Tall Stories

Not everyone has tall stories to tell. Summer-only riders and those weaned on newer Japanese bikes may only recall the day they first broke the 140mph barrier (whilst those on Tiger Cubs may have equal cause to remember the first, and probably only time, their steed forced its way through the 50mph barrier). Or the ride when the electronic ignition unit failed a day after the warranty expired with nary an authorised dealer in sight and how long they had to wait for the rescue van.

Now most UMG readers are more likely to be buying the not so reliable bikes from this first group, or they cut their teeth on British bikes, and are thus almost certain to have a whole catalogue of unlikely stories...

My first bike, a bright yellow D7 Bantam, took a violent dislike to Amersham in Buckinghamshire. A shame really as my friend Helen lived there and I visited her a lot. First visit, the Bantam wouldn’t start after a fuel stop - there was a simple answer except to a total novice. I’d put two stroke oil in the tank before the fuel and hadn’t shaken it enough.

A few weeks later the D7 was refusing to start again. After kicking it over a dozen times there was a nasty grinding noise from the bottom end. Only a mile to the railway station, and then a couple more from Marylebone to home. A quick engine strip down (I was to become quite expert at this) revealed a generator rotor that had worked loose and taken half of the crankshaft with it. So, in with the spare crank assembly - all Bantams came (or should do) with a large box of spares.

My older brother also grew up on a Bantam but his hated anything beginning with the letter B. His sheared all the bolts holding the rear sprocket to the wheel in Banbury (Ducati 900s do this too, although there’s no reason to suppose that the Bantam’s 8hp was the sole reason for this breakdown).

One night, he was trying to follow a car along an unlit road - Bantams have notoriously bad lights, and those with direct lighting where light output varies with engine speed make bicycle lights seem bright - but he lost the car and ran smack into a bollard.

On another occasion, with his girlfriend on the pillion - no easy task on a D3 Bantam he went to sleep (this was his speciality) and went off the road into a bush. Fifty yards onto the Severn Bridge the bike just stopped dead. He carefully pushed it backwards towards the toll booths, ignoring the £25 minimum call out signs, whereupon the bike mysteriously started first kick.

A lightweight Matchless 350 engine shoehorned into a 250 frame followed my BSA, proving to be even more full of character. It was always run on a tight budget - cheapest Halfords oil as it leaked so much, an air filter made of muslin over the carb bellmouth, and a rear chain that cost £2.50 from Pride & Clark and which wore out in 200 miles on a wet ride to Leeds.

During the tanker’s drivers strike I was on my way up to Leeds when I finally ran out of petrol, at about 11pm near Doncaster. Sitting next to the bike, wondering what the hell to do, another bike stopped. Its rider knew of a petrol station which had fuel, so we set off on his bike only to find it closed. He didn’t have enough to syphon from his tank so I was left sitting by the roundabout with the Matchless for company.

Greatly influenced by an article by Royce Greasy in Bike magazine which said if the bike breaks down you're dressed in what’s virtually an Arctic survival suit, despite the fact that Doncaster in winter is less hospitable than the Arctic, I was getting quite comfortable when a bike stopped. It was the same rider, he’d drained the petrol from his lawn mower - enough petrol to do 30 miles.

Would the Matchless start? Kickback, yes. Backfire, yes. Start, no. It was always the same, an unfathomable part of the bike’s psyche meant that one breakdown or malfunction was never enough. The points backplate had slipped but with the aid of a packet of fag papers (that’s right officer, they're for resetting ignition timing...) I was soon on my way again, reaching Leeds at seven in the morning; another twelve hour epic in the bag.

That Matchless provided much epic material. A trip to Wales, when the auto advance plate and the points cam parted company and needed an emergency welding job at a little engineering shop in Brecon. A blast down the M40 to Oxford (though, that’s a relative term as 70mph coincided with terminal velocity and terminal vibration), as I shut off for the first Oxford ring road roundabout, I found the front brake lever dangling from the cable, its pivot bolt somewhere back on the motorway.

One time, after an MOT test at a well known British bike shop, the tester came back, complaining that the front brake was useless - but it didn’t stop him writing out the certificate, he added, that they were like that from new!

Then there was a ride to Banbury with my brother on the pillion, when the bike decided to empty its primary chaincase all over his left foot (while he was wearing brand new tan leather boots). The trip when we rode back from Bicester to Aylesbury with only the pilot lamp on as the moon was bright enough to illuminate the road as though it was daylight. I could see the ammeter needle swinging back and forth between plus and minus 12V (the vibration, don’t you know). Then I sold it. I curse myself still.

A BSA Starfire followed which cost £50. Noisy, primitive and with a catalogue of nasty tricks, like destroying its alternator rotor outside London and only just getting home. Losing the carb drain plug which was replaced with a wooden plug when a long search back along the road failed to reveal the original.

A little later, the Beeza broke its con-rod on the M4 near Newbury. The piston had partially seized which wrecked the rod. I had to phone the emergency services but they wanted £30 I didn’t have, so it was a long, illegal push back down the hard shoulder - the joys of motorcycling are soon lost pushing a heavily laden Deadfire. Back to London on the train...

Terminal breakdowns were rare but good for character building - of marque and rider. My friend’s BSA A7 put a conrod through the crankcase on the A1. My brother’s Norton 350 split a piston, only making it back to London at 25mph, pouring white smoke out of the silencer. Starfires only break terminally, I’m sure, and the temptation was strong to remove the number plate and abandon it.

After a time I'd given up saying to people that I was visiting, see you tomorrow at eleven, starting to say see you sometime tomorrow (Bantam) or see you tomorrow (Deadfire) but with a complete lack of conviction. Journeys took on a veneer of adventure. Apologetic phone calls were made from telephone call boxes in many strange corners of England. Bags of tools and spares carried became ever more heavy.

Experience allowed quick repairs to common problems and dying arts were rediscovered. The gas stove preheating of a Bantam spark plug on mornings and the dash downstairs before it cooled; the loosening of a Matchless petrol tank cap to release the vacuum caused by a permanently blocked breather hole, whilst on the move; re-adjusting the Matchless’ points in two minutes flat; the strange ritual of the long-swinging kick needed to get the Matchless into life. By the time I moved onto a Moto Guzzi (thus neatly avoiding talking about a period despatching on a 250MZ that only broke a gearchange return spring - neatly repaired with a bungee hooked over the tank - and shed a few rollers on the rear chain to no apparent ill effect) things had changed. I could now be almost certain of arriving on time, though the G5 Guzzi gave several hours of roadside repair.

Riding to Exeter one rare night, in driving snow, with cars tearing past on the slippery surface, gave the Guzzi a hernia (aka broken throttle cable). An easy repair with the spare cable in the tank bag? Yes, except that the spare genuine Moto Guzzi cable was half an inch longer than the genuine Moto Guzzi original - ever tried unwinding half an inch of recalcitrant steel outer casing with only a pair of pliers, at night, in the snow, in the middle of the Devon countryside?

Another favourite Guzzi trick was for one set of points to stick together in cold weather, so that the bike would only start on one cylinder. This always demanded removal of the points cover, with the bonus of a free electric shock to warm up the rider.

But in all this I haven't mentioned all the rides when nothing went wrong. Which for the Starfire is quite understandable as the least eventful ride involved some impromptu motocross as the Wildfire found a combination of 60mph, Avon SM tyres and a 90° bend in the wet far too, daunting the straight ahead approach into a field was much more natural. My friend’s Norton Atlas did make a record breaking ride from Totnes to London in 3 hours 15 minutes.

And a summer ride from London to Ironbridge, when I started at 4am and saw no cars till I reached Oxfordshire at seven. Or racing a Morgan through Norfolk when I was on the Guzzi, with the wonderful noise of two V-twins disturbing the peace...

Tim Francis

 

The Three Spires Rally

I’m not sure if it was the sound of the rain against my bedroom window; or the dread of it, that woke me on the morning of the Three Spires Rally. A dejected glance under the blinds at the shiny wetness confirmed my worst fears.

Wet weather, even very wet weather, doesn’t normally concern me. Indeed, it rained for most of the 1986 National Rally and my enthusiasm remained absolute, if perhaps a little damp towards the end. But this day was different. I needed a spot of dry weather in what had been an altogether wet summer, because of inches or lack of them...

I was entering into this event on a new bike with a seat height more suited to a giant than a stunted Londoner. This example of Japanese fiendishness (and wishful thinking when you consider the height of your average oriental) caused the simple manoeuvre of stopping to be changed into an elaborate pirouette requiring intense concentration. With practice, a fair degree of success was achieved in normal riding gear, but when the limbs are clad in the motorcycling equivalent of a divers suit things become alarming.

I can normally control this anxiety about my lack of stature, but I was entering a safety rally which would need mountain goat agility around some cones at some stage of the proceedings. It’s one thing to knock over a couple of cones, it’s something else again to be impaled beneath ones machine, rendered inanimate by its weight while 99 competitors look on.

With impressive resolve, and an upturned apple box to help me get on the bike, I headed towards Litchfield. My first mistake of the day (if you disregard the foolhardy act of getting out of bed in the first place) was to take the motorway. The rain was coming at me in sheets. My bike pretends that it’s a Paris Dakar replica or something similar; in certain conditions it can even get away with it. Part of the charade is an upright riding position intended presumably to aid balance during delicate manoeuvres over the Tenere desert or the Pyrenees.

As it would take a more fevered imagination than mine to compare a wet, cold M42 with these exotic places, this riding position served only to locate me precisely in a position to absorb everything that the road and weather of Warwickshire could inflict.

Finding the start at the Litchfield station was my first test of navigational aptitude. I passed with flying colours, going directly to the venue... behind a girl on a Honda Melody who showed me the way. A brief glance at the competition left me unimpressed, their mounts exhibited the usual excesses of BMWs, seasoned with racing machines and some boy racers.

There was a Portacabin with two parts - one for receiving a bib and map, the other for imparting what knowledge one had of the Highway Code. The questions were a total irrelevance and served only to widen the gap between those who couldn’t care less from those who do.

There were two caravans. One had Royal Life Insurance stickers all over it (of which we shall learn more later) and the other contained two scout ladies serving tea and coffee. It occurred to me that scouts ought to be boys, but as the tea was free I let them keep their secret.

The rain had just stopped, but I wasn’t fooled. I knew that just as soon as I removed my divers suit, down would come the rain. I kept it on; it didn’t rain for the rest of the day! That was my second mistake.

I was ready to start. I had a pretty bib, a map and a key fob compliments of Royal Life. More lady scouts checked everyone out through an impressive starting gate, making sure to note the time of each contestants departure. We left at minute intervals. This was intended to prevent those who couldn’t read a map from following those who could. Hmmmm... this was getting serious.

Two lefts and a right, and there was the first observed section, a massive roundabout guarded by a lone officer in a jam sandwich. This was going to be easy. If all the controls were going to be observed by uniformed officers in marked cars then all I had to do was stay on the bike (no mean achievement in itself), look out for Staffordshire plod, and make sure that I made no mistakes whilst they had their beady eyes on me.

Sure enough, at frequent intervals throughout the route there were uniformed officers in cars and on bikes for all to see. My confidence was growing at an alarming rate. I began to tell myself "I’m going to win this," when the route took a sharp turn down a green lane. Yes, a green lane complete with mud, potholes, rocks, everything... it wasn’t even funny. I had to concede that I was on just the bike for these conditions... but what about the guys on the race replicas riding on slicks? That was their problem, I was on my way to a win and I couldn’t tire my mind with such trivia.

The scenic route ended at a tent which contained the first special test. This was an electronic test of reactions, performed on an apparatus constructed to resemble a car. As a light on the dash came on, the contestant had to move his (or her) foot as fast as possible from the accelerator to the brake. This movement was timed to a split second - in my case 0.4 of a second.

While travelling to the next control, I exercised my mind with the calculation that it would take about forty odd feet to reach the brake at 70mph. I slowed down, wondering if my fingers would work any quicker than my feet. The road route was very long; too long I think. More junctions, bends and attendant policemen until the next test. This time a hill start. No problem. A bike width test was next and then a long series of questions on a questionnaire - what was the last road sign you passed? Eh... that’s not fair, I was concentrating on the road. I have always thought coppers were sneaky.

I was just beginning to think I was into my second week of the rally when I stumbled upon the inevitable manoeuvrability section. Have you ever wondered about the relevance of wobbling around cones to every day motorcycling? The fact is they don’t have any relevance whatever to normal biking. Ask any London despatch rider how many times during a working day he has to ride a figure of eight. The truth is, it’s the only thing that your average bike cop can do better than the rest of us.

I have attended a number of these slow riding contests and I can say without fear of contradiction that sooner or later the following conversation will be heard. Competitor: "This is too hard, the cones are too close.” Officer: "Oh no they're not, one of our lads set them up on a faired bike with one hand tied behind his back and a pillion." I wouldn’t doubt the veracity of this officer, or all the others who keep telling us how clever they are with monotonous regularity. All I would suggest is that as I contribute to the 10000 notes or so they make for riding a bike every day, I am entitled to some display of proficiency even at this almost pedestrian level.

As I waited with feverish anticipation for my turn to make a fool of myself, I was constantly reminded by my fellow cowards that it would be easier on my type of bike. When my turn came, I set off, resigned to my fate, only to be confounded by a half decent performance. I wouldn’t admit this to everyone, but it was easier on this bike than on any other bike I have competed on. Now I knew I was on a winner.

Pegasus like, I finished the course and returned to the police car park. As I rode in I was directed towards the insurance caravan to have my photograph taken. This must surely have meant my riding superiority had been acknowledged. Small doubts began to invade my mind only when I noticed that everyone else also had their picture taken.

Attempts to convince myself that the rest were having a picture as a consolation prize soon evaporated when it became apparent that this was nothing more than an exercise in potential customer list building by a salesman from Royal Life. We later received the pic with the once in a lifetime opportunity to take out a Royal Life pension. Full marks to the guy who dreamed this one up. I wonder if it worked?

A simple, but none-the-less pleasant lunch was included in the entry fee, together with the ever rewarding activity of talking bikes to other bikers, passed the time while the results were compiled. The police equivalent of a general was recruited to present the awards. I didn’t mind. As long as I received the outright winner’s cup I didn’t care if it was presented by Neil Kinnock/ Margaret Thatcher/ Peter Bottomley (just chose who you dislike the most).

Finally, Sir got to the actual results. I think he was more accustomed to presenting prizes for beauty competitions than bike rallies, as the awards were announced in reverse order. The suspense was killing... and then I knew, I had come third... from bottom! They had obviously confused my entry with a lesser mortal. I didn’t mind really, it’s only another pot for the sideboard.

Trouble is, I don’t actually have any pots on the sideboard; not yet anyway.

The day mellowed into a typical summer evening, and gritting my teeth against the icy blasts, headed towards home consoled by the belief that I was once again the victim of a wicked plot to keep me out of the results.

Colin Edwards

 

Loose Lines [Issue 16, March/April 1989]

Chiang Mai is located amusingly close to the Golden Triangle and, I suppose not so surprisingly, does not share the widespread poverty of most cities outside of Bangkok. This is Thailand with a difference. Bangkok, having reached a climax of tourist popularity, is no place for a wise lad to hang out these days, so my winter sojourn was spent up country where the scenery is strange but strangely familiar. This I can’t explain, but what the hell.

Chiang Mai is supposed to be cooler than Bangkok but day time temperatures seem no less immoderate and can only be described as ace biking weather. A taxation policy that cruelly taxes large and powerful bikes means most of the populace rides around on sub 125cc bikes, with the odd drug dealer cutting a dash on an GSXR1100. The most popular bike is the Honda scooterette and, get this kids, at least half of these devices are ridden by girls! What a sight for sore eyes.

That’s the good news. The bad news is that most of the dubious bars have all but been closed down (they’re still open but...) by the influx of AIDS infected Yank tourists (go on, report me to the Race Relations Board) and most of the discos that look vaguely safe to enter are mostly populated by huge Thai ladyboys whom you have to repel very gently as they usually keep going on a mixture of too much alcohol and too much speed and tend to slap a broken glass into the face of farangs who show a lack of respect - as happened to a hapless (and somewhat faceless afterwards) Australian tourist.

Which reminds me of the story of the Oz tourist who in a Chiang Mai brothel couldn’t persuade a gurl to depart with him (obviously a woman of some taste) and in frustration tore a five hundred baht note in half (around ten quid) - the police were called (despite the fact that prostitution and brothels are illegal), he was arrested and sentenced to six months imprisonment - because when he tore the note in half he also tore the head of their king in half. Playing God Save The Queen by the Sex Pistols is not recommended...

OK, I know this is a motorcycle magazine but you can get to Thailand for less than 350 notes return and it costs next to nothing to live there and it’s a hell of a lot more fun to spend some of the winter in the sun (remember that, sunshine every day) and actually scoot around without a helmet, wind in yer hair, a pair of shades and nary a care in the world.

The in thing in Chiang Mai is to go trail riding up in the mountains. I viewed this with a deal of suspicion, but then that’s the way I view most things. As long as you can keep it under some kind of reasonable amount of control, paranoia is a useful bedfellow.

For reasons that totally escape my comprehension, I have a great deal of trouble getting through customs without a major interrogation and I figured that. Fowler riding around the Golden Triangle would immediately attract the Thai police, the CIA and anyone else looking for an easy arrest. But that was a minor problem compared with the fact that Thai bandits actually shoot tourists (and a jolly good thing too, far too many Yanks and Krauts around here) at worst or merely rob them, strip them naked and send ’em back.

I was told by one veteran that most of the routes were well marked and it was actually quite hard to get lost. Having taken a trip in a jeep to some remote village (so remote that they imported artifacts from Bangkok to sell to the gullible) where I was immediately assailed by people trying to sell me opium and young kids demanding one baht each.

I found the route had managed to include sheer drops, slippery mud and fallen trees; it had felt distinctly unsafe in a four wheel drive jeep; on the standard issue Honda 125 trailster (no, not the XL but some distinctly peaky water-cooled two stroke mean machine) it would have been near suicidal - but then my idea of trail riding is a temporary excursion off the tarmac onto the grass verge to avoid some moron in an auto who’s done something extremely stupid; and that taste of the dirt was usually so frightening that I’d had little inclination to indulge in the real thing.

Actually going out of my way to get covered in mud, soaked and break a few bones wasn’t exactly my idea of passing time in an amusing manner. But Thai beer is weird stuff. You can drink six glasses of the brew and feel no effect, then suddenly the room’s whirling around and it gets kind of awkward to walk. Before I could make it to the toilet to spew up the brew, it seems I’d agreed to go trail riding the next day.

The first I knew of this was when I heard a hammering on the door of my apartment at six the next morning. That kind of thing after too much beer leads to maximum paranoia and it was only when considering dropping a few storeys to escape what I assumed was someone out for my blood that I saw the yellow Honda and realised what had happened. Or sort of. Any vaguely civilised person would have gone away after a few gentle knocks on the door, this chap appeared to be trying to buckle the door out of its frame. Before the whole building was awoken, I figured I’d better open the damn thing.

Fucking Americans, I thought, but didn’t utter as he was twice my weight. He was about forty but had the open face of a baby. He was actually a doctor but unsatisfied with gaining skills that would have exhausted most sane people he insisted on racing motorcycles and going trail riding in dangerous mountains. Before I could talk my way out of it, almost before I was fully dressed even, I was on the back of his bike rushing through the early morning Chiang Mai traffic, And that was bad enough.

The stroker engine made an incredibly nasty noise that was close to splitting my head in half and I hate riding pillion; had not the Thais tended to execute murderers and had not strangulation of the pilot resulted in loss of my own blood when the bike crashed, I might well have sent the Yank onto a better life in the next world.

"Make a good story for your magazine,” he said when we arrived at his residence, a quite large teak house littered with expensive and exotic motorcycles. At least that was what I guessed he said, as my head was still ringing from the open exhaust. I cursed the universality of motorcycling that had led me into all this - you know, mention that you're into bikes to a fellow enthusiast wherever they come from and a whole evening has disappeared in tall and unlikely stories before you realised what’s happened.

I didn’t get where I was today by giving into childish Americans and it took only a few moments reflection to realise I had to knobble one of the Honda trail bikes. This proved suspiciously easy as a non-standard coil on one of the Hondas had been slung under the petrol tank. Whilst the American was inside the house sorting out some provisions, I swapped over the low tension leads to the coil and lounged around with an ill concealed grin. This soon disappeared when the damn thing started up first kick. I began to wish I’d taken out some health insurance - would you be willing to pay £1.50 for the UMG to pay off the hospital bills? No, I thought not.

Falling back on Plan Two, I revved the balls off the spare bike, secure in the knowledge, gained from a youth misspent thrashing an NSU Quickly, that these highly tuned two strokes wouldn’t last the distance once given a bit of stick (cue for sixty thousand miler RD400 owners to write in/tear up the mag in disgust). Then it dawned on me, that given the totally unpredictable nature of such motors, it could just as easily fail at an inappropriate moment half way up a mountain.

Full of visions of the Fowler frame doing cartwheels down a Thai mountainside, I gently rushed the Honda through the box with the merest hint of throttle. Plan Three was the easy way out. I wondered why I hadn’t thought of it before. As soon as the Yank got far enough ahead, I’d turn off and rush away in the opposite direction. What could be simpler? Fortunately, Plan One came into play before I had to risk retribution for my apparent attempt at stealing a Honda.

The bike spluttered to a halt like it had run out of fuel. The American came rushing back up the road, did the kind of back wheel skid that had the local cockroaches running for cover. He gave me a funny look and spent the next half hour trying to kick it into life. No luck. I tried to hide the smile but it went away all of its own accord when he suggested leaving the dead bike there and taking me on the pillion.

Bill Fowler

 

Honda CB500T

This story begins in a public house in Worthing when a character asked me if I wished to buy a CB500T on the cheap. I replied, OK, let’s see it. Outside the pub sat this dirty orange thing with a very classic shaped K&Q saddle. He fired it up - by god, it was loud. But the engine sounded great. It had only 49000 miles on the clock; for a twelve year old Jap twin I thought that was fairly low.

I exchanged cash for documents and away I roared. The first thing I noticed was that the speedo didn’t work (bang goes the 49000 miles) so a quick trip to a breaker sorted out a new cable. The clutch was excessively heavy, even for an old bike - off came the cable for a quick grease up. Next the tyres, a new set of Roadrunners were bunged on.

This appeared to cure all the immediate problems. A Sunday afternoon cleaning soon turned a dirty looking heap into a gleaming beauty. All was fine until three days later when my nice new rear tyre acquired a puncture thanks to some excess junk in next door’s skip. That was put right but left me over an hour late for work, so I opened her up, resulting in the baffles leaving home and the bike doing a good impression of a tank (sorry Mr Plod).

The exhaust, incidentally, was a two into one exiting in a very narrow silencer which, I’ve since been informed, was originally intended for a 250 single. The days and miles passed for quite some time in a pleasant enough way until I began to smell petrol. The paint began to peel off the back of the tank and my laundry basket was full of smelly jeans and trousers. Even the Belstaffs were sulking at me.

Time for the tank to be removed, cleaned and checked. After searching for a little while, I found that the seam at the back of the tank had started to weep. I tried all kinds of filler but none of them re the leak, but two coats of Hammerite seemed to stem the smelly flow.

Back on the bike and the head gasket blew on the way to work - a nasty slapping noise started and putting my hand beneath the tank revealed the problem. I jumped off and opened up the tool bag. I didn’t have the right spanner to fit into the cutout around a couple of the bolts. So I let the engine limp along to a nearby garage and borrowed a socket set. The head nuts were tightened down, probably way beyond the recommended torque but it appeared to work.

The same day I bought a new top end gasket set. The bike just about managed to make it back to my flat, but I had nowhere to strip the engine down. The next step was to remove the engine in the street, dump it into the back of a friend's car to take it to his house. All of this went fine, even including being chased around with a five foot bullwhip in the middle of Worthing whilst doing it (courtesy of my crazy wife and my friend’s mad girlfriend).

So far, so good (what’s a bad day like? - Ed). We stripped the engine in the front porch to avoid splashing the carpets with oil. Great, except the (dreaded Honda) camchain was a never ending one. A quick whip (not the bullwhip this time) around Worthing and Littlehampton only turned up a bicycle chain link extractor. With a couple of mods this worked fine, only whilst we'd been out finding the extractor, the wife had gone and bought a bottle of brandy. After a few shots of this work stopped and a mammoth beer fight ensued (bang go the clean carpets).

The engine had acquired one or two nasty spots during its 49000 mile life - like pitted cams and worn out valve guides. On the other hand, there was no wear to the big ends or piston and bore. The camchain was a pig pen, though, as it runs through a labyrinth of tunnels, guides and adjusters. I think Honda must have put all their new ideas at the time into one engine to see which one turned up the most warranty claims first.

Anyway, we did eventually get the bike back together even though it took us two weekends to achieve (can you blame us with the distractions we had). The bike behaved really well when I started it up, it came to life after the third kick (never did get the electric start to work). This wasn’t to last for long as I broke down on the way home - someone had left the points screws undone. A little bit of cursing and tinkering at the roadside got us on the road again.

Even though I retorqued the head twice (once at 500 miles, once at 1000 miles) the bastard blew again after only 5000 miles. This time I decided that enough was enough, quickly banged in a new head gasket and sold the bike for £150. The guy who bought it promptly sprayed it matt black and pranged it. However, despite all the problems I did enjoy my use of the 500T. I would recommend it if you enjoy a sore bum after 70 miles or pin and needles in your hands and feet from the vibration (my wife liked those). I would buy another one, but only as a second bike, not one I'd have to rely on.

The bike was fun to ride, with a nice torquey motor and reasonable acceleration - but don’t expect the speedo to show more than 95-105mph. The fuel consumption was  a reasonable 45 to 50mpg. The road holding was not dangerous, and there was plenty of ground clearance as the centre-stand had been junked to allow fitment of the 2-1.

The suspension lacked enough damping to cope with two-up riding and bounced all over the place. The brakes, however, were horrific. You can’t stop quickly from any sensible speed with the single front disc - at high speeds you just yank them on, close your eyes and pray. My bike never ticked over happily below 3000rpm but it hadn’t been re-jetted properly for the 2-1. But friends who have owned similar bikes assure me the things will tick over, unserviced for months, at about 600 to 750rpm.

The old beasty thumped along happily and never actually left me stranded. It always seemed to want to get home, even when the head gaskets blew. It was always getting pissed over by the Nippon Denso (350 YPVS et al) crowd and there were one or two embarrassing moments with 125s and 250s.

The bike is very easy on the maintenance front, the valves easy to adjust as the locknut and screw (of the eccentrically mounted rocker spindle) are on the side of the engine. The twin cams do pit and the very long camchain is a pain to put back right. If properly maintained the engines can last for high mileages but it’s important to keep a check on those cams. Cheap enough to use as a hack, get one before the classic mob get funny ideas about them.

G Lowe

 

Panther 600

There appears to be a belief that British bikes are incontinent and unreliable, not to mention temperamental. Whilst there is an element of truth in these charges, particularly that of incontinence (Royal Enfield 250s, AMC tin chain cases, Triumph pushrod tubes etc), generally, most of these faults are curable, given really careful preparation and the use of modern jointing compounds.

However, regarding reliability, there are two British bikes which I've found to be exceptionally reliable by any standard. But first my credentials - I've been riding almost daily for the past 32 years, and so far have owned 93 bikes, including Ariel Square Fours, Scotts, Brough Superiors, and some modern (by my standards) bikes such as a Suzuki T500, GS425, Yamaha XS400, Honda RS250, CJ250, BMW R75 and my current affliction, an old MZ250.

Of all these machines, by far the most reliable have been my 600cc Panthers and 350cc Royal Enfields. I have covered high mileages on two Panthers. The first, a 1952 rigid frame Model 100 was bought for £10 in 1963. That winter was one of the worst in living memory. I rode the bike back to my digs in Wembley, from Brixton, with two bald sidecar section tyres, sidecar gearing and a sticking throttle cable, all of which added a touch of spice to life.

In Balham High Street, I paused to check the oil level, not daring to stop the engine of this unfamiliar beast for fear that it might not start. It was then that I learnt lesson one of Panther ownership - never, ever, remove a Panther filler cap when the engine is running. The gush of thick black liquid shot about ten feet into the air, together with the filler cap. My brand new, Harold Wilson type pimply Gannex coat was instantly waterproofed with black oil, as was my white shirt. I made a hasty retreat as soon as possible before anyone a get a lynching party together.

Over the next year and a half the Panther clocked up 18000 miles at the cost of two second hand rear and front tyres, three or four clutch cables, a set of brake linings, a magneto drive bush, points, plugs and numerous magneto coupling drive squares. Although the latter only cost a few coppers, I eventually made one from a piece of synthetic rubber picked up in the gutter, and this lasted until I sold the bike. I soon found that a nasty rattle from the big-end had been disguised by retarding the timing, but this disappeared at 75mph, so this became my natural cruising speed on my trips back home to Liverpool, on the then novel new motorway.

Despite the knackered big-end, it just carried on running and I closed my ears and waited, for the bang - which never came. Apart from the magneto drive bush, which was replaced because it was the source of the only oil leak, I replaced nothing in the engine. I did regular oil changes, using a straight 50SAE oil and Molyslip, which I can heartily recommend from past experience with ancient and clapped cheapos. I had little trouble from the magneto (although, these days, expect clapped capacitors and paper bearing washers), helped by the fact that, after servicing, I realigned it by tightening up the retaining strap with my fingers, getting the engine to tick over and then bolting down fully. Thus the magneto will line itself up (only with gear drives, please) and the bearings last almost indefinitely.

My current Panther is a similar model, rigid framed with Dowty forks - they use air springing and oil damping and work reasonably when new but can be evil when badly worn. They also deflate occasionally, which adversely affects the steering - some people have been known to go through hedges, but I've managed to control the beast when this has happened. The forks also deflate if they're not used for a while. Top them up with oil and pump them up again. They will probably deflate again, straight away, but don't despair, keep pumping them up until the oil seals swell again. This may take a couple a days! The forks on my Panther are quite badly worn now, as the bike has done 282000 miles, being on its third time round the clock!

I am the fourth owner. I acquired the bike in 1973 and have covered 80000 miles on it. The current big end was fitted in 1955 at 46000 miles after the first owner had allowed the oil (or sludge) level to fall too far. The second owner put most of the miles in, commuting between Liverpool and Barrow for 18 years. When I acquired it in exchange for £5 worth of BSA B33 bits it was in excellent mechanical condition but cosmetically poor.

I did give it a cosmetic rebuild, using the insurance money paid after it caught fire when I had owned it for about a month. I have still not yet had the cylinder head off, although now the engine does sound rather clattery, is down on power and has less compression than it should. However, it still starts well, ticks over and pulls like a big single should. Besides, I want my 100000 miles out of it before I strip it down.

On motorways and fast roads I used to cruise at maximum power, which was around the 80 to 85mph mark, the highest speed I've had on the clock is 92mph, which was probably a true 88mph. A road test in the fifties gave a maximum figure of 85mph, this being the only post war test for a Panther that Ive seen. Economy, checked over a three month period, which included some flat out motorway runs and some gentle pottering, town use, showed a figure of 78.3mpg.

From 1980 to 1982 I used the Panther fairly frequently for the trip between Liverpool and Oxford. I ceased using it as regular transport in 1982 because I was beginning to feel the need for something smoother and more comfortable as my age began to make itself felt, thus I bought a BMW R75. Under 45mph, the Panther was extremely smooth, but vibration built up with speed, until it reached a peak at about 70mph, easing off slightly after that. It was particularly unpleasant between 65 and 70mph. Mind you, I was using a 25 tooth sprocket and my previous Panther had a 26 tooth one which made it smoother, more economical but not as nifty.

Handling is the kind that discourages lurid cornering, as there is very little ground clearance, and a rather jelly-like feel on bends, mainly caused by sideways movement of the saddle. The silencers, rear stand and foot rests are well chamfered, results of some hooligan fashion riding in the Isle of Man and Ireland. Straight line stability is excellent, regardless of tyre pressures, type or luggage weight and distribution. Weaves and wobbles are totally unknown, which is more than I can say for the Honda RS250 or BMW, the latter lethal at 75mph - the Panther could actually cover distance quicker than the BMW!

I have only had two mechanical breakdowns, both caused by the clutch centre nut coming adrift. The problem, common to Panthers, can be solved by making sure the splines on both components are sound, cleaning carefully with a wire brush and removing all traces of oil. Assemble using Loctite and tighten new nuts and washers really hard - no more problems until you want to undo it! I've replaced the kickstart ratchet, relined the clutch and fitted the clutch basket from my Square Four, the splines were in better condition. A new gearbox mainshaft was fitted because of spline damage. Clutch cables don't last unless you buy a new one, remove the cable, Coppaslip the inner, resolder the nipple and sure the cable run is free from kinks. Two dynamo replacements were necessary, but I used refurbished second hand ones rather than new. Magnetos last anywhere between 5000 and 23000 miles, I usually cannibalize a couple of dead ones to make one good ‘un. Wheel bearings and head races last for 50000 miles.

The Panther is a big single, but it's easy to kick over as long as the decompressor is used with the bike on the centre stand. On very cold days, the oil thickens up and it’s a real bugger to kick over and start up - but it’s one way of warming up a heavily clad rider on a winters morning. One advantage of a rigid frame Panther is the roll-on rear stand - a pure wimp’s delight - whilst the centre-stand of the spring frame model is a double hernia job.

To sum up, although the Panther is not without its faults, and like all British bikes, it requires a degree of mechanical sympathy and correct setting up, it can be quite amazingly reliable and fuss free, practical and economical, with enough performance to wipe the smile off some faces. The SLS drum brakes are reasonable, acceleration is quite brisk if you can stand the vibes when revving through the gears, and the torque available from tickover to maximum is a revelation to riders of modern bikes who have sampled it.

For trundling around places like the Lake District there is nothing to beat it, although braking and handling deficiencies begin to show up in this kind of going. Still, the Panther felt better over the Hardknott Pass than my Honda RS250. Not only is the Panther fun to ride, but it also makes a lot of friends - people rush up to you to talk about the machine and people offer you parts - for instance, a stranger came up to me and offered a big-end for £2; been in my shed for 20 years, he said.

It's also a very safe bike to ride. I have had my first serious accident in 32 years when riding my GS425, which makes a noise that merges with the general traffic noise - the Panther, although not noisy, has an unusual and obtrusive sound, reminiscent of a low-flying dumper truck, thus people prick up their ears and take notice. Overall, then, the Panther is the best £5’s worth I have ever had!

Edward W. Hanley 

 

[Edward's Panther is still around as of 2021!]

Benelli 750 Sei

After reading many an article on the Benelli 750 they seemed to read very favourably, leading me to believe that it was an ideal first big bike to ride and own. Silky smooth motor, steady as a rock handling. It also looked quite brutish, impressing anyone who was ignorant of motorcycles. The darker side of the beast, as I was to find out, were the switchgear, finish of paint and chrome and the daunting task of keeping six cylinders in fine fettle (the last didn’t prove that much of a problem).

Having amassed reams of info about the bike, the next problem was to find one in fairly good condition within travelling distance of my Yam DT175, namely fifty miles, after which distance the blood supply to one’s groin area was severely restricted, causing much merriment to on-lookers in public conveniences when the call of nature was exercised.

Eventually, a bike was located and the vendor was willing to take the DT in part exchange (what a nice man). Following a long conversation on the phone things seemed quite promising. On arrival, the 1975 machine was all the chap claimed. It had been stored in a centrally heated garage for the majority of its life - it was absolutely immaculate. Mileage was very low, something like 5000 miles.

After a quick blast around the block, nothing seemed as though it was about to self destruct inside of the engine, and the brakes although a little vague stopped the bike in an acceptable distance. The price was £800 minus the £300 agreed on the DT; the deal was struck. The ride home proved to be in line with everything I had read - the bike was a silky smooth rocketship, especially after the 175 Yam. The speed had to be kept at a conservative level due to badly deteriorated OE Pirellis, the condition of which was akin to Nancy Reagan’s skin.

On arriving home I decided the suspension was a little too harsh. After trying to adjust the collars on the shocks with various C spanners, WD40 and a big hammer, I came to the conclusion that it wasn’t going to adjust, so I left it as it was. Another problem, after a short period of ownership, was the battery which decided to give up the ghost. If the bike was left for any length of time the battery would discharge. At first, this wasn’t much of a problem as I used the bike regularly and started it with the kickstart rather than the electric. Eventually, I had to buy a new one - the price of the Varta original was extortionate so it was off to Halfords with the tape measure. Removal of the battery was difficult because there was so little space around it, a grip like a Hillfields prostitute (an area in Coventry) is needed to get it out!

From the day of fitting the new battery the problems began. The first thing to go was the alternator which kept shorting out. I discovered that the outer covering of the wire had perished and was cracked, resulting in a bare wire shorting out against the casing. The rest of the wiring was in a similar state, if you so much as moved a wire the insulation would fall off quicker than bits off a C15.

Riding the bike became quite demanding, always wondering when it would let you down. It was usually at the most inconvenient time, along way from home and at night, or alternatively when you were late for work. The rear light blew with monotonous regularity; | never discovered the real cause of this. If you so much as breathed on the kill switch the engine died. The starter motor only worked on Wednesday if you spoke nice to it. The headlamp was as dim as the bloke who designed the switchgear and the idiot lights lived up to their name - to see them clearly at night sights off a sniper's rifle come in handy.

Following an outing in the rain the chrome on the silencers turned a nice oxide orange. I found that as long as you kept on top of this with Solvol it didn’t get too bad. However, prolonged use of this stuff soon had the pipes down to bare metal. Then the baffles started to rot, so I drilled holes in the end of the silencers and sprayed in WD40. The bike howled like a good ’un when it came on cam after that.

In a moment of madness I decided to see what the top speed of the bike was, so it was off to the local bypass. Much to my surprise, the bike attained the speed of 155mph at 6000rpm, whilst I was sitting up! The clocks certainly lived up to their name - Vaguelia. I estimated the speed to be around 115mph, 120 with a following wind. At this speed, the bike was steady as a rock in both a straight line or on long sweeping bends - it went around like it was on rails. On B roads, with a pillion on the back, the centre stand will dig in like an Argie at Goose Green. There were several ways around this - ride without a pillion, don’t go round sharp bends so quickly, junk the stand and the silencers or buy a Ducati (I eventually did the latter).

Anyway, back to the story. On the really only major ride I went on the bike - to Wales for the day - the gods were with me, as the bike never missed a beat. For long distance travel the seat becomes rather uncomfortable. After a 100 miles a rest stop was needed, which was fine with me as I usually needed to vent my bladder by then. Economy is quite reasonable, it’ll return about 45mpg at 80mph. The chain life was pretty good, too, thanks to the smooth power delivery, which also helped rear tyre life. I did about 3000 miles on the bike and this had hardly any effect on the chain or tyres. The front brakes were the usual excellent Brembos, backed up by a useful drum at the back.

Drag starts on the bike were possible if you could ignore the noise from the clutch, which sounded as if it was about to explode. I only did it the once intentionally and that was enough for me. Maintenance of the engine was quite straightforward, although removal of the six spark plugs was not exactly fun - only way to get them out was with a box spanner; beads of sweat used to run down my face when I replaced them, hoping I wasn’t going to cross thread the damn things. Checking and adjusting the valves was time consuming but easy enough.

Removal of the head, with the engine in the frame, proved mucho fun because the only thing I could get on the head nuts was a box spanner. I took the head off as there was oil leaking from the head gasket, just like on the Honda 500 four, on which the six cylinder engine is based. I should have left the engine well alone, like what Honda owners do, as it leaked again a few days later. A great deal of fun was had torquing down the head with a box spanner...

Speedscene of Huddersfield, who I believe are the only possible people who carry spares for Benelli, were extremely helpful and also offered help and guidance on problems (and boy you'll have them if you own one of these bikes) - I suppose they're a bit like the Samaritans...

After nearly a year of ownership I had come to the end of my patience with the machine. At first, it had been fun and the problems were put down to the character of the bike. I’m sure there are one or two owners out there who have had a great time with their bikes and are at this very moment getting their pens out in anger, but I found the constant electrical and other problems far too intrusive into my enjoyment of the machine. For sure, the chassis and brakes were much better than any of the contemporary Japs and it’d be definitely worthwhile to bung some Jap engine and electrics into the chassis - that would give the best of both worlds.

To run a Benelli 750 for any length of time you need to be committed (in both senses of the word), it'll take lots of time, work and money to keep it running for high mileages. Otherwise, it can just be used as a Sunday afternoon classic. I’m glad, in many ways, to have got rid of mine. I sold it to some chap in Portsmouth for £650 back in 1980 (is NBC 1P still tormenting its present owner?) [Sadly not; even sadder is the fact that that plate currently adorns a BMW wankermobile - 2021 Ed.] and went and bought a Darmah, but that’s another story...

John Sheldon

 

Kawasaki 500 H1

I must first explain to readers that I was brought up in what used to be Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe, which must be one of the most ideal motorcycling countries in the world. Clear blue skies for seven months of the year, and a three month ‘winter’ during the dry period. No motorways but very good A roads throughout most of the country, although many of them rather too straight for my taste.

You will recall that from 1966 to independence in 1979 (I think) there were mandatory sanctions imposed on Rhodesia by that august body the United Nations. Countries were not supposed to trade with the Smith regime and the British government very quickly had the Ford assembly plant closed down, British cars and bikes were soon unavailable. However, throughout even the most difficult years one could buy new French, Italian and especially Japanese cars, and, of course, motorcycles.

I think that most of the bikes imported were either American or Austrailian models, as they mostly had cowhorn bars fitted as standard. Prices were so high that we used to drool over copies of MCN with its prices of new and used bikes. The good news, though, was that bikes did not suffer any depreciation. Because of the relative scarcity, and with the very kind weather, motor vehicles were kept like new for many years and one could generally buy a new car or bike and sell it for more than the original price after two or more years use.

Spares were scarce and at quite a premium, whilst the local dealers charged high prices for servicing. We mostly, therefore, maintained our own bikes. I had a Honda CB750K1 which never saw the inside of a dealer’s workshop, save for PDI, and went like a dream for years.

We would sometimes ride the 750 miles from Salisbury (now Harare) to Johannesburg to buy spares and still have some change left when compared with buying locally! Plus, of course, the fun of the ride - ten hours to cover 750 miles including a stop for lunch and a border crossing, but that’s another story.

This is really just setting the scene for the real story which concerns a Kawasaki 500 Mach 3 - one of the early triples. I had a friend who owned one of the very first white Mach 3s, which was the model that started all the horror stories. Kawasaki had made a 350cc version of their rotary valve two stroke twin and seemed to manufacture an engine (the 500 triple) without thinking about a frame, merely sticking the bigger motor in the 350 frame, itself probably designed for a 250.

The wheelbase was far too short and the forks flimsy for 60hp. Hence all the stories about the front wheel lifting off the deck at 100mph and the forks touching the exhaust headers under heavy braking. Fortunately, the drum brakes suffered so heavily from fade that you could only do this once. With a small two gallon tank and distances between petrol stations often more than 60 miles a tin of petrol had to be strapped to the back of the seat. The next model was only a slight improvement, this being the blue tank beast of which I was one very proud owner aren't the young foolish?

Kawasaki had increased the wheelbase by two inches and strengthened the frame. Not that this made it at all civilized. The front wheel still hardly touched the ground under full acceleration, the brakes were appalling and the forks and handling generally atrocious. With decent tyres and Girling shocks, albeit half an inch too short, the handling improved to just short of deadly. With a worn rear tyre one was safer riding one of those V8 drag bikes.

The Mach 3 I was to own was bought by a friend via the local dealer, a Wop who we distrusted so much that he’d had the bike delivered still in its crate. My friend was quite a magician with two. strokes, having modified a string of Suzukis from the T200 to TS500, making them go much faster than stock. With the fast speedos fitted to Jap bikes then, I used to really believe that my T250 would do over the ton. Eric’s T500 was, for those days, genuinely fast with reasonable handling on our smooth roads.

We were all there when the Kawasaki wonder machine arrived and we watched it being assembled - tank and front wheel to put on, oil and petrol in, battery charged and one kick had it started, sounding better than Deep Purple (not hard - Ed). We used to record our bikes going past at full speed (daft buggers). Having run it in the owner was not satisfied with the performance so took off the top-end to polish the ports and skim 1mm into the top of the exhaust port.

If it had already been the fastest thing on two wheels, thus modified it went like shit off a shovel. Sitting on the back, grabbing that necessary hand rail with both hands until my knuckles turned white - I deliberately togged up in brown trousers - is something I will always remember. Another millimetre came off the exhaust ports to extract even more power, the powerband was very fierce after that but it soon seized up - which is where I come into the story. When the owner was in a depressed mood and muttering that he’d sell it, young and foolish as I was in those days, I panted that I would buy it - for the price he’d originally paid.

It had only done 2000 miles so I had it re-bored and new pistons fitted. The first time I opened her up after running it in again is something I shall never ever forget. It was a sensation that I have only ever once experienced since (not that you dirty minded people), which was jumping out of an aeroplane at 2000 feet. I was like a dog with two tails for some months.

Straight line performance was quite in its own class, but I never fully got to grips with wallowing around corners - I still have nightmares about the time the steering nut came undone at over the ton. After a long ride it took most of the next week for the tingling numbness to wear out of my fingers, not helped by those painful handgrips. Toes would go to sleep from the vibes on a long trip. After a full day in the saddle my head would buzz the whole night with my ears becoming two echo chambers.

The biggest problem, though, on longer trips (e.g. 1000 miles from Salisbury to Durban) was the consumption of the beast. In its tuned state the Mach 3 used to do only 22mpg and 60mpp of two stroke oil. Also, beware white lines on the road when whipping open the throttle to overtake (not many cars overtook me). The headlamp was also a very bad joke at night, so it was only flat out at night on well known roads.

I never had any problems with the CDI, which was just as well, as it’d have been off the road a long time. My life seemed to come to an end when I discovered that larger jets had been installed, which led to four stroking at lower revs and the failure of the crank at a mere 10000 miles. Our Wop dealer had a complete engine but wouldn’t strip it so I had to import one at great cost. It was beyond my income to keep it, so I sold it to two chaps from Bulawayo for the price at which I'd bought it. It gives me a good chuckle to read of other stories of the H1 and I still remember the beast very fondly in the same way our parents remember the dreadful war years as the good old days. I wouldn't change my late teens for anything.

Henry Bennett

 

Readers' Letters [Issue 6]

 

Kawasaki GPz900 Ninja

Having owned an early and much abused Z1 for three years, I was sufficiently captivated by the GPz900 to start looking through the classifieds in the middle of 1985. The Ninja was the first of the mew generation of water cooled fours to look right, to use all the new high tech features, but to package them in a way that didn't frighten off the punters. And, of course, Kawasaki hadn't sullied their copy book by producing a range of self destruct V-fours...

Somewhat to my surprise, there were many GPzs on offer in MCN. I finally picked up a nice looking bike, from a mature owner with a fistful of service receipts that fully covered the eleven thousand miles on the speedo, paying a grand less than the discounted new price for a bike that was less than a year old.

After the Z1 the Ninja felt like a particularly lithe 750, much more compact and despite flat bars much easier to chuck around. Where the Z1 always felt as if it wasn't sure just which direction it was going to take, the GPz felt very precise.

First time out on a new bike, I found I could take some of my favourite bends at up to 20mph faster. Having spent years coming to terms with soft suspension and weak frame of the Z1, learning when to back off before it went into a speed wobble, all that was necessary on the new 900 was to sit there, lean the thing over and shoot around the corner. Any old wimp coming straight from his Part Two could leap on the GPz900 and burn off a vastly more experienced rider on the older four.

But it wasn't perfect. Nothing ever is. Determined to find a flaw in its character, I left my braking later and later. Braking into a corner on the Z1 would seriously twist the fork, make the damn thing try to sit straight up and if you really persisted get the whole plot bouncing and twisting every which way - it could get very frightening. At first, the Ninja acts neutrally but right on the limit the sixteen inch front wheel will try to flick upwards, the whole bike would twitch and then settle back to its usual sane composure.

You have to be pretty silly to make the bike misbehave like that. Part of the problem, anyway, came from the enormous power of the twin discs. They only need moderate pressure to have the front wheel howling in anguish and the tyre companies shouting with joy (I've gone through a front Metzeler in 3500 miles). Similarly, the rear disc is so powerful that I'm afraid to use it in the wet, as it is very easy to lock up the wheel. When this happens the back wheel slides out from under the bike, but it comes back into line easily once brake pressure is released.

Where the old Z1 would go into a gentle weave at 80mph, and often turn it into a wobble above the ton, the Ninja is stable right up to an indicated 160mph (probably a true 150mph). Only when tyre tread is down to 3mm does a weave intrude into this confidence inspiring eulogy. When I first had the bike this was so mild that I could keep on riding the bike until the tyres were down to the legal limits, but with over 42000 miles on the clock I have to change the tyres at the 3mm mark, any later and high speed runs do degenerate into a fight between the tyre and frame. each of which wants to go off in different directions.

Having spent my youth learning to anticipate Z1 speed wobbles, I could feel the same dangerous tremors building up in the Ninja, although the superior chassis package never did let them emerge. Better safe than sorry. As I weigh fourteen stone I like all the suspension settings turned up high and when the suspension wears and begins to sag a little, I'm not able to improve the situation by using higher settings. The damping on the rear UniTrak shock, in particular, has gone AWOL and on bumpy curves it can do a nice little pogo act - it's nice because the combination of tubular frame and stressed engine don't let the worn out shock worry it.

OK then, the chassis is way ahead of the old stuff and up there with the best of the new exotica. The riding position is only spoilt by the fairing. No, that's a little unfair. The cut down full fairing is better than nothing and neatly covers up the potential styling nightmare of radiator and plumbing, but couldn't Kawasaki have given just a little more thought to keeping hands out of the cold and wet? Also, at really high and very illegal speeds the screen directs a blast of wind right into my neck, which becomes either cold or wet in the winter. The fairing mounted mirrors are often blitzed by vibration and, for some reason, the right hand indicator bulb blows every five thousand miles.

I can take the riding position for about 300 miles before a sore backside and stiff shoulders set in. Around town there's too much weight on the wrists, but this problem disappeared after six months, so I guess I've now_ got stronger wrists than before. Thanks Mr Kawasaki.

Apart from these minor quibbles, the Ninja has been a joy to ride. I'm not quite so happy with the engine. The mechanical integrity and massive strength of the Z1 is somewhat missing from the GPz. I mean you actually have to adjust the valve clearances on the newer bike. On the Z1, the bucket and shims required such infrequent attention that they could be neglected with impunity. Kawasaki use screw and locknut adjusters on each of the 16 Ninja,valves. I now have to spend an afternoon stripping parts of the Kawa to access these valves and slip a set of feeler gauges in between frame tubes and other sharp edges. Worse still, they always need adjusting.

There was one period, with 25000 miles up, when the exhaust valves started going out of adjustment very rapidly and asking around I found out that early bikes suffered cam wear due to insufficient oil feed. The next time I checked the cams there were chunks of metal missing out of the lobes. Fortunately, a mate works in a breakers and was able to swap the cams from a later bike when the boss was out for the afternoon. I also fitted the later oil tube which gives a better oil supply.

With 35000 miles on the clock the camchain started to rattle. Luckily, Kawasaki placed the camchain on the left hand side of the engine, so it was relatively easy to replace, although I actually had to go to buy a new chain and tensioner. I hope the ease of replacement isn't part of the same kind of philosophy as Kawasaki used in their old triples when they came equipped with a second set of plugs...

The other problem with the engine was overheating. In traffic jams the temperature went into the red. The official explanation for this is that the gauge is calibrated incorrectly and the motor is really running at a safe temperature. As I know someone who claims to have boiled the radiator dry, I don't altogether believe this, but I've never actually experienced engine seizure or anything, so it can't be too serious.

Where the Z1 had a built up crankshaft with roller bearings, the Ninja has a one piece crank with plain bearings. While this makes the crank that much stronger and lighter, it also means that the new bike needs very regular oil changes where the Z1 could be neglected until the gearbox started acting nasty. While plain bearings have been used for many years in car engines, they don't rev to eleven grand and knock out 127hp/litre...

Because the engine is used as a stressed member a small gear driven balance shaft is used to keep the bike smooth. It works very well, making the old 900 feel decidedly ratty. With over forty thousand miles on the clock, the original ultra smoothness of the bike has been replaced with a few brief periods of secondary vibes, but they never intrude far enough to leave tingling fingers. The engine can become a little more vibratory if the four 34mm CV Keihin carbs go out of balance - they need to be set up every 3000 miles.

Primary drive is by gear to a hydraulic clutch that is lacking in feel but can be operated with a couple of fingers. The same friend who boiled the radiator dry also fried his clutch, but I haven't had any problems. The gearbox started out slick but is now down to Honda level (clunky and jerky) but I rarely miss a change so no problem.

Given that the four valve head and short stroke design gives a lot more low speed stomp than the Z1, six gears are really rather excessive; I would have been more than happy with four. Indeed, I found it quite easy to start off in second, there was still very little than could hope to keep up with the bike's rapid acceleration. With six grand on the tacho the bike really takes off, although the steering geometry and weight distribution means you really have to torture the clutch to lift the front wheel off the ground.

At low revs on cold days the bike splutters a little and it also takes five minutes to warm up. Other than that, power delivery, is very sweet, doubtless helped by the maintenance free electronic ignition. Cruising speed is determined by the ability of the rider to hang on and road conditions. It's quite happy at 120mph or even more. Cruising motorways at the legal limit the bike isn't really trying. It's so easy to break the law that it's a very quick way to lose a licence.

Fuel economy varies greatly. The bike can do as much as 60mpg if used very mildly (i.e. 70mph cruising) or as little as 25mpg if really thrashed something that is rarely possible on UK roads. I usually average around 45mpg against 52mpg on the Z1, but the Ninja does do all my journeys that much faster so I can't really complain about the consumption. It uses about a pint of oil every 500 miles and I change engine oil every 2000 miles just to be on the safe side - as mentioned the combination of high revs and plain main bearings.

A new set of tyres is needed every 4000 miles, which is the major expense in running the GPz, the Z1 had at least double the tyre life, but then the Ninja sticks at least twice as well to the road. The O-ring chain needs adjusting every 500 miles and lasts for at least ten grand. A worn out chain wrecks the usual smoothness of the transmission and I know someone who's had one snap with interesting consequences for the oil bearing capacity of the crankcase covers.

The price of highly efficient disc brakes is rapid pad wear, 5000 miles being the most I've achieved, although, I dare say, if you're foolish enough to take them down to the metal that mileage can be improved upon by a couple of grand. But with this kind of mass and power it's really a very silly idea. I haven't bothered to change the hydraulic fluid for either the brakes or the clutch and it doesn't seem to make all that much difference. I don't put in much elbow grease to keep the beast clean and it's ridden in all kinds of weather. Thus, it's not all that surprising that the black engine paint looks grotty, the alloy wheels are speckled with lumps of white corrosion, the paintwork is flaking off in parts and the odd bit of chrome is more rust than anything else.

The four into two exhaust system was in trouble by 30000 miles but hung on for another ten grand until the holes and burnt out baffles affected low speed engine running and was replaced with a nearly new system off a crashed bike from a breakers. The only time I've fallen off the bike has been when trying to park the thing in my back yard when I have to push it backwards up a steep slope and turn it through a 90 degree bend. But I've done that more often on the Z1...

Would I buy another one? Probably not, but only because my finances aren't what they were and I find the Ninja rather more expensive to run than the Z1. What I would really like is a more compact Z1 engine clone in the Ninja chassis. This would give all the handling advantages of the Ninja and the toughness, simplicity and longevity of the older four (after all, the engine was really all the Z1 ever had going for it). The lack of water cooling would also save some weight and get the bike under the 500lb barrier.

I'll probably keep on with the Ninja until I detect some engine noises indicating that the mains are on the way out, then I'll off load the thing and buy one of Kawasaki's new 500 twins, which go almost as fast as the Z1 and weighs little more than a 250.
When that will happen I wouldn't like to say; my Z1 has done 85000 miles without any major strip-downs and still runs pretty well - cosmetically it's in better shape than the GPz. I won't ever sell the Z1.

Richard Shell

 

Norton Dominator 99

As the sales of new motorcycles continue in their present downward spiral - was it ever thus? - the buoyancy of the second hand market has become assured. Most ironic about this situation is the healthy demand for, of all things, old British bikes, uncannily like those that the bikers of the late sixties and early seventies hurled away in disdain before nipping out (sic) to purchase Mr Honda's answer to their prayers.

If history really does repeat itself, all we need now is for a Mr Smith to design and mass produce a durable little four stroke step thru, whilst Japan Inc. fights itself into bankruptcy in a battle for a largely irrelevant big bike market share.

All of which is but a vague preamble for what I'm now going to say: British bikes, for good or ill, are making themselves felt where ever wallets are inspected throughout this sceptred isle. Of all possible buys, getting a 2nd (or 22nd) hand Brit is probably the one most fraught with peril. Part of the problem is the, by now at any rate, highly uncertain parentage of these old machines, but this has not prevented classic bike prices rising to silly levels - anyone fancy a '69 Bonneville for a mere two grand?

The mass nostalgia which has gripped many motorcyclists, and many more ex-motorcyclists and lured them back onto two wheels must be to blame for this. Frequently, the mania for restoration gets contracted and what may have been a cheap, reliable, hack transport is dragged kicking and screaming back to its year of origin, shedding as it departs decent tyres and brakes, modern switchgear and electrics in favour of 6 volt Lucas or Wipac horrors, the original (read ineffective) brakes and a probable existence involving a plinth and a trailered insurance policy.

Given that the over-restored ornaments are more likely to be in the price range of the more flush of us, it follows that most affordable Brits are likely to be in working condition. This means, of course, that they will need rebuilding. With the preceding ringing in your ears, let me wheel forth exhibit A The Norton Dominator 99, fire breather of its day and still a good match for a 250LC. The more perceptive amongst you will have already guessed that I own one of these arcane machines, and therefore the following is a frank and fearless expose not only of riding, but living from day to day with one.

The day of the affordable Norton twin, except the truly awful Jubilee and its descendants - a very different proposition to the big 'uns - is sadly nearly over. Mine came to me as a sorry looking rat/farm bike - a unique interpretation of the legend (The Unapproachable Norton). For the record the bike is a single carb, 600cc 360° OHV, dry sump parallel twin housed in a Slimline Featherbed frame.

The motor itself is the touring version, which was slower but cheaper than the SS (Sports Special) version that later appeared, but the lowly state of tune (34bhp at a pinch) does bestow ‘some advantages, as will become clear. The basic design, compared with contemporary rivals, is fairly tough and well thought out. The two bearing crank running a chain driven magneto and camshaft to the rear and front of the engine respectively.

Alas, the vertically split crankcases are by now probably in the sort of condition which will ensure all sorts of interesting conservations from well meaning on-lookers endlessly pointing out the various oil leaks. Rule one is, therefore, to get the cases as oil tight as possible, even if it's only for a quiet life. Inside the cases the lowly state of tune will ensure that the mains and big-ends will clock up many thousands of miles before replacement is necessary. Fitting the later Commando Superblend main bearings makes the bottom end just about bullet proof on a single carb motor.

The rest of the engine, however, will not tolerate ill treatment in the same way as a Jap four. You cross the red line at your peril and seeing as the rev counter was an optional extra you have to wait for valve bounce to become audible as it revs out before changing up. The valve gear is in fact the weak link, so exercise common sense unless head rebuilds are your idea of fun.

The motor makes all its grunt well down the rev range anyway, the touring cam and pistons translating into useful acceleration 'twixt 30 and 80 mph with a top speed slightly above or below the ton, depending on which 1957 magazine you read. Starting the beast calls for none of the quirky heroics evidenced by Velocette owners, but like most Brits requires a little practice to make first or second kickstarting the norm. If it kicks back its your own damn fault.

By now most Norton gearboxes and clutches have many thousands of miles of abuse heaped upon them and reconditioned ones are very expensive. Neither unit is very complex, however, and assembling the best set of plates and springs should keep clutch slip or drag at bay, as long as you don't indulge in drag racing from each set of lights.

To be fair, a well set up Norton transmission is a pleasure to use, being slick and smooth with little need. for the clutch on up changes. Their widespread use in specials and racing bikes proving their resistance to abuse. The primary chain case, by contrast, is one of the most efficient ways of shedding oil known to man. A single large nut holds on a pressed steel chain case. A little extra tightening of this nut and the chain case distorts. Resign yourself to an oil leak here if nowhere else.

Once on the move the real qualities of the bike become more clear. The engine feels torquey, responsive and blessed with a fair amount of civility. Pottering around at 60mph or so enables you to savour the handling and steering. The stock flat bars may restrict the steering lock slightly, but it's easy enough to manoeuvre, trickling through traffic helped by its narrow profile, low C of G and light weight.

Away from the lights on a rolling wave of torque and onto out of town A roads. The (on our example) rather worn clutch is for Bullworker fanatics only. It shakes a bit and generally is a bit noisy.... nah, who cares. On the open road the vibration gets worse to around 70-75 and then fades out, only to return as ferocious buzz as the magic ton looms up. All perfectly understandable and, indeed, part of the therapeutic massage that makes young women prey to the unstable characters that own these devices.

Being only a 600, the shakes never become excruciating, but ride a long distance and you'll certainly remember it for a while. The riding position can be improved by fitting rearsets as per the Manx racers, but the temptation to fit clip-ons should-be avoided as not only do long journeys result in nagging back pain and seized muscles, but the sight of an old, loud racing bike inevitably brings forth endless challenges from bored executives in Porsches whose penile mentality demands that they must immediately race you or presumably suffer from the motoring equivalent of impotence. In the cut and thrust of busy A roads or (better still) empty B roads you'll probably beat them but. on motorways you're not really in with a chance. The same is true against other bikes. What you lack in speed is more than made up for by the Featherbed chassis.

I haven't dwelt on the handling; suffice to say that as long as the forks are in good condition and properly braced, and the rear shocks are in working fettle, the limits of cornering are defined only by your bravery, the quality of the tyres and by the, for want of a better word, brakes. It is very, very solid indeed at any speed the motor can struggle up to.

But, oh those brakes. Dominators come equipped with an 8" SLS front brake which is simply not capable of stopping the bike from anything above forty, at least not when you're in a hurry to do so. My despair at my own front stopper led via an accident to the purchase of a TLS brake. The rear rod operated 7" SLS is efficient without being intrusive and needs little attention. However, the front end must have a twin leader (the Commando and John Tickle brake plates go straight in) at least if you wish to ride safely at illegal velocities. If you find a Norton thus modified it's a fair sign that the bike gets ridden fast, since few sane riders relish being out-braked by CG125s) This, along with 12V lighting, is really a must.

On the electric front, Joe Lucas, The Prince of Darkness, supplies a weedy 6 volt system as original equipment. Again, masochists may prefer such a system, but on mine it means a Commando alternator, zener diode and halogen headlamp, all of which equals instant daylight on the darkest night. It must be the only bike I've ever ridden where cars flash me when the headlamp is on dip and like the modified front brake, your continued wellbeing depends on it.

Dominator 600s are, by and large, reliable bikes. Most engine failures can be detected in the early stages, but quite honestly they'll run even if appallingly neglected. It's a wise man, however, who dumps the engine oil every 1500 miles - or if you leave it standing for a week. Wassat? Oh yes, a funny trick they pull concerns the oil pump. Unless it's brand new it allows oil seepage from the oil tank through its gears until the crankcases are full, making it perilous to start. Shot bearings, blown oil seals and Mr Castrol lubricating the rear tyre can result from this. The fitting of a tap on the feed pipe is not recommended for the absent minded, but it is less time consuming than draining the sump every time you let the bike stand.

The other main bugbear is the gradual self-dismantling tendencies due to vibration. Whip round the bike once a week or so with a spanner and see what's fallen off. I've had almost everything fall off gear lever, brake switches, choke lever, swinging arm nut - you name it. Vibration also wreaks havoc with the wiring - bulbs, ammeters (4 dead so far) and switches. Keep an eye on them and, as you go round the bike laboriously tightening up bolts and wondering where half the nuts have gone, sing merrily and remember that Bonneville owners have to do this nearly every day.

Fortunately, the daily trip of the Jap stroker to the petrol station now becomes a thing of the past, since with the standard 3 gallon petrol tank, non stop range is 200 to 220 miles. All the time liberated by such frugality can now be used on oil top-ups (not less than 500mpp) and ringing up dealers for spares, which you hopefully won't need... Norton spares are, compared to BSA/Triumph bits, not cheap, but compared to Jap prices reasonable enough in both price and availability. Plus, there's another advantage to running a Dominator as the Norton twin, in the guise of 750/850 Commando, was still in production up to the late seventies, newer, improved parts can be fitted (the front brake is just one example of advancement in design).

So, in the final analysis, is the Dominator a practical proposition? This is almost impossible to answer, depending on how rough or costly the bike is that you are considering. A rough, cheap Norton is a quick and expensive route to heartbreak and poverty - and should be avoided unless you really know your bike and you are a strong believer in the idea that some bikes possess what is known as character. On the other hand, Dommies in good running condition don't come cheap any more and character seems a fairly hollow reason to fork out up to and into four figure amounts. In the end, the answer is with the buyer, who if he has any sense will have pulled the plug on the reminiscing waffle and erroneous legends surrounding the Dominator. Underneath the veneer lies a usable and attractive bike, but for the unwary buyer underneath that can frequently lie heartache.

Simon Carter