Loose Lines: Cycles [Issue 76, Feb 1997]

It may well be that new motorcycle sales are finally, at last, on an upward trend. If so, an awful lot of punters are going to be in for a nasty shock. OK, OK, there are some thoroughly splendid race replicas out there if all you want to do is speed along at 150mph all day long - as long as you have enough dosh to pay for the fuel, oil, tyres, pads, chains and servicing; and have some kind of direct line to the chief constable in your area in order to avoid massive fines, if not imprisonment.

Unless you don't give a shit any more... just out drag them on some 170mph bolide, get far enough away to melt the tyres on the brakes and get the hell out of there before the helicopters or road blocks get you. Trouble is, most replicas have mirrors that go so blurred it’s like looking at yourself after spewing up ten pints of lager and an Alsatian curry; the cops are on you before you know what's happened.

But apart from the replicas most of the new stuff out there is flawed in basic design, poorly developed, ridiculously heavy and so overpriced that I can only assume there is a massive conspiracy between motorcycle manufacturers. And, yet, some suited git who would go into a mental trauma if someone ripped off his tie, would proudly point to booming sales, more punters than bikes and other sundry lies and gross deceptions (check out MCN’s display ads for huge discounts on many models if you think the whole market is booming).

Get away from the sheer kicks and macho-ness of the race replica scene; things become pretty dire and dismal. Commuters are as nasty and unsafe as they were in the sixties (perhaps more so because they are restricted on the back of the learner regulations) and any semblance of a sophisticated ride is dissipated by the rigours of ten thousand miles of abuse. None of these single cylinder cycles offer an easy upgrade to 25 horses (which is what most strokers in this capacity knock out in more liberal markets), say by changing the throttle cable. Crap that isn’t even that cheap to run, economy often much worse than the original sixties designs in which they have their roots; toadd insult to injury the cost in the UK represents two to three times what they retail for in the third world, often superior versions. Easy money for someone.
 
Commuters don’t matter much to serious motorcyclists, except that 25hp, 250lb strokers happen to be quite a lot of fun in their own right, as long as they have reasonable suspension and geometry. Scooters have at least evolved into more stylish contraptions but stupidly (incredulously) don’t even go to the bother of incorporating hand protection and have somewhat constipated performance and shockingly poor economy... handling on wet roads, on small, fat tyres (which if they grip reasonably last for less than 10000 miles (what fucking world are these people living in?) is often frightening. Anything half decent costs at least two grand.

You have to laugh at these companies - the whole lot of the idiots, not just the Japanese - they haven't got a clue what they are doing, just churning out mediocre dross and getting away with it. Partly because the mainstream press doesn’t want to blow all the juicy advertising revenue and partly because the punters, desperate for some way to get through cities jam-packed with excessive numbers of autos, will take whatever's on offer.

The glossy press is almost unreadable, these days, but then I seem to be totally out of it - the UMG in stately decline whilst these buggers (oops, that has an all too literal meaning as one UMG contributor found out when he tried for a job in gloss city) are in boom time. Unfortunately, my madness doesn't extend to naming names - just yet - as some of these companies have huge funds and nasty lawyers... just yet, note!

The nonsense in the commuter section’s mad enough, but the mainstream motorcycle game is so bad it makes you want to give up in disgust. Ride a CBR900 back to back against a CB750K1, and, for sure, progress has been massive, two completely different worlds - every single aspect of the newer Honda evolving almost beyond recognition. The cleverness of their development engineers turning a pig ear’s of a design (the only thing the CB750 ever had going for it was relative smoothness and hence reliability) into a sublime device.

Race replicas are viable substitutes for hard drugs and should be available on the NHS. Much like heroin addiction, you either get used to the madness of the accelerated feelings or you end up dead! Everything happens so fast that a moment's inattention will have you up the back end of some doddery cager or chucked right off the road in a blur of tearing metal and breaking limbs. You really need to snort up some coke just to get the reflexes in the right frame of reference (only in third world countries, children, where it’s possible to bribe your way out of trouble).

Suzuki, Yamaha and Kawasaki have all done the same trick with their maximum replicas. But ask any of these factories to take the dictum of minimum mass and apply it to mainstream motorcycles and they will just laugh, perhaps hysterically, at the thought of wasting such effort on bikes where the profits are in hundreds rather than thousands. Missing entirely the point that done properly sales would outstrip the pathetic number of replicas sold.

In odd moments of fantasy, I reckon I could do a lot better but then no-one’s likely to bung me the dosh... I’m not sure if it’s fortunate or unfortunate that I don't number amongst my acquaintances any drug dealers who need to launder dosh, unlike some in the publishing game (again, that temptation to name names)!

It is possible to make a big twin completely free of vibration without balancers in such a way that it fits in perfectly with the ideal motorcycle layout (light, low and narrow), and the more I look at this design, the more obscenely irrelevant it makes the almost obligatory implementation of the straight four. Just to make it clear, if you have a vibration free big twin you can make it large and light, and use the motor as the main frame member.

Anyway, I ain't telling you any more about that as it’s part of my retirement plan. Despite all of the above, the basic exhilaration of motorcycling remains, on anything from a 125cc learner to some 1200 behemoth... but it could all be so much better, cheaper and easier. I'm getting to that stage where I wonder if it’s worth the effort any more! 

Bill Fowler

Kawasaki GPz500

There are lots of fast bikes available in the used motorcycle marketplace but I was really pleased to buy a 9000 mile, two year old GPz500 for £2000. I'd tested it by pulling a wheelie in first gear. Not an easy task as it needed a wicked wrench on the bars and throttle. The bike’s balance wasn’t perfect with an urge to throw itself sideways into the gutter.
 
The engine made all its serious power between 7000 and 11000 revs, tried to trash the drive chain at the bottom end of the rev range. The six speeds worked with all the fluidity of a Ural but invariably engaged. The downwards change through the box was much smoother than the upwards. The OE O-ring chain was about half worn, careful adjustment determining the transmission’s exactness.

These were my early impressions, confirmed by a fast thrash up one side and down the other of this great country of ours. I just did the run for kicks, none of that charity shit. Top speed was an indicated 130mph, the motor feeling busy rather than vibratory. The half fairing was quite efficient, judged on the way the bike surged forwards between the ton and ton twenty.

Fitted with Japlop shod sixteen inch wheels, high speed stability was better than expected. Felt well planted to the tarmac even when flat out. Later bikes had seventeen inchers, running fatter tyres - the one drawback of the smaller front wheel was that it could suddenly let loose in bends, usually when the tarmac was less than perfect. I didn't experience that suicidal move, mostly because I looked where I was going. I did note that the bars shook when accelerating hard out of bends with just slightly bumpy surfaces.
 
One good aspect of the small wheels was that the 400Ib twin was easy to chuck through the bends, feeling more like a 250 than a full blown 500. I tried both Avon radials and Michelin tyres, but could discern little difference between the various makes and the Japlops worked out as the cheaper option (rear 6000 miles, front 8000 miles). One reason it was difficult to tell the difference between the brands of tyres was that the bike felt a touch remote from the road, lacking that essential communion between machine and tarmac. It wasn’t the kind of motorcycle that you could take right to the edge and hope to survive to tell the tale.

The poor quality suspension’s undoubtedly to blame for the remoteness. Even when I bought the bike at its relatively low mileage, the spindly front forks would clang and clatter over rough going. The rear shock, served by a Uni-trak arrangement, felt harsh and soft at the same time. The ride was still quite plush, doing a good job at absorbing most bumps, and when upright or banked over on smooth roads there wasn’t much to complain about. When bumpy bends were involved, a hinged in the middle feel predominated and it didn't take much effort to get the chassis all crossed up.

In its favour, the chassis was neutral, didn’t go berserk if the brakes were gently applied or the throttle slammed shut in corners. It was also light enough to haul on to a different line when necessary or pick back up when I wanted to make a straight line out of a corner. In short, the square section frame was up to the job of keeping the quick wear suspension in line.

It didn’t take long for the contrast between the hard charging engine and squeamish chassis to irritate the hell out of me. This coincided with a buxom lass being taken pillion, her weight making the back tyre rub through the plastic mudguard. The single front disc was also troublesome, the pads rattling around like they were down to the metal and the whole front end squeaking during low speed stops.

It didn’t take a great intellect to work out that a stronger shock and whole new front end were needed. Stuff off a GPz900 was bodged on, giving the bike a solid feel, more Ducati than Kawasaki. The twin discs almost had me over the bars the first time I used them in anger. The only downside was a bit of a handlebar flutter at 115mph. I found that I could ride through it, the bike feeling much safer at 125mph! Any excuse to speed. As if any was needed!
 
The GPz was a relaxed 90 to 100mph cruiser. Plenty of protection from the half fairing, a useful surge of acceleration in hand to see off any erring cagers, and rock-like stability with the upgraded suspension. With about 40mpg I could survive for 180 miles before worrying over fuel, which was about right with regards to comfort. The ergonomics were spot on but the seat needed an extra inch or two of padding as a hundred miles had me squirming around a little whilst 300 miles in a day resulted in a funny walk.

Wet weather wasn’t much fun. My gloves were quickly soaked through and the minimal mudguarding, especially at the front, left the whole chassis in a far from pleasant coating of grime. The black engine make-up and tank paint were the best aspects of the finish; every screw on the bike was soon speckled in rust, the exhaust was quick rotting and the silver frame was seeping corrosion from underneath its paint. The alloy wheels corroded rapidly, as did the stands and handlebars.
 
The plastic was strong and flexible enough to survive the times the bike fell off the wimpy sidestand - usually, the indicators exploded. The fairing was susceptible to stones flying through the air and the excellent headlamp was holed by one stone but continued to work with searchlight intensity One thing to watch for with the electrics is that the battery can lose half its water after a hard day’s 500 mile thrash.

One thing that caught me out was the time a spark plug burnt out. The engine wasn't impressive as a 250cc single... I tried to do a roadside repair because I had a spare set of plugs, having read that they don’t last for more than 5000 miles. You wouldn't believe the hassle I had just removing the petrol tank, someone seemed to have glued the fuel pipe on to the tap. The plugs are a long way down in the cylinder head and I almost cross-threaded them! Not funny, some of these companies have given up on the real world of roadside repairs.

Once access was gained, the GPz was easy enough to maintain. Adjust the eight valves every 10000 miles and balance the carbs at half that distance. Even the air filter could be cleaned out with an air-hose. Oil was changed every 2500 miles and the oil filter whenever I felt guilty about it. An excess of slow town work caused the sight glass to sludge up with white gunge from condensation in the oil but a hard blast cleaned it up. I prefer a dipstick myself as they are less dependent on putting the bike on a perfectly level surface.

I did about 35000 miles in eighteen months with no major mechanical hassles. The motors, despite developing 60 horses and liking to be revved, are known to be tough, with the cam chain the first thing to go at around 50000 miles (maybe half that if regular oil changes are neglected when the cam lobes will also  scar). The major sign of wear is in the gearchange and looseness in the final drive chain (curiously, and primitively, primary drive’s by hyvoid chain and not gears, but it lasts well). It's never as bad as some Hondas, but it does show up an otherwise sophisticated piece of engineering; at least until you get used to its machinations and learn to ride around it. One less gear would happily be exchanged for a slicker box. If, on a test ride, you find the gearbox completely impossible then it’s probably a sign of very high mileage.

GPz500s do attract the hard cases and it’s also an ideal DR mount, making it difficult to find nice ones, especially with the way the finish goes off rapidly. I managed to sell mine for £1750 and buy a nearly new one for £2700 (the better suspension and wheels making post 94 bikes somewhat superior) with just 2400 miles on the clock. This one’s really immaculate and I intend to keep it that way for the next two or three years (helped along by the excellent Scientific Coating’s liquid on the chassis).
 
The GPz carries on the fine tradition started by the Bonnie, bikes that are very versatile, fun to ride and not so expensive to run that you have to rob banks. 

Peter Daller

Yamaha FJ1100

A tired 1985 Yamaha FJ1100 for £1500. Cheap because insurance was silly for anyone under the age of 30. I was only 22 but what the hell, no need to stop for the cops on a 150mph motorcycle, was there? The vendor took me for a fantastic blast on the back which had me full of lust for the 550lbs of magical metal. 62000 miles on the clock and all the consumables just about on the way to being shot.

After I handed the money over, storm clouds obscured the sun and by the time I was on the open road the rain was so heavy that visibility was down to a few yards. The FJ slid all over the shop, more like a top heavy pig than a sophisticated piece of iron. The balding tyres just couldn’t cope with the river of water flowing down the road. I tried to keep the bike as upright as possible through corners, causing following cagers to curse on their horns at the 20mph cruising speed. Really, it felt so suicidal that I didn’t want to go any faster. Even when I fitted new tyres there was always a certain edginess on wet roads.

Not a good beginning, then. Finished off the first ride by dropping the bike on my driveway. Couldn't find the side stand, lost my footing and that was all it took for the sheer mass of the bike to crash down to the earth. My leg saved the bike from serious damage but kept me howling in pain for an hour or so. Next day the sun was shinning and the FJ ridden to the tyre dealers for a new set of Metzelers. I came back to find the chief hoodlum asking me if I knew if my discs were cracking up. I’m sure they had walloped the wheel on the ground but couldn't prove it. If I didn’t pay up for the tyres they would confiscate the Yamaha. Grumbling insults under my breath (they were a lot bigger than me) I rode back home, forced to rely on the rear brake and engine braking. Phone calls to breakers revealed that disc demise was all too common but persistence eventually won out and a set were sent down COD from, er, Scotland!

Better get some serious road work in, thought I. Head for France and then Spain. Loaded the FJ up with a pile of junk that had the rear shock down on its stops. I started gibbering when I realised that the mono-track bearings were as shot as the shock. Sod it, rip off most of the junk and ride it regardless. The handling was a bit weird but OK up to the ton when I could ignore the weaves. Blasting along at 140mph I needed the whole width of the lane to survive but I've ridden lots of seventies fours that were more frightening at lower speeds. It all depends on what you're used to and the FJ, even on worn suspension, would be pretty good compared to, say, a Kawasaki H1.

As soon as I was in France I went berserk. Don’t know quite what it was but within minutes of hitting the autoroute I was flat on the tank with the throttle to the stop. The half fairing gave jolly good protection and the indentation in the saddle helped hold me comfortably in place. French cagers were weaving all over the place, or maybe it was just the combination of grinding vibes and wallowing chassis that got to me. A couple of times had to slam on the anchors to avoid whacking into some car that was tottering along so slowly it seemed to be going backwards, though in all probability it was doing 90mph to my own 150mph!

Charging into Paris, full of adrenaline and that peculiar speed frenzy that comes from high speed motorcycling, the back end actually started clanging over the rough streets. It was impossible to pull over so I tried to accelerate through it. The bike became more like a fairground ride than a piece of high tech motorcycle, causing maximum applause from the cagers. By the time I found a hotel I was pretty wrecked and I’m sure in Blighty I would've been refused entrance.
 
Because the shock was shot I’d left my bag full of tools at home. Two weeks were spent lounging in Paris whilst a mad scrappie fixed the back end with new bearings and shafts. The used shock he fitted was off an artic or something equally hefty as I could bounce in the seat without any movement from the rear end. 150mph all the way back down the autoroute to Calais, no signs of the previous weaves. When I went to slow down for the exit, there was a bang from the gearbox and about a trillion revs on the tacho. I shut the throttle dead and stamped on the gear lever. The box caught in third and then tried to lock the back wheel up until I got the throttle and clutch working.
 
It wasn’t until I was back in England that I realised the top two ratios had disappeared. The bike could still be thrashed down the motorway at 90mph but an indication of the vibration was the way the mirrors tried to unfurl themselves. I was actually stopped by the cops but they couldn't be bothered giving me a ticket for speeding as I was only 15mph over the limit. They spent ten minutes trying to pull the back end apart so perhaps they'd clocked my antics on the ride down... the elephant-like appearance of one of them suggested a long memory.

By the time I reached home the chain was trying to break the chainguard off and the bike was locked into second gear. There was enough smoke out of the exhaust to please an MZ addict which I thought a bit odd as I'd almost drained the engine dry! Old Japanese motors can burn the oil like ancient British twins. It nearly did my head in when I realised the swinging arm had to come out to replace the chain! The swinging arm spindle was slightly bent and corroded. Great!

With the back end fixed up, a few months of high speed commuting followed. New engine oil allowed selection of a full complement of gears if I didn’t mind the noise of tearing metal and the need to wear ex-army boots. Fast commuting was a pretty weird trip - 120mph down the middle of crowded A-roads and the ton-fifty on the motorway whenever possible.

I couldn't believe the rate at which consumables died. Tyres in 3000 to 4000 miles, chains in about 5000 miles and a set of EBC front pads in a ridiculous 3300 miles. The latter from speeding up to corners at about twice the correct rate and then slamming on the anchors in desperation. The twin discs had plenty of power but lacked any kind of feedback, the first I knew of a locked wheel was the screaming tyre, which doubtless contributed to the early demise of the front rubber.

In its day, the wraparound, square section frame was highly rated but the FJ was still one overweight bastard when I wanted to speed through corners. There was so much grunt from the mill that it could have the bike going sideways when applied with too much enthusiasm in the bends. There was also a lack of ground clearance that stopped me getting the FJ right over on the edge of its tyres. I would swear my head off at the bike but it didn't make any difference. One, highly dangerous, technique was to lean off the bike whilst keeping it as upright as possible.
 
An almighty wobble would turn up if I got the balance slightly wrong and I’d end up sitting in dirty underwear at work for the rest of the day. Then there was the time one of the silencers fell off, rust finally overwhelming it. The bike had always been a bit loud, all part of its character to me but this was ridiculous. Sounded like a platoon of tanks was rumbling up the road. By the time I hit the breakers for a replacement, the other one was also hanging off. A fiendish matt black four into one was hammered on. Looked the business but put a 2000rpm flat spot deep in the midrange.

With 83500 miles on the clock I was about ready to sell. The brakes looked like they would need replacing soon, plus yet another round of consumables. The engine was very tough, all I'd done was keep it topped up with fresh oil. The chassis was competent rather than inspiring, too much weight to be really enjoyable. The power gave one hell of a kick but destroyed the chassis in short order when used in anger. Finish was OK, surviving with just the odd bucket of water thrown at it when I was feeling bored. Sold it for £1700 but wouldn't have another unless I was desperate for some high speed excesses. 

N.K.

Yamaha XJ900

‘Look, matey, I’ve just come 100 fucking miles to see this heap of shit that you described as immaculate...’ It's happened to me too many times. Read the advert, talked over the phone and turned up to find some old rat instead of the immaculate motorcycle lovingly described. I actually hit one guy and came close to it this time when I clocked the grime encrusted XJ900. If the owner had told me it just needed a clean I would've done for him!

Instead, he started the motor, let me hear with my own ears what a 19000 miler should sound like. A bit mollified by the lack of rattles I had a quick blast around the estate. It handled like a pig but accelerated like a phantom jet. XJ motors, with their well proven DOHC four cylinder layout, are generally tough. The chassis had degenerated into rat status, not unconnected with the fact that it’d been commuted 40 miles a day through the winter months without once being cleaned.

We haggled for a while, ending up with me reluctantly handing over seven hundred notes for the six year old machine. I rode most of the way home on one wheel, amusing myself with bursts of acceleration. The front brakes were locked up like they'd been attacked by a welding torch. The back was an exciting on/off switch, which broadsided 500Ibs of gunge into anything that got in the way. Engine braking was usefully fierce, a lovely drone from the Motad four into probably a minor miracle.

Of course, the first thing one does with such a rat’s to Gunk and jet-wash to find out the extent of the damage. Corrosion can run so deep on Japs that the frame’s close to breaking through. Most of the mess was surface rust and deeply mottled alloy but all the chassis bearings were loose and the suspension had seen much better days. I spent about £200 sorting it all out, ending up with an average condition bike for the year (1988).

The twin front discs still lacked power for a 135mph machine. Several times they faded away to nothing. That kinda woke me up! On one occasion I went roaring through a busy junction at 50mph instead of coming to a controlled halt. I didn’t even have the presence of mind to hit the horn, not that it can be heard over the rusted out Motad. More by divine luck than any particular excessive judgement, bike and I sailed through a plague of traffic. A few horns were blown and brakes screeched.
 
Old disc brakes are pretty nasty things. Rotted calipers, thinning discs and squelching hydraulic lines. I tried my best, would’ve been silly not to, but the restoration job was limited by pitted pistons and bores plus discs that were going so thin they were turning distinctly musical. Newish stuff a few months down the line provided a final solution that threatened to repeat its demise after the first winter. Both EBC and Ferodo pads lasted for a mere 6000 miles.

Handling was what you’d expect from a large multi that has its inspiration in the seventies Z1 and CB750. Stable in a smooth straight line, needing loads of muscles in the tight stuff and wallowing on long sweepers above 80mph. OK, brand new suspension might have made the plot better, but the Japs are a bunch of wankers - a few thousand miles on the clock of a brand new bike most often causes suspension slack and the same kind of weird handling. Any car manufacturer who tried the same trick would've been out of business within a year!

Moan over, I still managed to enjoy the XJ for most of the time, in a year’s hard charging of 22000 miles. The very good news was the toughness of the motor, which was given only oil changes and carb balances (I’ve got the vacuum gauges so that was cheap). With 41000 miles on the clock there were some quite harsh rattles from both the cam and primary drive areas but not so bad that they affected performance or the ease with which I sold the bike for a thousand notes.

Acceleration could be very heavy when the carbs were set up perfectly. Really a 500 mile job. After that secondary vibes cut through the chassis every time more than 5000 revs were dialled in. The hard stuff came in at 6000 revs, when the shockwave from the Motad knocked cats off walls and shattered milk bottles. It was a bit of a pain, the noise making more than the ton very uncomfortable; my poor old head left ringing.
 
The Motad eventually disintegrated, although it may’ve been there since new for all I know. The can went without warning, not exactly flying through the air. More like blowing up into a million rusted particles. The downpipes were also just about rusted through, a few taps with the hammer reduced them to dust. I had no end of carb problems with both a home-made four into one and a used stock system. Only got rid of the flat spots by fitting a used Motad. Doubtless the previous owner had changed the jets to suit the Motad. The used one was in perfect nick, replacing the previous bellow with a gentle growl.
 
The XJ felt more powerful than its reputation would suggest with a stunning surge at higher revs and quite a lot of torque below six grand. These traits were echoed in the exhaust noise which turned from a gravelly growl to a sublime roar. Addictive stuff. I just laughed at the protestations of friends on V-twins and triples about their claims that their engine notes defined the motorcycle experience. As mentioned, the engine also rattled, not for it the eerie whine of camshaft gears in more advanced designs.

Cruising speed was only limited by legal constraints. I hustled along at 120mph when conditions allowed. Having always owned old Japs, I didn't find the secondary vibes that worrying, though weaker jockeys might've been screaming about the way their feet and hands were buzzing. The riding position, with non-standard ace-bars, was more comfortable the faster I went (which was the only excuse I needed). Once I was used to the bike, which only really took about 500 miles, some great explorations were made.

One that stands out is an early morning thrash up around Loch Ness - you have to get up early to avoid the holiday crowd. A low mist had made some corners a bit dodgy and I nearly flew right off the road a couple of times. Finally, coming out of the mist on to along straight, with the Loch down below where eddies of mist twirled on the water's surface as if a whole platoon of monsters was emerging. My vision and attention were a bit distracted by the 130mph I'd putn the clock along the straight.

Just as distracting was racing with the BMWs and Mercs along German autobahns. What I lacked in speed I made up for in daring. I turned the weave into a snaking motion between the cages. The Germans have to be admired for their disciplined driving; god knows what they thought of the erratically ridden XJ900. some saluted with their horns and I rather fancy that one chap clutched his heart. The XJ finally tired of the game by throwing a speed wobble at 110mph. The trail of shit I left behind probably remains to this day, but after frightening half the German population to death the old bounder pulled back into line. I did the rest of the journey in the slow lane, if such a term can be used on a German autobahn. I did have a lot of mass on the back rack and there was a seam of some sort running across the road. Even German roads have their imperfections.

That event reminded me of the time when the front wheel bearings went. They’d been rumbling away for a while, although I thought it was just the speedo drive drying up or the discs sticking on. Really, I didn’t want to know - you get like that sometimes. I was two up with a pile of camping gear when the reality of their demise took hold. It was hard to ignore, with the bars trying to jump out of my hands and the front end wanting to go in two directions at the same time. The only good point was that we fell off at a relatively low speed and the woman used me to take her weight. Despite feeling like the whole bike was breaking a new set of bearings fixed it.
 
There were other minor irritants. Aren't there always? More than anything, though, it was the sign of engine problems on the horizon that caused me to get shot of the bike. It had needed quite a lot of work along the way but the overall experience was favourable. I might well buy another. Check for both chassis rot (especially those bearings) and engine rattles (a shot cam chain ain't a total disaster unlike a knackered gearbox - they usually last for at least 60000 but start rattling at half that mileage). I still see mine running around, so they are at the very least tough!

Mark Adamson

Training Traumas

One thing I learnt during my short experience of motorcycling is definitely, without a doubt, L-plates and a bike don’t complement each other. One short call got me booked into the CBT. Documents, lid, jacket and a borrowed bike (and an apprehension beyond words), saw me down the school where I was, or was not, going to pass my CBT. With the lecture over it was now time to straddle the bike and show just what I could not do.
 
So far the furthest I'd ridden was 50 yards down the drive. Knowing that two out of ten times I could pull away without stalling and stop without almost dropping it, did little to boost my confidence. An hour of perseverance from me and loads of patience from the instructor saw me doing large circles in the car park.
 
Things were at the very, very early stage of falling into place, when I stumbled upon the first problem with the bike. The battery died, bringing a short, abrupt end to my CBT. A bump start fired the bike into life and was ridden home by the guy who owns it. Some water and a charger had the bike ready for me to try again the following day.
 
After some tuition in the car park the instructor said I was ready to go on the road. Ha, ha, funny person. Obviously he saw a tiny little bit of potential in me, that I did not believe was there. Having an instructor in front and one behind did nothing whatsoever to make me feel better. Five minutes out and I was ready to go back and give up.

Needless to say, I did. not pass my CBT. Two weeks of riding round and round a car park, dropping the bike a fair few times. Having to replace brake and clutch levers, and indicators, I made some very minor improvements. I was back trying again for that all important CBT, the first step on my way to taking the bike test. My confidence was at an all time low, but still I hadn't given up. Third time lucky, I passed. I was finally let loose to ride on the road.

Travelling to work at 6.30am meant almost empty roads. No-one to get in my way or witness when I made a mistake. Coming home however was a totally different story. 4.30pm, rush hour traffic and an arsehole round every corner just laying in wait for me.

I really wanted to pass my bike test but | had one major problem. I hated being on the bike. I was not a natural born motorcyclist and it was plainly obvious to me and anyone who saw me ride the bike. During the first day of being on the road the back tyre needed replacing. A day left in the shop, the inner tube needed replacing as well. That inner tube was the first of many unexpected things that turned out to be unwanted expenses.

After two weeks I started my lessons. An eight week course which, it's said, takes you above test standard. Ha, who are they trying to kid? Week one - check the bike over. Not much wrong with the one I was on (well, nothing that could be seen from the outside). Once again I was riding round the car park, only this time someone had seen fit to place cones in my way. Knowing I was supposed to go round them did not stop me from hitting them and dragging them along, stuck in the chassis. With the completion of week one I was now not just riding the bike, I was practising what I'd been taught. The main thing being, stop without the front wheel going over the line. Not too bad, I could handle that.

Week two came around. The system. Something thought up by a deity on a bike, designed to infuriate the mere mortals like me. Let’s forget that this system is designed for safety reasons, let’s just be concerned with the fact that it’s bloody hard, and, for me, practically impossible.

Junction coming up, I’m turning right. Rear observation, signal, lifesaver move. What now? I know there’s an arm signal to be done somewhere. Going to and from work I tried to get the system in. That was until the bike was off the road for a few days. I was up, dressed and ready to leave. The bike, however, was not playing by my rules.

My rules being that the bike works when I want it to, no matter how much I abuse it. The bike didn't agree, it played up in heavy traffic, and the repairs cost me more than I can comfortably afford. A dozen pushes on the starter button and I was finally convinced that my rules had been ignored.

More water, the charger in use again and the battery was ready to work. Next morning it'd changed its mind! Another lift into work and another day with the charger on. The following morning, same again. A phone call to the guy who owned the bike; “Bike’s not working, fix it.” I'd used up all my patience on the bike, I had none left for him. A brand new battery, one push on the starter button and the bike was working.

Now to practise the system again. Rear observation, signal, move no, that’s not right. I know how the system goes, why can't I do it while approaching a junction? Week 3, still no closer to getting the system right. A lecture on traffic lights and U-turns. No way was I getting on the bike to risk my pride and self-esteem by attempting that U-turn. A total refusal from me to get on the bike found me talking to one of the instructors.

Over to Wimbourn school the next evening, followed by the instructor. Back in the school car park, a short discussion and it was discovered that my stopping technique was all wrong. Round and round the car park again. If there was one thing I hated more than the bike it had to be the car parks. A while later I finally came to a stop smoothly without toppling one way or the other. Success came sweetly to me. I was ready to go out and really give it all I had.

Ready that was until some supreme being decided I was to be the butt of his jokes for a while, rained disaster and disaster down on me. It was during rush hour traffic when the first joke struck. Having the money for a new lid, and being on my way to buy it, was enough to put me on a great high.

Travelling along at 30mph, traffic and irate cagers everywhere, when the bike started to lose speed. Down to 25mph... 20mph... still dropping. What the hell was going on? Dropping down a gear did nothing to improve the behaviour of the bike. Down another gear and the speed picked up, but not without first infuriating car drivers who tried but failed to cut me up. War! A half hour ride home and a long stream of curses was enough to make that high disappear for good.

Thanks! to the bike going wrong this time I learnt that it has rings and they would need replacing. That being one piece of information I could easily have lived without knowing. After two weeks of patiently waiting for the work to be done, I was back on the road, trying once again to get the system right.

A week went by before yet again the bike played up. Rush hour traffic, waiting to go on to a roundabout when it stalled. Push after push on the starter did absolutely nothing to bring some life back to the engine. Once again the bike was making a complete arsehole of me! I figured the GS knew damn well what it was doing and was laughing at me! I pushed it into a side street, tempted to leave it there to rot. A phone call to the owner and he came to my aid. A few bump starts later it finally went. That bike must’ve hated me almost as much as I hated it.

A partial engine strip showed the alternator to be fine. So what was wrong with the bloody thing now? A used regulator/rectifier unit made the bike roadworthy. For a week I'd ridden around with a car battery in the top box which was rigged up to the ignition.

Then came a couple of weeks of relatively stress free riding, That godforsaken system was sort of coming together. I’d only mess up part of it instead of all of it.
Then came the dreaded MOT. A sixth sense and past experiences told me that there was very little chance of the bike passing first time.

It failed on a few minor points. The front brake-light switch wasn’t working. Connecting the wire back up soon sorted that out. The left handlebar grip was loose. Masking tape wrapped around the bar under the grip tightened that up. With the rest of the work done it passed second time round.

Finally, the day arrived when I ventured out to restart training. Starting back at week two seemed the sensible thing to do, as that bloody system was still giving me problems. An instructor following behind did not exactly put me at ease. A complete dressing down of all my mistakes did little to bring out any improvements from me. Despite this I was still not ready to quit. The hope that one day I'd reach test standard was still there.

The next week was mostly spent out on the back roads. Practice makes perfect but not in my case. Week 3 came around all too quickly. The red light I stopped at turned to green, a quick lifesaver showed it was safe for me to go. Time to start going up the gearbox, the clutch cable, however, had different ideas. It allowed second to kick in before it decided to go into retirement. To say I was pissed off would've been an understatement.

Yet another week off the road. A cable was finally found and fitted.
There was something not quite right, though. The clutch was lighter but the gear change was lumpy and the clutch would sometimes take a couple of seconds to release.

The absolute and final straw came for me on a rainy morning. Pulling away, moving on to a roundabout the clutch went haywire. I’d not had time to comprehend what was going on, when an unfortunately placed patch of diesel (under my back wheel) caused the bike to skid. Being a rather inept motorcyclist two things happening together was enough to cause me to ride along horizontally for a while instead of vertically. Bringing a painful end to my motorcycling career. Lid, leather, jeans and gloves prevented any serious injuries but they didn’t stop my ego from being deflated and my pride dented.

The bike was parked up and left. Three months on I’m starting to consider giving it another go. Not, however on that borrowed GS125. Hopefully it was the bike that was jinxed and not me. I’m just left with saying thank you to the BMF instructors. 

Karen Beaumont

Suzuki GT750

I bought a newish Suzuki GT750 in 1977. An advanced piece of machinery back then, a water-cooled stroker triple that was as restrained in its performance as it was in its appearance. I kept this bike for a little under a year, impressed with its reliability and, er, its reliability. It was too heavy and too slow to keep up with my mates and I ended up buying a Z1, which handled like a real dog but kept the adrenaline going and could blow most other machines into the weeds.
 
In 1992 I went off to the BMF show and ended up talking to a mature chap on an immaculate GT750 with only 8500 miles on the clock. This brought back many pleasant memories, having got the speed thing out of my system I was interested when I learnt it was for sale. £2750! Crazy money, but we swapped telephone numbers and I had a good listen to the engine.

Two months later I received a phone call. I could have the GT for 2000 notes. Still too much, I offered £1500 and we agreed on £1750. He rode over the next day, I had a test ride and the bike was mine. Better than new sprang to mind when I looked over the chassis. Really immaculate.

One week and 150 miles later I was cursing the past owner. The gearbox had gone off, changes having all the precision of a meat grinder. I checked the transmission oil... nearly empty. I filled up, the gear change worked well. 150 miles later the same thing happened again. Then I began to panic, having read about blown crankshaft seals draining off the gearbox oil. Smoke out of the exhaust had always been a touch heavy but I'd believed the past owner when he said the oil pump was turned up to its highest setting for safety reasons.

Down to the local mechanic, not a bad chap who was quite sympathetic when he revealed that I'd need an exchange crankshaft. Also, that the clock didn’t match the general state of the engine that had maybe done 30-40,000 miles. About three weeks later I was given back the machine, with the warning that the gearbox bearings might go at any time... nothing like inspiring a bit of confidence. I couldn't afford to have them all replaced as well. In fact, the gear change was very smooth and precise, about the only exceptional feature that the generally bland machine could claim.

After that little adventure my joy at owning such an engineering relic was greatly diminished. I was waiting for the next disaster to happen. Had a few near misses from the chassis. The gleaming chrome and shining paint hid the fact that the front forks were softly sprung and that the back end was mushy. Not too bad up to 70mph, but thereafter weaves and wobbles set in that had my brain buzzing with possible disaster.

It wasn't, even on stock suspension, an evil handler. There was always the option of backing off the throttle or using the twin discs out front. The latter, at least, had Goodridge hose and non-standard pads. Something I knew from the way they worked in the wet without lag. My first GT had left me with a heavily creased forehead from the braking anxieties in the rain. On this one, the discs were furious enough to have the forks shaking in their yokes but sensitive enough to react predictably to a gentler caress of the lever.

The bike was too heavy and wide to be much fun in town. Many a time I came close to ripping off the ends of the crankshaft, which stuck out so far they made the bike as wide as a four. The power was OK below 5000 revs, its low state of tune and stroker nature meaning there was a steady stream of grunt. In a chassis a hundred pounds lighter, the top end power might've been impressive, as it was many a good 550 could burn me off.

A friend likened the bike to a rolling armchair on his first outing. On his second, when he’d overcooked it going into a corner, he reckoned it was a see-sawing wheelchair with a death-wish. I sort of agreed with him but to be fair to the Suzuki, once its limits were learnt, I could crack along at a reasonable 80 to 90mph pace on most main roads.

One bizarre aspect of the machine was the way side winds had the chassis all over the place. I wouldn’t have dared fit a top box! I could lean into the wind but if it varied in intensity the whole bike rolled around as if the tyres were falling off the rims. I did try some modern rubber instead of the Avons, but even expensive Pirellis didn’t make any appreciable difference, except they wore out at an incredible rate. From memory, the Avons lasted about 12000 miles, I didn’t do that kind of mileage second time round so can't confirm if modern ones are any worse or better. The Pirellis lost 2mm of tread in 1500 miles, though they did feel safer in the wet.

Another aspect of the bike that was quite horrifying was the charging circuit. Everything was fine until I did a few hours of night riding with main beam on. Then the battery drained so that the motor was stuttering away until I flicked on to the pilot light. The battery started to charge, after half an hour I could go on to dip - for a while! The lights weren't much good for more than 50mph, so I tried to avoid extended periods of night riding. I reckon that one of the alternator coils had burnt out but didn't fancy tearing it out to check. I felt lucky, given Suzuki's reputation for naff electrics, that it didn’t become any more mischievous.
 
Any bike this old is going to have its fair share of minor problems but, unlike many a seventies superbike, the GT750 didn’t exactly inspire much madness. The kind of bike that made you ride sanely and only break the speed limit by a sensible margin. I did try some top speed runs on a deserted bit of motorway, early in the morning The best I managed on the clock was 120mph, after that the wallowing and vibration was too much to bear, Getting past the ton was always hard work, the whole machine feeling a bit frenzied. Not to mention that fuel became really horrendous above 90mph.
 
Normally, I'd get a pretty pathetic 35 to 40mpg but at higher speeds it'd touch 25mpg or even 20mpg! Oil was OK at 200mpp with the oil pump on its minimum setting using modern stroker oil the pollution haze only turned noticeable after about fifteen minutes of slow town riding when the engine really needed a good dose of throttle to clean itself out.

After nine months I decided it was time to move on. There’s a whole subculture of bikers into seventies machines, partly because of cheap insurance, and the GT went for £1950, Like I said, it looked immaculate and ran impressively first time out, A lot of riders are just reliving their youth, using the bikes as a pose rather than for hard core motorcycling. Shades of the British bike scene.

If that’s all you want then the GT750's not half bad. I went for a Z1 at £2500. Another shock to the system as it was running OE suspension but it’s more fun than a night in a Brazilian brothel. Also, the motor’s much tougher than the stroker triple, something to bear in mind when paying big money for a GT.

John Draper

Yamaha RXS100

Buy an old Yamaha RXS100, ride for a year, taking the time to do it up so I could sell at a nice profit. Yes, I’ve been reading the UMG for a long, long time. This theory led me to purchase an eight year old machine for £75. The engine ran well for the 39000 miles on the clock but the chassis was in death rot mode. On the road home, the bike veered all over the shop and reminded me of my days on a dilapidated pushbike. After five miles my whole body had been given a good working over. 50mph was twice glimpsed on the speedo. Promising...

After some work with the wire brush, emery cloth and paintbrush the chassis looked less likely to corrode underneath me. The vile handling and fading brakes were sorted with new chassis bearings and a used set of shoes. There are plenty of cheap bits in breakers for this model and also lots of hacks that can be bought for less than £50 for spares. Age had crept into the cables, first throttle then clutch then brake snapping. All in the first week! The throttle went in town where I was able to throw the bike into the gutter. I bodged the carb so that it ran at 3000 revs, needing a certain weirdness on the clutch and gear change. The snapped clutch cable didn't really faze me, I rode around quite happily for a few days before buying a replacement.
 
The snapping brake cable was more serious. Like it went when I had to pull up hard for a junction. Instead of stopping I went straight into the side of a car, at about 25mph, and then over the handlebars. I was only glad that it was a BMW and not a Volvo, as the former gave quite a lot. Bent wheel and forks plus a lot of grief from the cager and our insurance companies. Used bits from the breaker cost £40. I went to the great expense of buying a new brake cable, not wanting to repeat the experience. The back pains and headaches took over three months to go away. I'd gone right over the car and landed funny on the back of my neck. On the advice of a friend who's into alternative medicine I suffered an acupuncturist sticking needles in me, which only made things worse!
 
With the chassis and brakes in good fettle I was able to take the little stroker right to the edge of its performance possibilities. Which meant 70mph and the Taiwanese tyres twitching on their edges. A new bike might've grounded its stands but mine had been dumped, probably fallen off. It was much safer to stick to less than 60mph, when the motor was smooth instead of trying to rattle everything off the chassis and the handling was quite reasonable. That is, it didn’t try to run off the road or play chicken with oncoming cagers and it didn’t shake its back wheel like a Pekingese lifting its hind leg when in an affectionate mood.

As I neither wanted to blow the motor into a trillion pieces nor end up on a mortuary slab, a bit of restraint on the throttle was the order of the day. Fine in town, where traffic moved so slowly walking was faster than a car, but on the odd open stretch of road I often found some cager trying to tail-gate me. Small bikes should do at least 80mph to survive out of town. Having to ride on the edge of the road's no fun at all. I was so worried by this that I fitted an extra back light on the rack, wired into the stop light circuit. It was a big bugger and a few taps on the brake lever had cagers shielding their eye. It kept them from bumming me, but if used when the lights were turned on the motor cut out. The rudimentary electrical system wasn’t up to much and the bike was only really safe, at night, to ride in town. On the good side, the electrics were so simple that even I could understand them, the few minor electrical hassles easily fixed.

People always looked at me as if I should be strapped in the electric chair. Something to do with the heavy smog the bike left behind, especially in town. At times, when idling on the bike and the wind blew the pollution over me I could understand their anger. I used the cheapest stroker oil I could find because it went through the motor at 75 to 100 miles per litre. I always had to carry a bottle with me.
 
Around 47000 miles starting became very difficult and the motor took to cutting out at idle. I was pretty sure, from the smoke and high level of piston slap, that the bore and piston were well shagged. The breaker had a good set for £20. I spent a pleasant afternoon grinding the faces of the head and cylinder flat so I could discard the cylinder head gasket but was slowed down by the need to have the threads for the studs helicoiled. The exhaust carbon was also cleaned out.

The reassembled motor had a lot more sparkle and a lot less effluence. It still topped out at only 70mph but getting there was a lot quicker and I felt quite happy holding 60 to 65mph for long periods of time. The drum brakes were annoying when used from such speeds as they would fade away to almost nothing. Either age or the increased vigour on the throttle caused the small end bearing to go at 53000 miles. By then my year was almost up so I tried not to pay attention to the big-end which had the conrod wobbling on the crankshaft. A new small-end bearing revived the motor long enough to trade-in at a dealers for a two year old RXS. The bike was priced at £850, with £275 off for my old one. A good deal, I thought, because the clock read only 7800 miles.

It’s interesting to contrast these two machines. The new ’un did 75mph, ran so cleanly I thought there wasn't any oil in the tank, and gave 120mpg against 75mpg from the old bike. The chassis was much tauter with none of the weaves, the lights seemed brighter and the drum brakes only faded after really hard use. An altogether better steed.

Or it was until 14000 miles when the damn motor seized up on me at 70mph. I hit the clutch in time to avoid self-immolation on the tarmac. After getting the bike to the dealer's in the back of a Transit, a faulty oil supply was diagnosed and the bike fixed with used parts - I had to pay about £25 for the bits but the labour was thrown in for free. Quite generous, I thought, as the dealer was moaning about how my old bike’s engine had gone in a big way and he’d had to install a used motor.

After that little adventure I lost faith in the Yamaha. It didn’t run as smoothly as before, causing me to motor along at less than 60mph again. It was still heaps better than the first one and would probably have happily run to 50000 miles without complaint but I was ready to move on to something bigger.

That turned out to be a derestricted AR125. Fun and much safer on the open road. As a first bike or basic transport the RXS100 is a useful device, as a serious motorcycle it has some significant shortcomings. There are lots on offer, plenty of room to make a bit of profit out the game if you put in some effort. 

James Carney

Norton 88 Dominator

Over the past ten years, my biking had become a little familiar. The R80RT had travelled far and wide, the Supa 5 kept taking me to work without any problems. In short, I was bored with reliable, mundane bikes. What I needed was an injection of enthusiasm. The Jap toy rockets didn't appeal any longer - did they with anyone for very long? Then the idea came to buy a reliable British motorcycle, something pre-1960 as I had some experience of these in my early biking days.

I finally settled on a 1955 Norton 88 Dominator, after much searching amongst overpriced, overrated and over polished machines. The example in question seemed fairly original and mostly reliable after a brief test ride. For those ignorant few, the ‘88’ was the first Featherbed framed roadster, combining the Dominator 500 twin engine with the famous tubular trellis that was much copied by both independent frame makers and the Japanese.
 
The first longish run revealed the usual problems with British bikes. Oil leaks, general bodging and neglect, leading to all sorts of fettling jobs. For example, the cylinder block had a crack in it where the pushrod tunnel was located. This was drilled and sleeved. The carb had been adjusted by some cretin, had to be stripped and rebuilt using some old parts I had in the shed. The magneto had been set up all wrong and wouldn't fire when hot. Readjusting the points and cleaning the brushes put this right. The dynamo had to be overhauled as there wasn't an oil seal. This was done professionally for all of £50, which seemed reasonable.
 
Other sundry jobs got the bike working OK and off we set to North Wales... I’ve now had the Norton for eighteen months and have had no mechanical problems yet. The bike’s no road burner but will quite comfortably keep 65-70mph on the clock. The vibes aren't the problem they are on bigger stuff in a higher state of tune, so nothing has vibrated loose or fallen off. We've travelled to Wales a few times, visited the Peak District and the Dales, all in all around 3000 miles. The handling's very stable, braking’s excellent with an eight inch drum out front. Some friends have commented on the wideness of the tank and seat but for myself it’s no problem. Actually, quite comfortable. When everything comes together, the weather, the scenery and the right frame of mind, the glorious growl of the vertical twin’s tremendously exhilarating.

The bike's not a machine which you can just get on and ride, it needs regular maintenance. And I mean regular - every month! Checking oil levels, primary chain, clutch, bolts, etc. Starting is a first kick affair, once you learn to overcome the resistance of straight 50 oil. Fuel consumption’s at least 60mpg and usually more, 70mpg not impossible. It’s great in top gear, loads of grunt for overtaking and steep hills. The maintenance chores are actually quite easy as everything is a pleasure to work on.
 
Over the past few runs I've noticed some play in the front forks when braking hard. Perhaps next winter I shall rebuild with new spares - yes, new spares are available from the excellent Fair Spares in Cannock. I even picked up an original instruction. book/workshop manual for a fiver at an auto-jumble.
 
On occasion I've roared past sedate pilots on fancy Jap machinery, much to their dismay. And surprised more than a few in the rain with the stability of the bike. Also, due to the very sensible mudguards very little spray gets over the machine or the rider. The only downer I’ve experienced so far was in joining the local classic scene which was thoroughly boring - being dominated by fanatical collectors not riders, who always turned up for meetings in their cars and turned out for runs on their BMW's, VFR’s and Ducatis. 

All in all, though, the Norton will probably stay in my possession for some time. A lot of pleasure can also be had in polishing the alloy, forks, cases, etc - it really does come up well. Next project, when money allows, is a pre-war Sports 250 - if I can find one.

S.L.

Kawasaki Z1000

The fuel injected Z1000 is a rare beast but the 1981 example I came across was in such neat shape that I couldn't resist. The ten year old bike had done a mere 18000 miles, which for these tough DOHC fours is not much more than running in mileages. The whole bike had survived with original components except for Phantom tyres and a four into one exhaust. Riding home, after handing over a thousand notes, I was amazed with the bike’s handling. Very dangerous above 70mph with massive weaves, the Z needing more than one lane to survive. It was so bad that I was reassured that the previous owner had obviously not ridden the bike at all hard.

Judging by the murky white sludge that came out of the crankcases the oil had never, ever, been changed. The engine idled reliably and whipped around into the red when the throttle was opened in neutral. Ergo, the valves and fuel injectors didn’t need any serious attention. That just left the handling to sort out. The list went something like this: fork brace; heavy-duty springs; Koni-Dial-A-Ride shocks; alloy swinging arm with needle roller bearings; and on the advice of the local dealer, taper roller bearings in the headstock.

I was expecting a brilliant transformation, but the damn thing still weaved and wobbled at 70mph. However, going above 80mph smoothed the handling out until about the ton when the wobbles came back with a vengeance. My mate with an XS1100 reckoned it was the half foot high bars not allowing much weight over the front wheel.

One set of ace-bars later, the handling was much improved. I actually felt inclined to bank the Z over more than a few degrees in corners. Flashes of my death ran through my mind when the exhaust’s collector scraped on to the tarmac. The narrower bars made it extremely difficult to quickly lever the 550Ibs of slow steering metal back on to a less fatal line. I could feel my muscles being torn out with all the effort of controlling the clumsy swine. Back home there was a hell of a big dent in the exhaust!

The four into one hadn't upset the engine’s delivery of power, which was thrilling to 6500 revs and exceptional thereafter. Even the XS1100 had trouble keeping up when I worked the throttle. Most of the time I could only use a fraction of the available power, explaining, along with the presence of fuel injection, the 55 to 60mpg economy. Regrettably, such frugality didn’t extend to the rest of the consumables. Used to 550s and 750s, I was shocked to find the back tyre expiring in 3000 miles, the front in 5000 miles, which mileage also ruined the front pads. Clutch cables, even when greased and carefully routed, only lasted for 2000 to 3000 miles. No amount of careful, as in slow, riding helped extend consumable life; if I was ever to ride like a lunatic all the time, those distances could probably be halved!

There was no hope of ignoring wear in the consumables, either. Worn tyres brought the worst out in the handling and dead pads rattled around, allowing a mind warping amount of fade and lag. The brake calipers proved resistant to winter grime, only needing a clean up when the pads were changed - in good nick the front brake would quite happily squeal the tyre. Town riding was a rather crazy point and squirt affair that usually ended up making maximum use of the front brake. With the ace bars it was a heavy, awkward old thing to bounce about but drag starts were scintillating and the Z looked quite flash, a nice pose for impressing the ignorant and a certain type of young lady who would do just about anything after a ride.

It took about 5000 miles for the clutch to fall apart. The drum actually cracked up, leading to lots of grinding noises and a complete loss of power. I killed the motor straight away and pushed her the half mile to the house. I collapsed from exhaustion. It could’ve been really serious but none of the bits had managed to snag on any other components. I flushed out the engine a couple of times to make sure. A second hand clutch was acquired from the breakers. They do go when wheelies are indulged but that must’ve been part of its history because I certainly would not try that. Too heavy and brutal for such excesses. The clutch and the gearbox always felt a bit shagged out. False neutrals, hammering noises and some clutch twitching that made smooth town work hard going.
 
There was a period when starting became onerous and the engine cut out at low speeds. It wasn’t the injectors or associated black boxes (the latter looked newish) but the ignition coils. A second hand set for a Mk.2 were fitted, worked OK despite looking very different. 

A holiday ride down to Spain at some wicked speeds, necessary to keep the XS1100 in sight, tested my endurance. I didn't really want to do more than 200 miles in a day of high speed riding but my friend proved quite insane. The XS wobbled and weaved to an even greater extent than the Z, but my friend had trained himself to ignore the wildness!

Secondary vibes also appeared, turning my fingers numb after about an hour, the white knuckle grip on the bars amplifying the buzzing. After the journey down to Spain, done in a day, I refused to ride the Kwack for a couple of days, giving my muscles a chance to recover. The XS rider had no qualms about leaping aboard first thing in the morning, impressing the Spanish girls with his wheel spinning and wheelies! Still, I wasn't going to complain as he set me up with a couple of young women.

Coming home, the camchain started to rattle at high revs. I took it easy as the XS rider roared off into the distance, not to be seen again until I hit the ferry. By the time I was back home the noise was drowning out the exhaust even at tickover. Camchains are another weak spot with the engine, often only lasting for 25000 miles. I had to buy a new tensioner as well. No other damage was done to the engine, in most circumstances it’s possible to get home after the rattles start.

The next little annoyance was the silencer beginning to disintegrate. lt was very battered by then by being scraped along the tarmac during the more exuberant cornering. The fuel injectors appeared to adjust themselves to suit the disintegrating baffles or maybe the state of tune was mild enough to tolerate changes in exhaust flow. It was a matter of using a hacksaw to cut off the silencer part of the exhaust and knocking on a nearly new Zephyr can. The downpipes were merely rusty.

54000 miles had the tank paint fading and the frame paint peeling off over the welds, whilst wheel alloy was submerged beneath a layer of white corrosion. Some decaying wiring started the fuses blowing and the underside of the petrol tank was spotted with rust. The motor was solid enough, loads of power and no untoward noises.

Seemed to me that the bike was beginning to reach that age when big expense was going to be necessary. Even after eighteen months of riding I hadn't really come to grips with the handling. It would often leave me trembling with fear, just short of making a mess in my underpants. There was an element of unpredictability that was perturbing. I sold the bike for £1450, now have something smaller and newer. 

Alan Kay

Loose Lines [Issue 78, April 1997]

Sticker prices on bikes in dealers have reached ridiculous heights that have little relevance to what the machines go out of the door for. A friend recently paid £2350 in used fifties for a one year old GPz305 from a Bristol dealer. To get that price he had to wave the money under the salesman’s nose, threaten to walk out several times and shove a copy of MCN’s Bikemart into his face to show where he could buy a new GPz for £2750!

His original offer of £2200 was greeted with howls of disbelief, laughter and not a little anger (I was hanging around in the background). The sticker price was a thoroughly absurd £3275; an insult that made me want to walk out in disgust if not firebomb the place. The dealer’s spiel was the usual stuff about an excess of punters desperate for anything half decent and that machines were practically walking out of the showroom (the GPz had actually been hanging around for about six months!)

Anyway, blows were avoided and my friend happily accepted the fact that for the price he wasn’t going to get any kind of guarantee and that the salesman was never going to be his best friend. The dealer scowled, cursed and generally behaved like a third world politician deprived of a bribe. Luckily, the little Kawasaki ran like a Swiss watch and had insufficient mileage on its clock to worry about its cylinder head going down (frequent oil changes and gentle warming from cold can make it last for a long time, incidentally).

This kind of nonsense is going down all over the place, on both used and new machines. The only way to find out the realistic prices, to read the UMG and phone up some of the dealers in MCN who advertise via the small display ads. Dealers will sit there, lie with all the joy of an advert salesman, only thrown into reality by brandishing the facts before their faces and waving around the dosh. Even then, there's only a fifty-fifty chance of getting a good deal!

Pity the poor punter who just wanders in off the street and asks for advice! He (or she) will be ripped off every which way; only finding out how much money’s been wasted when they try to sell on the ever realistic private market. When, of course, it’s too late.

Dealers will say that the high sticker prices are so they can allow good trade-in values and offer decent servicing. But they have become so warped that it takes a hell of a lot of effort to work out if the deal that’s going down is good or bad, as it’s impossible to find out the cash price unless the money’s thumped down on the table, when prices can fall with shocking rapidity.

High sticker prices also allow apparently amazing HP deals to be offered, with zero rates possible - but if the prices are already inflated by a huge amount, at the end of the day the punter ends up paying more than if he borrowed the money from the bank and got a large discount off the dealer for cash.

Then there’s the problem of sorting the good from the ugly, avoiding those dealers who excel in doing crash repairs on the cheap or rebuilding bikes so they run long enough for them to get out of the showroom. I know one London dealer who gets rave revues from the glossies, who sells these kind of old dogs for top prices, and has done so, amazingly, for the past twenty years!

No wonder the private market's booming! But that’s another story.
 
Bill Fowler

Travel Tales: Indian Adventure

Hard pressed for time and in possession of a decaying GPX750R, I eventually decided upon Ghana. The intention was to take the bike on a one way journey and sell the contraption to a rich African. However, the foreign office had warned us of the various perils and the Algerians were not going to allow us to pass without hindrance through their country. Plan two was nip down to Greece, travel south and hopefully get to Kenya in the three weeks we had left. However, the Ethiopian authorities would only allow us into the country but not out the other side!
 
Travelling through Europe would have been as stimulating as a game of tiddlywinks, therefore the only alternative at the time was a flight to India. Aeroflot provided the usual inboard entertainment, and within eight hours we had landed on the other side of the continent. It was pure chance that we bumped into Cavita and Khushwant, two locals who spent the next week helping us to buy the pride of India - an Enfield 350 Bullet. It was from this point that our journey began.

Most of the day was spent at the magistrate’s court, trying to obtain a registration document and once finally acquired the events for the next 48 hours became a little blurred as sleep was not on the agenda. We were to accompany a BSA 350 Goldstar on the perilous journey to Leh, some 500km into the Himalayan mountains. The BSA’s pilot, whose name escapes me but at the time we called Tricky Dicky, had arranged an interview with the press, a camera crew and one of India’s more renowned cricketers.

Eventually, following countless trips to relations’ houses to say farewells we set off. On paper India has a similar traffic practice to ours they drive on the left. However, in reality if a vehicle bigger than the one you're driving decides it wants to drive on your side of the road, while at the same time it’s being overtaken by an equally large vehicle, then you have no rights whatsoever, as we found out on a number of occasions.

Such lunacy was not aided by my suicidal attempts to overtake a moving lorry on the wrong side of the road when travelling around a corner. Our trip was once again delayed while a new brake lever was fitted (fear had made me apply so much muscle to aid the pathetic retardation that it'd snapped).

We finally managed to leave at 10 o'clock. Travelling at night through cities is the best way to approach India. During the day it’s likely one will have an accident due to the large number of vehicles on the road. The squalid appearance of the cities together with the heat and congestion does not equate to fun riding.

By seven o'clock the following day we had found out why we were advised to take three spare alternators. And that six volt systems should be confined to use in torches only. The Enfield had averaged a speed of about 30km/h, two up over fairly good road surfaces. Worse progress than we had imagined, not helped any by ending up 8000 feet above sea level.

The front brake was utterly appalling but a necessity while meandering through Himalayan precipices. The rear brake sufficed as long as speeds were not in excess of 50km/h. The bike had a top speed of 85km/h two up with 40kg of baggage, and about 90km/h solo. I was, however, informed that Bullets had been known to travel at speeds in excess of 100km/h. Why anyone would attempt such speeds (60mph) on Indian roads I don't know.

The most appealing point about the 1957 replica was its sturdiness. One could simply point the bike in one direction and it would not budge an inch, regardless of the terrain encountered. Rarely would it deviate from its desired direction except when banked over in Elsie fashion on sand (which inspired me to take up tap dancing) or when ridden into the side of a wildebeest. Then and only then did the bike pretend it was a contortionist as it wrapped itself around the unfortunate creature.

The pillion, experienced in the ways of surfing, held on as if I was a board until we both came to a bloody rest on the side of the road. He, unscathed, was caught in a crossfire of abuse as the indigenous workers screamed insults at us with reference to their sacred cow. Little time was lost gathering our wits and moving on. A hospital was found and excessive amounts of iodine rubbed into the offending wounds while needle happy doctors tried to inject me with a various assortment of viscous substances, to little avail.

The BSA had been bodged by an ape with a 15lb sledge-hammer. The engine was rebuilt so many times it was surprising there was anything left of it. Due to overheating we had left the BSA somewhere in the foothills of the Himalayas on the road to Manali. From there on the road surfaces became very bad until boulders became par for the course. August was the end of the monsoon season and on a number of occasions we were forced to ride through floods up to a foot deep.

We met a couple of Japanese bikers who had been on the road for the past 14 months, who informed us that further north near Dras, supposedly the second coldest inhabited place in the world, floods had blocked off the roads and made them impassable. Shortly after the monsoons the weather draws in and the roads are closed for nine months of the year, so it’s imperative to make a move when you can.

At Manali we met up with Happy and Tricky Dicky, and told that we were going to be joined by the latter's brother in a day or two. Due to time constraints we moved on without them, having first been warned of the Manali pass which was some 5000 feet above us. A distance we would have to cover before nightfall due to treacherous conditions. Equipped with an old tarpaulin for a coat we set off from Manali to find several hours later that the conditions were impossible.

To our left was a sixty foot glacier clinging to the rock face while trucks thundered by and the elements threw everything they had to throw at us. To our right were three small workmen's tents which we gladly invited ourselves into as an alternative to freezing to death:The following day, before setting off, the pillion upon getting up put his head through the tent’s roof, pulling boulders down on the unsuspecting workers. A hasty retreat was made to the bike, having first made a donation to the shoes of the workers.

Cresting the pass revealed a whole new world. It was similar to a cold desert, bare rock and very little vegetation. The only people who inhabited this land were the hoteliers for the precious three months of trade they hoped to receive from passing tourists, and the road gang — men black from head to foot with tar who paved the roads all day.

The road surfaces improved but reaching height 5065m at Langlacha, on the road to Sarchu, carburation problems meant we had to alter the mixture to compensate for the altitude. My passenger didn't adapt so easily, had to make numerous pit stops to relieve himself of chronic altitude sickness. Moving off we heard gunshots. Guerillas were known to operate in the area as politicians fought for popularity, killing men like chess pawns.

The road improved further, particularly a 65km stretch along a plateau towards Leh. The scenery changed to a warm desert! About 50km from Leh it became apparent that the people were more Westernized. 3km from our destination we ran out of petrol. We were ignored by a Jeep but bought some fuel from a young Tibetan at Western prices. Leh was not what we'd hoped. Full of ex-public school drop-outs crazed on strange intoxicating substances and yeast based beer. We felt saddened that the result of our travels was to find foreigners being taken advantage of by the indigenous population, The views, however, were breathtaking and there were a handful of traditional natives.
 
From Leh we’d planned to take the road further north across rocky passes to Dras and then continue anti-clockwise until we were once again back in Chandigargh, our point of rendezvous. Unfortunately, several days beforehand a group of Indians had been ambushed and slaughtered by bandits on the same road; we were advised not to take that treacherous path. Snapshots, souvenirs and petrol were the order of the day before we made our rather disheartened way back the same route we had taken.

On the way back we bumped into Tricky Dicky and a very annoyed Happy who'd been made to sit around in Manali for several days waiting for a brother who did not turn up. Further on the alternator blew. Having lost some of our tools while meandering through precipices we were unable to rectify the problem and free-wheeled the Enfield to an army camp, who were only too willing to rewire the bike and question us concerning the delights of women; a novelty in India.

A roadside cafe was later welcomed with glee until we were surrounded by local men who themselves were yet to understand the primary role of the opposite sex. A hasty retreat was made and our journey continued. Just before the pass into Manali, where we had camped once before, the chain broke. The only advice | can offer to anyone wanting to do this trip on an Enfield is take spares for everything! We'd bought the bike virtually new but were advised to fit more durable pattern parts in the engine.

A truck was flagged down, and for the sum of £4 (less than the petrol would’ve cost) we were driven back to Manali. It may, however, have been more dangerous! On average we saw three crashed buses or trucks every day and motorcycle accidents were as common as rain in the monsoons. Hitch-hiking is virtually impossible and cycling would be ludicrous, although we met one old sea-dog weaving his way down the Himalayas. Trains were remarkably cheap and an experience as vendors try to sell you everything under the sun, though fourth class has been abolished and you're no longer allowed to sit on the roof!
 
The best method of transport, therefore, despite the huge number of accidents, is definitely the motorcycle. The Bullet comes in several different styles and two engine sizes - 350 and 500cc. For those travelling two-up I would recommend the 500, although the 350 will suffice. The suspension has a habit of bottoming out over bumpy terrain and the exhaust is ridiculously easy to touch down. The seat must be replaced in fear of losing your sex life, a concrete slab would probably be an improvement. Engine bars are useful for when the bike is dropped. In Chandigargh, north of Delhi, a shop called the Agency will rebuild a Bullet for the sum of £5 (a days labour and parts) to cope with Himalayan trail riding—so we found out on our return.

In Chandigargh we had to wait for Happy to return, who'd taken possession of our insurance documents. It had been reported once that an American on questioning had been found not to be carrying his insurance documents and had driven away shouting insults. He was shot by the police. Happy returned with the documents and we continued south west to Jaipur. A very picturesque town full of forts and queers. The following day we continued east into desert land.
 
In the Rhajistan desert we hit another wild animal! Most of the day became a blur and my last request was not to receive an injection from an Indian medic, the results of which would probably have been more fatal than the crash. Waking up the following morning proved to be one of the more painful days in my life, having to surgically remove the pillowcase which had congealed into the wound on the side of my face.
 
Such pain, however, could only have been minimal compared to that of a pedestrian found on the side of the road later that morning. There was a pool of blood a metre in circumference around his head. The police would not stop to help and some passer-by informed us that if we didn’t move on fast we would probably be blamed for his state!
 
Fatigued and scarred, we continued north to Chandigargh again and finally back to Delhi. The bike and a large first class stamp were left with Cavita and Khushwant to be placed on a boat and posted back to England so that the pleasures of two wheel freedom on an Enfield Bullet (not that any spring to mind, but it had somehow got to me) could recommence back in Blighty.

Harry Busby

Suzuki GS650M

I bought a really immaculate Suzuki GS650M. An ’81 model, only 9000 miles despite being ten years old. The elderly owner explained he’d had a heart attack some time back and had kept the bike out of nostalgia. His family had finally persuaded him to cash in and I was to be the happy recipient of his unfortunate circumstances. It was touch and go at the beginning, though, as he was going to make sure it was going to have a good home. My youthful enthusiasm shone through, although he was probably still muttering about long haired youths wearing ear-rings by the time I got the Kat on the motorway.

I kept telling myself to take it easy. An unknown bike, unknown roads and the fact that it had six times the power of my restricted 125. That lasted for a couple of seconds as a long empty straight came into view. The Katana’s a big lump with a long, wide tank, a narrow hard seat, flat bars with rear-sets. The seat only became comfortable with in excess of a 100mph on the clock. Power poured in hard as I twitched the throttle and played with the gearbox. 90, 100, 110, 120mph!

125mph caused all hell to descend upon my strained head. The back end waggled a little then the whole bike went into an arm wrenching speed wobble. I thought I was going to die, hit the triple discs and killed the throttle dead. The resulting fight with the bike reminded me of the hero despatching King Kong. The fork stops snapped off, the tank ending up battered. My wrists felt like they were broken. The wobble had started in the middle lane, by the time we finished I’d gone from nearly smashing into the central barrier to ending up slewing over to the hard shoulder.

Luckily, I had sped so far ahead of the cars that no-one ran me down. Unluckily the whole incident was witnessed by a jam-sandwich. When I finally wobbled to a halt and fell over, because my legs had turned to jelly, they pulled over, siren blaring and lights flashing. They lifted the bike off me then gave me a right bollocking. They pointed out that although there was plenty of tread on the Pirellis the sidewalls were cracked. From my white face and shaking hands they could see I'd learnt my lesson and I got away without being booked!

I rode home at moped speeds. I thought about selling the Katana and sticking with my CG125, but in the end a pair of Phantoms were fitted. Forthe next two months my right wrist was very restrained and fast roads were avoided. At 500Ibs the Suzuki was hard going in town, not helped any by the riding position. The front discs were incredibly sensitive, howling the tyre, it seemed, every time I looked at the lever! Hitting the front brake when banked over in slow bends caused the front end to go berserk. The bike reared up to the vertical, jerking my shoulder muscles and radically altering my line through the traffic.

The first time it happened we hit the side of a Metro. The engine bars and my knee saved the Kat from any damage. The owner of the battered car was some grey haired old lady who burst into an hysterical crying fit. The peds looked at me as if I’d tried to rape her (perish the thought) and some youth in a police uniform (I'm only a teenager but this guy looked like he’d just been let out of kindergarden, with a huge helmet coming down on to his nose) got his book out but could find nothing to charge me with. Just as well I’d got a bank loan to pay for the insurance.
 
Coming from a light learner, the Kat was a continuous shock to the system until I'd become used to it. Eventually, I summoned up the nerve to head for the open road and cruised along at 90mph. The feeling of security was good, with no weaves or wobbles but I kept recalling the way it’d suddenly switched from calmness into death mode.

I've been told that the way to avoid speed wobbles is to loosen my grip on the bars rather than try to fight the oscillations or go crazy on the brakes. The theory is that you should not fight the wobbles and let them die out of their own accord. Fortunately, the new tyres stopped any repeat of the previous excess, although they only lasted about 5000 miles before I deemed the tread dubious.

After six months the bike and I were old friends, well used to each others ways. I rarely went above 100mph, though, apart from anything else fuel was thrown out of the exhausts at about 25mpg against a more normal 55mpg and even 65mpg when the bike was ridden in a really mild manner. The engine was amazing, the valves and carbs needed no attention, whilst the rest of it needed no regular maintenance, save, naturally, for 1000 mile oil changes and oil filters at 3000 miles. Finish was good except for the cast wheels and engine cases that corroded at the first hint of rain.
 
After a year, though, the silencers began to corrode through. I was able to ignore it for a few months but when one end cap fell off I knew I had to find some replacements. The noise it made was deafening and I had to hide behind a van when coming level with a cop at a junction. As I accelerated away I glanced in the mirrors to see the policeman scribbling away in his notebook.

Before the house was raided by irate cops I knocked on a couple of universal megaphones which were still on sale in the local motorcycle shop even though they were illegal for road use. The downpipes were permanently rusty, no way the corrosion would abate for more than a day however much wire brushing and heat resistant paint was applied. There was a slight hesitation around 6500rpm but otherwise the power flowed in as nicely as ever.

The electrics started to give me a bit of a fright shortly after that, with a flat battery making it impossible to start. The battery was full of white corrosion, so chucked over the wall and replaced with a new 'un. Starting became good again, the motor roaring into life first press of the button even on mornings so cold that I wished I was in another country.
 
In December I came off an icy bit of road. Even the big nineteen inch wheel failed to save me. One moment I was leaning into the bend, the next it was screaming metal and my knee-cap trying to explode. The pain was incredible for a while, but it was only bruised with a lot of skin torn off. The Kat only had a minor bit of damage to its extremities, saved by the engine bars.

Motorcycles and the British winter don’t mix at all well and I say that as a fanatical biker. I went back to my Honda 125 for the rest of December and most of January, its light weight and mild power allowing me to skid it around like a pushbike. Even safely tucked away in the garage, the Kat's alloy still corroded away!

The winter also caused the calipers to gum up, although I never did wear the pads out in 14000 miles of riding (and they weren't new when I got the bike). The calipers were easy to strip down and cleaned up nicely. I eventually got the art of braking infused into my brain, so much so that when I went back to the Honda I kept braking too late and frightening cagers, if not myself.

The one thing I haven't adapted to is the hardness of the seat. After 100 miles it’s like sitting on a knife, and 200 miles has me staggering around like I’ve got piles. The seat is so much part of the styling, though, that it’s impossible to contemplate replacing it. Other than that it’s turned out to be a very practical machine.
 
I've finally sold the Honda 125, with a tear in my eye, and am looking for a ring-ding-a-ding stroker for town kicks. The GS is hard charging above 70mph but below that it’s a bit too heavy to be much fun. The engine's very tough, the looks are still stunning and I'm really into life with it.

Jim Mann