Conversations from Hell...
“Hi, I'm phoning about the motorcycle.”
“What do you want to know about it?”
A promising start.
“Where are you?”
“Bridgend.”
“How long have you owned the bike?”
“Only a couple of weeks. I took it in part exchange for my big 800 Suzuki. The guy couldn’t come up with all the money so I took the little bike in part exchange.” Maybe bad news. Maybe a back street dealer playing cute.
“How does it go?”
“Like new, only done 800 miles. Just run in. They've sure changed since my day... electric start, discs at both ends, upside-down forks...” “Upside-down forks on the Wolf?” Oh-my-god, maybe a written off bike repaired with the wrong forks.
“Yeah that’s right. The one with the fairing had normal forks and the Wolf had the real goods.” “Are you sure, I always thought the '94 Wolf had normal forks.” “No, no, you've got that the wrong way round.”
Like hell! (I checked later and I was right).
“Is it restricted?”
“Nah, you just take a black and white wire out. Worth an extra 10mph on the clock. The guy who sold it to me told me that.”
“Has it been crashed?”
“Nah, not by me. Barely run in, innit?”
“Where do you live exactly?”
“I never give that kind of information out. The guy who sold me the bike warned me that. They'll come round, look the bike over and then come back a few days later to steal the bike. I'll meet you at the bus station or something.”
It gets worse, the bike’s probably been stolen, crashed, ridden into the ground, etc.
“I don’t suppose your name’s in the logbook?”
“It's not worth it for a few weeks, is it?”
Sure, sure.
“When will you be in tomorrow?” “All day. I’m on shifts but I’m off tomorrow. In all day.” Sounds ever more like a back street dealer.
“I'll phone you tomorrow.”
Like hell!
“Hello, I’m telephoning about the motorcycle.”
“Er, where did you see it, mate?” Come on!
“I don’t know, I’ve forgotten.”
“Er, MCN?”
“I don't know. Someone else gave me the details.”
“When did you get the details?” Give me strength.
“How long have you owned the bike?”
“OK, mate, you win. Which bike are you talking about?”
Truth at last.
“You a dealer, then?”
“No, no, just got a couple of bikes for sale. Nothing wrong with that.” “You have your name in the log book?”
“No, never bother with any of that stuff.” Sure, sure. “So how long have you owned the Honda?” “Er, which Honda was that?” Oh dear. “Bye, bye.”
“Hello, I’m calling about the motorcycle.” “Oh yes! Which one? I've got a little Gilera and big Honda four.” “You a dealer then?”
“No, I just like motorcycles. Selling these two because I’ve just bought a ZXR750.”
“Nice. What sort of condition’s the Gilera in?”
“I bought it as a non-runner. Had some ignition problems. It’s pretty original, I even bought a new exhaust system for it. Cost £150 just for that but it makes the bike look right.” “How does it go?” “Fine, it's very fast for a 150, 80mph on the clock. Do you know the model?” “Yeah, the Acore from the mid-seventies. Nice looking thing with an OHV engine.” “That's it! Do you want to see it. I have it at my engineering works...” Slam the phone down in disgust, not wanting to fix someone else’s bodging.
Later, when I recovered, I made the trek to a grey importers to view some American customs, described in their advert as superb, concours, immaculate etc. I got there ahead of the crowds before the dealer had brought them around from his other warehouse.
Immediately, I conjured up visions of crash damaged reprobates being hastily bodged together. We're talking around £1500 for late seventies steeds like the XS650, GS400 and even the odd CB500T.
The dealer was also a breaker, which wasn’t a good sign. Neither were the mangy heaps in his showroom which didn't rise above the hundred quid rat bike status, save that he wanted £500 to £1500 for them. Tiny Honda 250 customs were the exception, but the seat height was so low that every time you stopped at traffic lights you'd be eyeball to eyeball with mad Pekinese dogs.
The boss reckoned they were a bit of all right and looked greatly wronged when I pointed out that the lowness of the seat height made them dangerous, awkward and just plain horrible. Sensitive chaps, these dealers.
After about half an hour the concours XS650 and superb GS400 were rolled around by a couple of hardcore mechanics. The XS had handlebars and seat straight out of Easy Rider but the engine looked clean enough to reflect the 14000 miles on the clock, save that the dials looked like they came off an early CB250K.
The mechanic reckoned the black paint job was original but it looked to me like it was done with a few spray cans by someone bearing a grudge.
“Lovely bit of engineering there, mate.”
“Yeah, I had one back in 1982. Bought it with 50 thou on the clock and did 30000 miles without any engine trouble. Should this indicator be hanging off like that?” “Must’ve been damaged in transit. It's come all the way from Texas.”
“Are these marks on the frame down-tubes signs of a straightened frame?”
The look of worried consternation on the dealer’s face was worth framing.
“No, no, that was where they were clamped in the crate.” “Why are these footrest hangers so rusty, completely devoid of paint, if the mileage’s so low?”
“Do you want to hear it run then?” “Why not.” Anything for a laugh. Things turned a little surreal when the mechanic brought out a charge booster the size of a filing cabinet.
The XS remained resolutely dead apart from clicking from a white box above the battery. No-one seemed to know what it was for. Eventually the mechanic sussed that putting 24 volts through the electrical system wasn't such a good idea when he'd connected the jump leads the wrong way around! I could see he was a sensitive kind of chap so I refrained from walking away in disgust - I had no intention of buying a crashed and straightened bike that had been clocked and had the whole electrical system melted. After replacing all the fuses the neutral light came on and the starter grumbled away.
“Have you checked that there’s oil in the engine? I asked.
Four bottles of 10/40W later, the big vertical twin finally spat into life. But only after emptying a can of Easy-Start into the air filter and nearly burning outthe starter motor. The short megaphones allowed the kind of bellow that made arrest imminent and the shop window threatened to leap out of its frame.
Both the sidestand prong and I shared the same paving slab, which vibrated so harshly that it put my fillings on edge. Beneath the exhaust howl I could just make out a curious shrieking noise from the top end. XS650’s can rattle away merrily yet stay together, but this noise was like metal tearing away at metal, maybe a bearing surface being cut up or a disintegrating camchain tensioner.
The motor was switched off before I could narrow it down; saved me from having to spit out a mouth full of fillings. There was a general air of celebration amongst the dealer and his mechanics. “Sounds pretty good, doesn't it?” The amazing thing was that the dealer looked like he believed it. I made my excuses and left.
Bill Fowler