up with the motorway fast lane. There’s even still room to hustle a little - buy cheap, run for a while and then sell without a loss or even make a little profit.
 
Those with vested interests in selling new or newish bikes in showrooms will deny all this, but my own experiences, letters and contributors from right across the country confirm what’s all too obvious from a cursory glance in MCN’s classifieds. What's holding the whole scene back is people unwilling to pay stupid money for insurance.
 
It might be easy, if you're selling high performance motorcycles, to dismiss this as of no concern. Why worry about a bunch of kids and ageing hippies screaming around town aboard cheap hacks? Because the former, given a bit of luck, eventually end up with a full licence and a pocketful of serious money. The latter can be so overwhelmed by the motorcycle experience that they let enthusiasm overcome their lack of money. That means motorcycle sales, even if they are buying used bikes privately, the people they buy from will then have the dosh to buy something new, or at least newer. But cut out the tens, if not hundreds, of thousands of hacks then you end up with the sales of new bikes way down.

The way things are going, the only people buying bikes will be forty years olds, who'll probably go for Triumphs. New bikes in the upper capacity range are so expensive that the insurance rates bear some semblance to reality, as long as you stick with TPF&T, comprehensive is still too ridiculous. Recognising this, some companies, such as BMW and Triumph, offer better deals through their own insurance policies; assured, at least in these two cases, that their owners are both mature, sensible and not likely to arrange for their bikes to be stolen.

For sure, if you’re just about to collect your pension and want to potter around on a step-thru, then insurance is but a minor part of the minimal running costs. But for a mildly mature person such as myself, even staying with just TPF&T, we're talking hundreds of pounds for some motorcycle under 600cc. And like many other people who’ve been caught out by the hikes, I've never made a claim on any insurance policy during the past twenty years!

If you're 17, want to ride anything over 50cc then the rip-off merchants are going to charge as much if not more money for insurance than the bike cost! A lot of people can’t even get theft insurance even though they have no history of bike theft. The insurance companies insist that they make hardly any money out of motorcycle insurance but if you suggest slashing salaries (and the subsidized mortgages) of their employees they'll show you the door in no uncertain terms.

It really pisses me off to hand over loads of dosh to these, er, people when I know damn well that the likely perpetrator of any accident is going to be some half blind cager so wrapped up in TV inspired fantasies that it’s unlikely he’ll even bother to stop to pick up the pieces.

For the cost of the insurance the chances are that I could pick up the bits in a breaker to fix the bike myself, if I ever rolled it down the road; the simple reason that I’ve never bothered with comprehensive insurance. I would even question the idea of third party insurance - why should | pay for daft pedestrians who don’t look where they’re going or for some cager’s driving malpractice? Why shouldn't the people who cause the accident pay for everything?
 
Theft is the only real area where motorcycle insurance is necessary. Even here, the insurance companies are not willing to pay out what the bike’s really worth, dragging out the process for months and months, until the claimant is so distraught he accepts a pathetic offer. Readers have mentioned massive interrogation tactics when the theft is reported - surely a matter for the police rather than some suited gorila? - and refusal or massive hikes in rates when they go to renew their premiums. I mean, why penalise someone for something they have no control over and for which they have already paid the premium?

It has to be admitted that a minority of claimants have arranged for their own bikes to be stolen, or merely chucked them off the nearest cliff. In part the insurance companies only have themselves to blame as they are seen as massive money making companies who don’t give a damn about motorcycling. Many people find themselves full of joy at ripping the companies off - but it’s shortsighted in the extreme, as they get all their money back, by hiking rates the next time around.

The arseholes who go around stealing motorcycles are another matter. The pathetic penalties given out by the courts provides no discouragement whatsoever. Unlike the penalties brought down on motorcyclists who decide to set up minor deterrents, like booby-trapped shotguns. God help you, because the police certainly won't, if you give some thief caught in the act a gentle tap on the head with a tyre iron. You have to let him beat the shit out of you before you can respond. I would've thought chopping off a hand would be a cheap, excellent deterrent, or a couple of years sharing a cell with a hardcore psychopath.

We have, of course, all been brainwashed into the belief that we need insurance for everything. The latest laugh was some agent trying to persuade me that I needed to insure my TPF&T premium against an actual accident, so that all my legal fees would be paid when I tried to pursue a claim. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry at such stupidity and I left without buying any insurance in that particular shop.

A constant stream of distraught letters indicates that many readers have given up motorcycling because they just can't afford to pay out the absurd insurance rates, even if they only go for third party; their £100 to £300 hacks not worth stealing. No-one seems able to comprehend why they should pay more than their bike’s worth for a year’s minimal insurance.
 
Another type of rider just ignores the whole issue, rides without any insurance. Usually, though, they own bikes that the police like to pick on - old, dirty and running on worn out tyres (if you have insurance and ride on bald tyres when involved in an accident don't expect much joy from the insurance company). It is perhaps typical of the effectiveness of British law that they can get away with quoting the old name in the logbook, never having registered the bike in their own name. The police, overwhelmed with crime and paperwork only rarely catch up with them. In the event of a terminal accident they are usually seen fleeing the scene; it’s cheap enough to buy another hack.

This, of course, is highly regrettable as it encourages people to break the law, adding to the dangerous degree of lawlessness in the UK. It will be only be a matter of time until we end up like the States, where anything goes and the bigger the gun you have the more likely you are to survive, and the alternative to an insurance claim will be some cager poking a shotgun out of his window and blowing you away.

Rather than have thousands of motorcyclists breaking the law it would be far better to make motorcycle insurance optional rather than compulsory. This would also give the insurance companies the kick up the arse they need after so many years of ripping off motorcyclists.  

Bill Fowler

Triumph Tiger 750

I first saw the Triumph parked in the street. Only five years and 15000 miles old, the big twin shone in the bright sunlight. None of that crap Jap alloy, plastic or chrome. Here was the real thing in all its black and red glory. The first time I saw the Triumph I wanted it with almost sexual lust. I couldn't stop myself swinging a leg over her!
 
‘Here, mate, what the fuck do ya think yer doing!?’ The owner, all worn leathers and denim, had to take that exact moment to come out of whatever sewer he was lodging in. Well, it seemed like he just popped up out of nowhere and the smell was more disturbing than his appearance. I muttered an abject apology and asked if he wanted to sell the bike. He did. A brief if terrifying blast on the back convinced me that all was well and a day later 1500 notes changed hands.

Being a trusting kind of chap I didn't test the bike again before handing over the money and didn't suspect that the name in the logbook bore no relationship to the person I bought the bike off! What I think had happened was that overnight he'd taken all the good parts out of the engine and replaced them with near wrecked bits. That’s the only way I can explain the churning vibes and lethargic performance. On the test ride I'd been impressed with the way the bike had hit 90mph, now it didn’t want to do more than 60mph!
 
After a five mile ride I came back home with shaking hands and wrecked vision. When I put the Tiger on its side stand the stand broke off at its mounting and the bike bounced on my driveway. Putting it on its centre stand was a back breaking affair and it felt rather precarious, as if that stand was going to break off as well. Huge gobs of oil dropped on to the drive, sending my wife into a frenzy of abuse. I was close to breaking point by then, but kicking the cat had to suffice as the wife was bigger than me!
 
I played around with the ignition and the plugs, pulled the fuel pipe, ever hopeful of an easy solution. I tightened up the engine bolts as they were loose but two bolts snapped off and one stripped its threads. By the time I'd found some replacements the drive was covered in an oil slick! The Triumph uses a large diameter frame member running from the headstock down to the swinging arm, curving gracefully over the engine. It’s a neat bit of design that even survives in the new Triumph triples and fours. However, in the twins it contains the engine oil and under the influence of the chronic primary vibes from the big vertical twin engine it can crack up.

After I'd taken off the cycle parts and removed the engine, some very nasty looking cracks were revealed in the frame. Things turned even more ominous when I stripped down the engine cracked cylinder head, burn out exhaust valves, bent pushrods, ruined bores, loose big-ends, elastic primary chain, wrecked clutch and a few other minor things. In effect, the bike was close to being a complete write-off!

The wife had a grand old time abusing me for being a total sucker, so I sold off her Mini for 500 notes and started visiting auto jumbles. It's surprising what you can find here. One chap wanted to sell me a ‘new’ frame, still wrapped in cardboard. When | pulled some of this off it revealed even more cracks than my own frame. I was determined not to be ripped off twice and over three months I managed to buy most of the parts secondhand at lowish prices. The rebuild took just a week. I'd paid for a re-bore to match used pistons and rings, and bought a pattern gasket set. Total cost was £525 which included a good secondhand frame. Tigers in immaculate condition do fetch over £2000 so I wasn't yet too much out of pocket.

Of course, the engine refused to start for the first five days. The Tiger, despite its mild tune, needs one hell of a kick and more than twenty attempts left me knackered. Brand new plugs, heated to near melting point over the gas-stove, did the trick and left me with bandaged hands from handling them - the things we do for wheels!

I feared that the bad starting was the result of a poor rebuild, but the bike had plenty of guts up to 90mph, would even put 115mph on the clock. Alas, using more than 5000 revs brought in incredible levels of vibes. A taste of this was seen in the way the Triumph shuffled across the tarmac when at tick over on the centre stand. The front guard also twitched away in rhythm with the buzzing.

The seat was remote from the vibes and was very comfortable, almost armchair-like. Just as well, because the stiff suspension only had a couple of inches of travel that did little to remove the bumps and potholes. The steering was steady and on Roadrunners the chassis was secure. At around 400lbs it was quite flickable but always heavy going. It was the kind of bike you could grow into and learn to love.

If it wasn't for the engine. OK, the components weren't brand, spanking new and I’m not the best mechanic in the whole world (but the motors are supposed to be easy to work on, aren't they?) but it took less than 800 miles for some major traumas to turn up. It happened at the beginning of the winter, just as I was congratulating myself on my choice of machine - the Tiger felt really secure on the slimy road surfaces. Crunching noises started to come from the engine, sounding like metal was breaking up. The primary chain had broken up, mangling the tensioner and then wrapping itself around the crankshaft.

That was bad enough but the sudden loss of speed allowed a car to back end me. The bike and I slid down the road in different directions. I’m sure the cager swerved at me, or perhaps he was just avoiding the bouncing bike. Anyway, I sort of threw myself off the road, rolled into a ditch and then head-butted a large rock. Fortunately, my helmet was cracked rather than my skull. I was a bit dazed as I pulled myself back up on to the road. No less than six cars had skidded into each other and the bloody bike had no more damage than a few bent ancillaries - I was hoping it was written off and I could claim on the insurance.
 
The end result of that little incident was that the insurance company refused to renew my premium, doubtless putting a black mark against my name for the rest of my life. A newish primary chain and tensioner were duly secured and I was back on the road within a week. I had absolutely no faith in the Triumph, though, even if it wasn't too expensive on fuel, about 60mpg. 500 mile services and daily bolt tightening were tedious, especially when clowns on Superdreams, and the like, kept screaming past at unlikely speeds.

After one vicious effort with the throttle, to see off a CX500, I pulled over to have a much needed cigarette. The cylinder was jumping up and down because its retaining nuts had started to come undone. The vibes really were insidious, short of installing the bike in a Commando frame there was no easy way of eliminating them. I couldn't take any more, after 1300 miles I wanted shot of the bike.

There is a happy ending to this tale of dread. The Triumph looked beautiful, an excess of gloss, despite everything. Some suited gent turned up and insisted on giving me £2500. I almost got down on my knees to give thanks for my good fortune. The wife almost smiled at me until I went out and bought a ’68 Bonnie...

V.N.M.

Kazasaki ZX-9R

3000 miles in a month. That probably tells you a lot about how much I like the Kawasaki ZX-9R. I was initially sold on the appearance. Yum, yum! Then there was the comfort. It'd have Gold Wing owners running a mile but after nearly breaking my back on a ZXR750 it was bliss. The mind blowing acceleration on the test ride was all that was needed to convince me I had to have the two month old hp repossession.

The first day of ownership saw me roaring up the M1, from London to Scotland. The ZX was nicely set up, felt better the faster we went. Top speed was somewhere beyond 160mph, that kind of speed causing everything to happen in a frenzy. Cars seemed to be going backwards and I had to grab the brakes several times. Jolly powerful and sensitive they were, too. The alternative was to cut the car in two with our sheer momentum.

Fuel worked out at around 30mpg at incredible speeds, too heavy to quote here as the law would descend upon my slender shoulders. I think I might've flown right past one patrol car but he was stuck in the slow lane and by the time he got his act together I was GONE!

High speed comfort was good for about 100 miles. The saddle looks a bit minimal but it’s reasonably shaped and padded. When the discomfort sets in there's not much room to move about and a little further down the road I found my legs becoming a bit cramped - I was more than happy to stagger off the bike in the nearest fuel station.

By the time I arrived in the Scottish lowlands I was cursing the ZX a bit but half an hour at my destination was sufficient for the aches to disappear. I was raring to go for the back road trip home. The ZX weighs 475lbs but feels less once a little speed is up. With a massive aluminium frame and swinging arm there’s an immediate feeling of security and, | found, few nasty tricks up its sleeves.
 
Tyre grip, from the wide Bridgestone BT50s, was so good it seemed to me that if I ever tested them to their limits I would’ve ended up horizontal. Mind you, the previous owner had turned up the damping and springing to their maximum settings, both the 41mm upside down forks and mono-shock being multi-adjustable. Large bumps hit coming out of bends tested the limits of the damping and I had the impression that if I settled for a less taut ride some wobbles might have emerged. But then any bike with 125hp is going to push things to the limits coming out of corners.

When some rain began to fall I was reassured by the way the power was put down fluidly. No wild pulses of power to knock the back tyre way out of line. On a few occasions the rear tyre did squirm a little whilst a gentle hand on the 230mm disc brakes had to be maintained. The four piston calipers would knock the speed dead so rapidly that at low speeds I was often thrown up on to the tank. In the wet I just gently caressed the lever with one finger and still felt in fear of my life until I'd had about a month’s worth of practice.

Wet weather protection could’ve been better but that’s true of all race replicas and the ZX had a bit more plastic than most, with aircraft inspired ram-air ducts to force more air into the engine at high speeds. The fairing was sometimes attacked by secondary vibes around 80mph, which seemed a valid excuse to head for much smoother ton plus speeds!
 
With six gears there was plenty of opportunity to ride around the vibration. Even so, with the spread and excess of power five gears would’ve been more than enough and even a mere four ratios might have sufficed. The change wasn't the slickest in the world, preferring acceleration and dedicated use of the clutch. There was a bit of churning of the chain at lower speeds, especially when bopping along in fifth or sixth. As the engine’s developed from the hot-rod ZXR750, finicky behaviour is not completely unexpected.
 
Town riding could've been painful had not I developed a need for using a fistful of throttle in first through to third. This kept my mind off both the machinations of the gearbox and the annoying low speed ergonomics. All my concentration was required to deal with the rearing front end and riotous rate of acceleration. About the only thing to see me off in GP starts was another mad nutter on a fearsome Fireblade. The ZX just couldn't compete with such a light bike, although its even more minimal accommodations meant the rider was in agony much quicker and I think the ZX looked much flasher.
 
Continuous hard use had wasted the back tyre by the time 4000 miles were on the clock. The front tyre had about an extra millimetre of tread left. By then the handling had become a little tenuous, limiting speeding to less than 100mph as I always felt the weaves that came in thereafter were on the verge of throwing the ZX into some terminal wobbles. I didn't really push it, for all I know the massive construction of the chassis might've still inhibited any real madness.

As money was short the breaker was raided for a pair of nearly new BT50’s off a mangled ZX-9. God knows what the rider had hit, the poor thing had actually broken the Y-type alloy frame. That left me with the amusing task of changing the tyres. Tubeless tyres are a real pain to remove. In the end I had to bung the local tyre shop a tenner to do the job. Even the resident expert went into a swearing fit and only just restrained himself from hurling the front wheel across the garage. He told me not to bother coming back next time.

The hefty O-ring chain was halfway along its adjusters and needed a tweak every 500 miles. After my mad month's worth of abuse the engine was running poorly below 5000 revs, the result of the four 40mm Keihin carbs needing a balance.

I don't think I can afford to do 3000 miles every month! A set of tyres, half a chain, carb balance, oil change and about 80 gallons of fuel... even the front pads were beginning to rattle. Such expense would also limit the bike as a long distance cruiser; no wonder the guy gave up on his hp payments after two months (I paid £6500 cash).
 
Difficult starting occurred towards the end of my month’s ownership. I was frightened that it might be one of the electronic black boxes, past Kawasakis being notorious for burning them out. My friendly Kawasaki mechanic reckoned it was the spark plugs, although I wished he suggested that when he balanced the carbs. I felt competent enough to do the swap myself. What a load of junk I had to remove to get at them and it was dead easy to mis-thread them, which given the massive complexity of the watercooled DOHC four cylinder engine, with its excess of plumbing, would have proved an incredibly expensive mistake.
 
Luckily, after a lot of sweating and swearing, I successfully screwed all four of them in. When I bragged about this major achievement to my more mundanely mounted mates, they all thought I was mad!
 
That's the price of progress and massive on the road kicks. The ZX-9R's so fast and flash that it'll meet, and exceed, the expectations of those who need their egos boosting. And, it’s also one hell of a bike for anyone who’s overwhelmed with enthusiasm for motorcycling. My caged friends keep telling me I could’ve bought a nice car for that kind of money: I tell them I could’ve bought two or three! 7 Oh yes, the ZX-9R has one of the most precarious pillion perches in the business and I actually made one cager wet himself when I took him for a mono-wheel excursion to show him what all the fuss was about. After 15 minutes he’d aged by ten years and hasn't spoken to me since. Headbangers, sign up here. 

Pete Hayes