My enthusiasm for the '84 Guzzi 650 was minimal, to say the least. It was a wickedly cold January day and the vendor had a deal of hassle persuading the rusty heap into life. Just as it sounded like the starter was going to burn out, she caught with a bellow that did my eardrums in. I wasn’t that surprised, the silencers were more rust than chrome.
But a brief burn up and down the road revealed a surprising forward urge, excellent smoothness and it more or less went where it was pointed. The only downer, apart from the corrosion, was shagged universal joints on the shaft drive. Not so surprising as the clock read 37000 miles and the owner reckoned the machine was completely stock.
He went on about it being a lovely little bike, the apple of his eye, etc. Why the hell didn’t he polish it, then, I felt like shouting. Fast moving clouds over the horizon, a flat grey colour that presaged a massive snow storm, meant it was now or never, no point hanging around and getting caught up in that mess. After some indecently quick haggling, the bike was mine for £450. Not the bargain of the century but not half bad considering it had new.rear shocks, brake pads and tyres.
The Guzzi’s a small, compact machine that weighs only 350lbs and sits on the tarmac very nicely. With the shagged shaft drive it ran a bit weirdly but nothing I couldn't adapt to and we were soon bouncing along at 80 to 90mph, my fingers firmly over the clutch and brake levers in case something turned bad in a big way. The clouds seem to follow us with supernatural speed and totally intent on taking us out, but patches of ice on the motorway meant I wasn't going to go completely crazy on the throttle.
The Guzzi was naked with silly high, wide bars that splayed me into the freezing gale-force wind our forward progress produced. Within minutes I was doing a passable impression of a giant ice cube. And I had forty miles to go. I got to the vendor’s house on the train, but after severe delays from the points on the track seizing up solid.
It was that kind of day... at least everyone else was sensible enough to avoid having anything to do with motorcycles. I was the only one fool enough to be out and about! Sure enough, twenty miles into the journey, the first flurries of snow started to hit me. I screamed, Why Me?
Suddenly, there was this nasty bank of falling snow in the way. It was the kind of stuff that managed to make its way past the defences of my Barbour waxed cotton suit, as well as obscuring the road ahead. Of course, Joe Cager merely turned up all his lights, put his foot down with the radio and heater blaring away.
I slammed the throttle shut, which made the back wheel lurch all over the shop, headed for the hard shoulder, where I hoped I could meander along at 20mph!
The headlamp was absolute crap to begin with, about five miles further down the road it began to flicker violently and then the bulb exploded! I swore like a docker who'd just been sacked, tried to make out the road ahead. Fucking Wop electrics!
No sooner had I uttered this curse than the engine started to cut out. Stutter, stutter, stutter... give her full throttle, suddenly the power flows in and it’s full wheelie mode until I slam the throttle shut... stutter, stutter, stutter...how not to grow old gracefully.
By then the water that’s soaked through my clothes had turned into ice and it’s like being crushed by some Hell's Angel mama in the rigours of orgasm. I knew, also, that it was going to be ten kinds of hell to thaw out. Just as I was beginning to really despair and think about calling up the AA, the clouds parted and a weak sun shone down on us. This was to be a momentary respite but I cracked the throttle open and did the remaining distance to home in less than ten minutes.
Heat rising off the engine helped to keep my body temperature from closing down altogether and no sooner had I got the Guzzi in the garage than the snow storm really let loose with a vengeance. One of the few downsides about living in Scotland.
A few days later it was time to get to grips with the Guzzi. New universal joint, engine oil and general greasing and cleaning had her in much better shape. The rust had only really taken out the silencers, which were duly if illegally replaced by a pair of universal cans, themselves splotched with rust as they weren't new. But they had some baffling, much to the relief of my neighbours (hardcases who will head-butt you into an early grave if you really annoy them...) and didn’t upset the carburation in any way that I could see. Not bad for a tenner the pair.
Some time later, I found the corrosion had also taken out the fork seals, but the lack of damping wasn’t much of a problem as someone had bunged in heavy duty fork springs to match the new shocks which only moved if she who must be obeyed (and weighs 200lbs) leapt up and down on the saddle. The frame seemed to creak in protest.
Guzzi were quite clever in the design of their 90 degree vee twin. The theory went like this. Perfect primary balance so the engine could be used as a stressed part of the frame, which meant that overall the bike was light. Why then have such wide and high bars? Really stupid as it gave the bike naff aerodynamics. With those bars fitted it did 105mph and 45mpg. With a set of narrow, low bars, it did 115mph and 50mpg! For sure, the pegs were then a touch too far forward but this seemed a lot less of an inconvenience than being splayed in the wind.
There are lots of horror stories about Guzzi engines and electrics. The latter had been sorted to an extent by fitting Jap switches, the cutting out due to either the series of relays or the old fuse-box - I don’t know which, I was so annoyed I replaced the whole lot. As to engine reliability, with tales of poor quality materials used in the top ends, all I can say is that the pushrod twin did another 18000 miles in my hands and was still running fine when I off-loaded the bike for £850 to some daft foreigner (came from Liverpool...).
As sold to the build quality of the chassis I have no qualms about calling it a pile of crap. Literally, if an incredible amount of effort and time isn’t expended keeping the rust and corrosion at bay. worked on the bike twice a week but even then if it was left out in the rain for an hour or two the rust would come seeping out like some dreadful cancer.
When I sold it, she glowed with quality paint, chrome and alloy, but the poor new owner would probably have trouble recognizing the bike if he left it out in the rain overnight. Poor bastard!
This was a great pity because the bike was fun to ride and otherwise very practical. Most of the V50's are basket cases. The newer 750’s stretch the design a little too far, don’t have an enviable reputation for longevity. That leaves the 650’s and even they are over ten years old. I see the odd nice one pottering around but I’m quite happy with the replacement, an idiosyncratic 1000 Strada.
lan McShone