This particular Wet-dream had a history known to me, it had belonged to a mate who had traded it in a couple of weeks previously for a tatty, but rapid RD400. This particular 250 was in far better condition than the majority of the tired old commuter hacks, possessing Koni shocks, a Micron 2-1, and decent Avon rubber. It had a general air of being well cared for, despite the suspiciously large number of previous owners recorded in the log book.
After parting with an obscene amount of money for insurance, and a reasonable £300 for the bike, I was on the road. As the owner of a 250 I could now look down on my peers on their 125s, even if some of the sportier examples had no trouble in keeping up with my rather staid mount.
The braking and handling were a revelation after the GP’s poor suspension and horrendous drum brakes. Corners were taken flat out and every roundabout was an excuse for scraping the pegs, my footwear soon sporting strange angular cuts on the edges. This surprisingly good handling produced many amusing dices on the public racetrack, otherwise known as the B4313.
A favourite time was chasing a pair of nutters on a TZR250 and a Z400 twin, with a pair of timid Z400J and Pantah riders bringing up the rear. The Pantah rider later enduring a lot of good natured piss taking for being beaten by a Wet-dream. This particular stretch of road features a truly excellent hump-back bridge, which is perfect for gaining big air if approached at a decent lick. I once rode over this bridge at an estimated 90mph.
Speed had always been difficult to calculate as the speedo stopped dead at 70, but the bike had been regularly clocked at 90mph plus. The previous owner was even clocked cracking the ton, but then he was always able to make bikes reach speeds far beyond even the most outrageous claims of the manufacturers.
Local myth has it that he once left an embarrassed Bonnie owner for dead on a Honda step-thru. The result of such juvenile bridge jumping was one seriously unhappy Superdream, leaking shocks, and the remains of a numberplate attempting to shred the back tyre.
Consumables were dealt with reasonably frugally. In the 6000 miles the bike suffered under my hands, I only had to replace the rear tyre and acquire a replacement rear wheel after the hub disintegrated.
After owning the bike for four months, I finally succumbed to the demands of a friend who'd been hassling me to sell him the thing. The sale was probably influenced by the ease with which the pillion pegs touched down en-route to the local dubious nightspot.
A basket case RD250 was imposing a large demand on my finances, so I parted with the CB for 250 notes, buying a cheap MZ150 for daily transport. The MZ was a big mistake, it paid me back for all the liberties I took while aboard the CB. Non-folding footpegs and tight corners don’t mix, ouch!.
The new owner of the CB250 didn’t inherit any of my luck. The bike went through seven engines in as many months, ending up as a rolling wreck painted in a rather fetching Hammerite silver, with an engine covered in a strange green mould. Nobody knew where this particular engine had been acquired, but | strongly suspect it had once been used as an anchor for one of the local fishing boats.
A sad end to a vastly underrated little bike, but a tale illustrating just how quickly they can turn into total rats. Buy a good one, if you can find one, and they make useful all-rounders.
Bruce Sinclair