I wanted something a bit different from my past legion of UJMs. A newish Triumph seemed ideal. After looking the range over I settled on a 900 triple. A couple of weeks studying MCN found a three year old Sprint. One owner, 9400 miles, new tyres and as new condition. Yes please!
These Triumphs are big old things, none of the latest high tech lightweight Jap engineering. Despite this, I was soon at home on the triple. Revelling in the easy torque and exciting exhaust howl! The clutch was a bit abrupt, the gearchange needed effort and concentration, and the bars a deliberate, planned action to keep the flow smooth.
On the second day of ownership I grazed the side of a car. I was running the Sprint through Central London traffic when one of the cages veered into the narrow conduit. I put too much, panicked, input into the bars and hit the car on the other side. Or rather the large engine bars tore into the car's thin metal side. Again, I over-compensated with too much force on the bars, whamming into the car that had originally veered into my path.
The idiot was still aiming for a non-existent gap, the Triumph becoming wedged between the two stationary cars. Fortunately, the speed of all the vehicles was low and the crash-bars took all the force from the cages! I had a ruined Beemer on one side and a wrecked Jaguar on the other. This all caused a massive traffic jam, that even a BMW bike mounted plod couldn't get through.
I was tempted to use the enormous low rev torque of the Triumph to fight my way out of the mess. Both cagers appeared to be psychopaths out for vengeance and I decided my relatively safe position wedged between their cages would be the safest option for the moment. Took a couple of hours for the plod to sort out the mess.
I was very annoyed to find that the previous pristine red finish of my fairing lowers had been scratched in the incident. More than made up for, I decided, when the whole side of the Jag fell off as the cops towed it away! Later, some touch up paint and fervent polishing sorted the fairing, whilst I left the battle-scars on the crash-bars as a sign that I wasn't to be trifled with.
The Sprint turned out not to be a brilliant commute across Central London. Too heavy and slow turning, also no narrower than many a large four. Plenty of low rev torque meant it thundered along nicely in third or fourth. Gear change slack and notchiness meant I wasn't too keen on playing childish games through the box. The triple discs, though far from leading edge and having to fight an awful lot of mass, were at least powerful and predictable - even on wet, slimy roads I knew how far I could take the braking; no unpleasant surprises lurking unseen.
After the first week's commuting I was in two minds about the machine. The chassis didn't exactly inspire but I loved the torque and sound of the water-cooled, DOHC three cylinder engine. Head for the open road, a little voice insisted. She who must be obeyed was persuaded on to the pillion, and despite an unlikely combined mass the Triumph still performed magically in terms of sheer grunt.
The rear shock, despite being cranked up to its firmest setting, felt a bit on the wimpy side, allowed the undercarriage to dig in on the more furious bends. This produced some grating noises that had wifey shifting around nervously but the big, fat tyres still stuck like glue to the tarmac. She was already battered by the turbulence produced by the aerodynamics of the half fairing, though most of the airstream whipped right past my own body. She got very wet when it rained; I didn't!
The bike felt happiest with around the ton-ten on the clock! The engine smoothed out and the chassis felt firmly planted on the tarmac; there was still loads of power available for acceleration to downright indecent speeds. The way motorways are policed, these days, the bike was an open invitation to loss of licence. At 70mph in top the engine didn't really feel settled and the chassis was quite susceptible to white-lines and the like. 90mph was a good compromise between the machine's abilities and my own fear of being the centre of a police chase.
However the bike was ridden, fuel stayed firmly in the 35-40mpg range. About what you'd expect from a modem, high performance motorcycle but it was worse than my car. Tyres also held no joy for those miserly of heart - about 2500 miles from the sticky Metz's, though so inspiring I didn't try any of the cheaper, longer-lived but less adhesive alternatives. The O-ring chain barely ever needed any attention, just the odd wipe with a bit of oil-soaked rag. Brake pads lasted about 10000 miles - I'm not a last moment brake junkie, instead often just used the gearbox and engine braking to pull up.
Hardcore cut and thrust riding didn't suit the Sprint's nature, though I know the odd youth who pulls wheelies and gets his knee down on one! He has the scars to prove it, too! I always had the impression that taken to extreme limits the bike would bite back in a rather vicious manner. All that heavy, highly mounted mass coming home to roost!
Despite the battering received, the wife was reluctant to let me go off on my own - she reads the UMG, which explains all! The summer of 1998 saw us two-up heading for the channel tunnel. Most civilised after past bruisings from the ferry. The French weather was a notch hotter than the already burning London, making for a foolhardy de-robing of essential motorcycle clothing. Especially as we soon hit the autoroute down to the SOF and thence Italy.
The only way to keep moderately cool, to pound along at an unlikely 130mph. The Triumph didn't object and the wife stopped squirming around as the turbulence disappeared. The fairing made for good protection except for a bit of a battering to the visor. I could crouch down but the resultant wind lashing received by the nearest and dearest didn't go down too well!
Pushed a touch harder, some vibration seeped out of the triple cylinder engine and the forks began to flutter. To be honest, at that kind of speed any indication of the slightest malfunction had me soiling my breeches; push it further and harder I didn't, though no doubt more youthful and hardy riders would come up with some fantastical speed readings. The autoroutes and main roads were ideally suited to the Triumph's ways
Used to lurking plod everywhere in the UK, it was a bit surprising to find so few Frog porkers. They tend to set up radar traps in unlikely comers of the land, just when you think it's safe out they leap. About forty miles to the border, one maniac suddenly popped up out of the woodwork, waving his hands around in a typically French manner. By the time I'd clocked him and had time to react I was too far away to pull over. A mad dash into Italy followed. A deliberately misplaced strap from my bag did a good job of obscuring the numberplate, making sure that there was no chance of radioing ahead! The border guard waved me through without bothering to check anything.
Italian car drivers all start on manic mopeds and it shows with their total disregard for the size of gaps they want to charge through. Even on the open road some madmen just charged into my space without the slightest regard for my existence. The Sprint's horn could've done with doubling in volume and it was far too slow turning to cope with the sudden necessary changes in direction.
Riding through city centres was akin to a death sentence. The same could've been said for past UJMs, too, but there was a certain low speed truculence to the Sprint that made it damn hard work to avoid immolation on some cage's bumper. So bad, that wifey and I usually parked up for the day and did the town on foot!
Somewhat later, we made it into Spain, where the condition of the roads was of more concern than that of the drivers. Main roads were often perfectly surfaced for a stretch then suddenly degenerated into a rough, corrugated terrain that had both of the Sprint's wheels twitching in dismay. The first time it happened I thought a wheel spindle had come loose. Nevertheless, the bike didn't flip us off - I'm sure if I was on one of the old UJMs I would've ended up in the nearest ditch.
Coming home, the tyres were down to the carcass. The bike not safe much above 70mph and absolutely diabolical on wet roads. So much so that we planned our return after listening to the weather forecasts on the radio. Blighty was, for once, a very welcome sight. The engine was about due for a service, too, the clutch clattering from the mis-balanced carbs and the top end making pinging noises. No permanent damage, ran as well as before after a service.
As along distance tourer I could've done with better fuel, a lighter clutch (rolling into town after gripping the bars for a few hours made it quite truculent), longer lasting tyres and longer intervals between oil changes and services. General comfort was good, speed was never a problem and even when tired out I could roll the bike along in top gear without having to worry over manic gear changing. With half decent tyres the Sprint was reassuring in even atrocious weather - in the same way that makes BMW Boxers popular.
Not a perfect tool, but used ones are available at good prices and the engines last for ages - mine has now done 29000 miles with no sign of any problems. Around the clock? Yeah, why not!
John Whitley
These Triumphs are big old things, none of the latest high tech lightweight Jap engineering. Despite this, I was soon at home on the triple. Revelling in the easy torque and exciting exhaust howl! The clutch was a bit abrupt, the gearchange needed effort and concentration, and the bars a deliberate, planned action to keep the flow smooth.
On the second day of ownership I grazed the side of a car. I was running the Sprint through Central London traffic when one of the cages veered into the narrow conduit. I put too much, panicked, input into the bars and hit the car on the other side. Or rather the large engine bars tore into the car's thin metal side. Again, I over-compensated with too much force on the bars, whamming into the car that had originally veered into my path.
The idiot was still aiming for a non-existent gap, the Triumph becoming wedged between the two stationary cars. Fortunately, the speed of all the vehicles was low and the crash-bars took all the force from the cages! I had a ruined Beemer on one side and a wrecked Jaguar on the other. This all caused a massive traffic jam, that even a BMW bike mounted plod couldn't get through.
I was tempted to use the enormous low rev torque of the Triumph to fight my way out of the mess. Both cagers appeared to be psychopaths out for vengeance and I decided my relatively safe position wedged between their cages would be the safest option for the moment. Took a couple of hours for the plod to sort out the mess.
I was very annoyed to find that the previous pristine red finish of my fairing lowers had been scratched in the incident. More than made up for, I decided, when the whole side of the Jag fell off as the cops towed it away! Later, some touch up paint and fervent polishing sorted the fairing, whilst I left the battle-scars on the crash-bars as a sign that I wasn't to be trifled with.
The Sprint turned out not to be a brilliant commute across Central London. Too heavy and slow turning, also no narrower than many a large four. Plenty of low rev torque meant it thundered along nicely in third or fourth. Gear change slack and notchiness meant I wasn't too keen on playing childish games through the box. The triple discs, though far from leading edge and having to fight an awful lot of mass, were at least powerful and predictable - even on wet, slimy roads I knew how far I could take the braking; no unpleasant surprises lurking unseen.
After the first week's commuting I was in two minds about the machine. The chassis didn't exactly inspire but I loved the torque and sound of the water-cooled, DOHC three cylinder engine. Head for the open road, a little voice insisted. She who must be obeyed was persuaded on to the pillion, and despite an unlikely combined mass the Triumph still performed magically in terms of sheer grunt.
The rear shock, despite being cranked up to its firmest setting, felt a bit on the wimpy side, allowed the undercarriage to dig in on the more furious bends. This produced some grating noises that had wifey shifting around nervously but the big, fat tyres still stuck like glue to the tarmac. She was already battered by the turbulence produced by the aerodynamics of the half fairing, though most of the airstream whipped right past my own body. She got very wet when it rained; I didn't!
The bike felt happiest with around the ton-ten on the clock! The engine smoothed out and the chassis felt firmly planted on the tarmac; there was still loads of power available for acceleration to downright indecent speeds. The way motorways are policed, these days, the bike was an open invitation to loss of licence. At 70mph in top the engine didn't really feel settled and the chassis was quite susceptible to white-lines and the like. 90mph was a good compromise between the machine's abilities and my own fear of being the centre of a police chase.
However the bike was ridden, fuel stayed firmly in the 35-40mpg range. About what you'd expect from a modem, high performance motorcycle but it was worse than my car. Tyres also held no joy for those miserly of heart - about 2500 miles from the sticky Metz's, though so inspiring I didn't try any of the cheaper, longer-lived but less adhesive alternatives. The O-ring chain barely ever needed any attention, just the odd wipe with a bit of oil-soaked rag. Brake pads lasted about 10000 miles - I'm not a last moment brake junkie, instead often just used the gearbox and engine braking to pull up.
Hardcore cut and thrust riding didn't suit the Sprint's nature, though I know the odd youth who pulls wheelies and gets his knee down on one! He has the scars to prove it, too! I always had the impression that taken to extreme limits the bike would bite back in a rather vicious manner. All that heavy, highly mounted mass coming home to roost!
Despite the battering received, the wife was reluctant to let me go off on my own - she reads the UMG, which explains all! The summer of 1998 saw us two-up heading for the channel tunnel. Most civilised after past bruisings from the ferry. The French weather was a notch hotter than the already burning London, making for a foolhardy de-robing of essential motorcycle clothing. Especially as we soon hit the autoroute down to the SOF and thence Italy.
The only way to keep moderately cool, to pound along at an unlikely 130mph. The Triumph didn't object and the wife stopped squirming around as the turbulence disappeared. The fairing made for good protection except for a bit of a battering to the visor. I could crouch down but the resultant wind lashing received by the nearest and dearest didn't go down too well!
Pushed a touch harder, some vibration seeped out of the triple cylinder engine and the forks began to flutter. To be honest, at that kind of speed any indication of the slightest malfunction had me soiling my breeches; push it further and harder I didn't, though no doubt more youthful and hardy riders would come up with some fantastical speed readings. The autoroutes and main roads were ideally suited to the Triumph's ways
Used to lurking plod everywhere in the UK, it was a bit surprising to find so few Frog porkers. They tend to set up radar traps in unlikely comers of the land, just when you think it's safe out they leap. About forty miles to the border, one maniac suddenly popped up out of the woodwork, waving his hands around in a typically French manner. By the time I'd clocked him and had time to react I was too far away to pull over. A mad dash into Italy followed. A deliberately misplaced strap from my bag did a good job of obscuring the numberplate, making sure that there was no chance of radioing ahead! The border guard waved me through without bothering to check anything.
Italian car drivers all start on manic mopeds and it shows with their total disregard for the size of gaps they want to charge through. Even on the open road some madmen just charged into my space without the slightest regard for my existence. The Sprint's horn could've done with doubling in volume and it was far too slow turning to cope with the sudden necessary changes in direction.
Riding through city centres was akin to a death sentence. The same could've been said for past UJMs, too, but there was a certain low speed truculence to the Sprint that made it damn hard work to avoid immolation on some cage's bumper. So bad, that wifey and I usually parked up for the day and did the town on foot!
Somewhat later, we made it into Spain, where the condition of the roads was of more concern than that of the drivers. Main roads were often perfectly surfaced for a stretch then suddenly degenerated into a rough, corrugated terrain that had both of the Sprint's wheels twitching in dismay. The first time it happened I thought a wheel spindle had come loose. Nevertheless, the bike didn't flip us off - I'm sure if I was on one of the old UJMs I would've ended up in the nearest ditch.
Coming home, the tyres were down to the carcass. The bike not safe much above 70mph and absolutely diabolical on wet roads. So much so that we planned our return after listening to the weather forecasts on the radio. Blighty was, for once, a very welcome sight. The engine was about due for a service, too, the clutch clattering from the mis-balanced carbs and the top end making pinging noises. No permanent damage, ran as well as before after a service.
As along distance tourer I could've done with better fuel, a lighter clutch (rolling into town after gripping the bars for a few hours made it quite truculent), longer lasting tyres and longer intervals between oil changes and services. General comfort was good, speed was never a problem and even when tired out I could roll the bike along in top gear without having to worry over manic gear changing. With half decent tyres the Sprint was reassuring in even atrocious weather - in the same way that makes BMW Boxers popular.
Not a perfect tool, but used ones are available at good prices and the engines last for ages - mine has now done 29000 miles with no sign of any problems. Around the clock? Yeah, why not!
John Whitley