It was, without doubt, the ugliest two-wheeled creation on the planet. Rat bike extreme. The petrol tank was invisible under a confused tide of stickers of varying age and intensity. The seat had been mercilessly hacked into a grotesque parody of the one so effectively sported by Eddie Lawson. It'd been on the receiving end of an electric carving knife, now consisting of barely an inch of soft foam, held to the decaying seat base with gaffer tape. The exhausts were little more than a collection of holes held together with rust. When the owner started it up, I fully expected it to sound like a washing machine full of spanners. It was obviously a mechanic's bike.
The owner was in fact a bike mechanic, his name was apparently Dog. In size and appearance he resembled a Viking, although, admittedly, he professed no immediate urges to burn villages or carry off virgins. I’d travelled only a few miles across London from my job near Shoreditch and I could not quite believe the state of this monolithic beast (the bike!). It'd only one redeeming factor - it was, of course, very cheap indeed.
Starting the engine effected a pleasant growl, with little cam or valve noise, although it may have been masked by the thunderous roar from the exhaust, which appeared to have disintegrated further in the ten minutes since my arrival. The overall look was further confused by the wrist breakingly flat bars that straddled the top yoke.
I was offered a quick spin up and down the alley. Get used to the controls for a minute... gently with the throttle... Jesus on a pogostick... this fucking thing’s heavy. Even after my recent fond relationship (oo-er missus) with a CX500, this bugger was big and heavy. Lurching forward and snicking up a gear then cracking open the noise control caused the beast to surge forward, jacking the back end up a good couple of inches with the torque reaction of the shaft; jamming the intensely uncomfortable seat and protruding frame rails into my arse. The back end snaked threateningly on the damp and greasy back lane.
I was sold. So was it. Even nine years ago, £250 was a fair price. In fact, if it was still running today, it’d probably hold its value. The following day I returned to collect it with the necessary moolah. There followed an acutely uncomfortable but hugely enjoyable blast across to South London in the rush hour. Scattering peds with the raucous exhaust and frightening myself with the uncertain handling on London’s adhesion free pothole collection that passes for a road system.
The first priority was the seat. BAT motorcycles had just opened their doors in my local high street as a breaker/secondhand bike dealer. Proprietors Tom and Roger were making the first of their hugely successful forays into the grey bike market. I wheeled up on the monstrosity... some time later, their hysterical laughing fit had subsided, tears were wiped from barely credulous cheeks and they began to regain their composure.
A quick rummage through theparts store of their converted launderette, revealed a pristine seat. My ring-piece cheered silently. Some more accommodating handlebars that once adorned a CB750 were persuaded into a new role, my hunched shoulders shrugged in mute relief. As for the exhaust, well, no hope of finding a stocker that hadn't already fallen foul of the dreaded Jap metal worm. Amazingly, the cave-like stores yielded up a reasonably preserved Alpha 3-1 with an excitingly stubby tailpipe. This was. grudgingly persuaded on with only relatively minimal swearing.
Off we toddled in comfort. The riding position was now far more armchair-like. Although plod attracting velocities left me feeling like a windsock in a typhoon. In fact, it was not so much the speed that was likely to attract the attention of the local Dixon of Dock Green, it was the noise. And what a noise it was. Not so offensive as the cement mixer in a lift shaft of the old rotted system - a purposeful grumble at idle, rising to a serious argument at mid revs, then a fuck off wailing roar at around seven to nine thou. This, of course, sounded like pure music to me. I set off about the place never using any gear above third, just to fully appreciate (and give others the benefit of) the melodious symphony of exhaust and turbine whine of the triple, as the old girl came on cam.
Of course, not everyone can appreciate an exhaust note that terrifies small children, effectively de-louses dogs at fifty yards and causes sudden and unwelcome incontinence in road crossing peds. What fun! Yes, I was probably the noisy bastard that woke you up on my way to Chelsea Bridge on a Friday or Saturday night. Then again, weren't you young and stupid once, and what were you doing asleep that time of night, anyway?
The time had arrived for some serious use. Commuting had been great fun, including some memorable late night blasts through the deserted City of London. The sonic boom of the exhaust, echoing soulfully off the concrete canyon of office blocks. They stood darkly in silent disapproval of freedom and enjoyment. Handling, braking, economy, etc.? Who cares, it worked in its inimitable way!
For the first adventure, I decided to take the ‘Old Road’ to Wales. The A40 through the rolling hills of the Cotswolds, pausing briefly to terrify the genteel citizens of Cheltenham... a sound like the four horseman of the apocalypse in a jam session with Motorhead. Hope I didn’t annoy anyone. Over the border through the Forest of Dean. Follow the Wye, then branch towards Abergavenny. Between Raglan and Abergavenny is a totally balls out nine mile stretch of well surfaced, dual carriageway. Very gentle curves and up to a mile of clear, visible road ahead for much of its length. No turnings or slip roads. Little traffic around midday... talk about an open invitation.
After the gently twisting and swooping stuff, this slightly downhill strip was treated to my best impression of a Hercules attempting take-off velocity, only I was making a lot more noise. The XS wasn't a race replica but I worked my magic on it and it failed to throw me off in reaction. Practice makes perfect; with a 500lb shaftie on worn suspension, quite a lot of effort is needed.
At the Abergavenny roundabout, I branched off with ears ringing like the British Gas complaints hotline and headed for the valleys road. Some twenty or so unremarkable miles later, I collapsed into a chair in front of the fire at my gran’s. Knackered, for sure, but struggling to control the grin that was in imminent danger of causing the top of my head to fall off.
After a hard night in the pub, I saddled up the next day for a little local exploration. I tried a few gentle swoops through the corners. Fine so far. The mill pulled strongly and I had learnt to ride around the torque reaction of the shaft drive. The suspension wallowed horribly at anything approaching high speed. I actually managed to heave the flying sofa far over enough to ground the Alpha a few times, much to my satisfaction. Over the high moors, along a tortuously twisting tarmac ribbon, it was suicide to do more than 50mph. Loads of blind corners, tightening up suddenly as the apex changed. A single track road that had to be handled with care. Then over a cattle grid, I was suddenly plummeting down a one in four gradient, on an appalling road surface that consisted of one part gravel, one part tarmac, with the balance seemingly comprised entirely of freshly laid sheep shit. Gingerly, I made it to the bottom without adding my own unique contribution, avoiding skids of any sort.
Deeper into the Brecons went we. Precipitous drops to one side, wild views when we crested hills, and ancient roads ruined by the constant onslaught of rain, wind, sun and snow. I attacked the roads with all the velocity I could muster, staying in third and hauling the bars from side to side, as I desperately shifted my body weight to persuade the bike to navigate the corners. Sometimes, the whole shebang became momentarily airborne, causing the front wheel to wag like a spaniel’s tail. Exhilarated, I did the same route several times!
The journey back to London was brilliant. Using my new found familiarity with the Yam, I pushed her to 110mph by the time I reached the rolling Cotswolds. Beset by a 2.8 Capri, it was race time. Unable to lose it, I looked back to find two bright blue lights flashing at me from the grill! Three points and £36, plus the parting shot that my leg was covered in oil!
The engine and my right leg were awash, the head and base gaskets having given up the unequal battle with my throttle abuse. I limped along, topping up with oil. Some weeks later I'd ‘repaired’ the gaskets with Araldite and sold the bike for £150. The new owner phoned up to complain that the generator had gone, but I claimed innocence despite the fact that he was bigger than me.
Craig Whitney