Full enclosure covered the O-ring chain, gaiters the forks and shock, and powder coating the frame. It didn’t exactly shine with vigour but it wasn’t half bad for an 89 model. I offered a grand against the £1500 price and the deal was done.
The FJ weighs over 500lbs and any bike with that kind of excessive mass is going to be hard to handle. Forget what you read in the glossy comics, forget tales of lateral frames and remember that when they say that FJs handle well that they always add for its weight. An utterly meaningless phase, as evidenced by the way I almost rode straight through a bus instead of around it and barely managed to twist and swerve around a startled ped. As a motorcycle, the FJ’s a bit of a pig. Of course, there are legions of older fours that are much bigger pigs. But that’s small consolation when things start to go out of control.
During the first couple of weeks I didn't push the air cooled, 16 valve, DOHC four very hard, what with a clutch that was threatening to explode and the valves pinging away. There’s no need to go throttle crazy to go fast. 120 horses at 8500 revs and 80lbft of torque 1000 revs lower hid the fact that the engine can be stuck in top and will pull from tickover without clutch abuse. A few thousand revs had the engine working with an elemental fury, with the kind of rough edge that I didn’t expect from a grand tourer. It may have been the mileage but wasn't the valves or clutch as it was still there when I fixed them. Remember, this bike has its roots in the Incredible Hulk (XS1100) a bike so brutal that it scared the faeces out of most riders.
The valves were just a matter of servicing. The clutch, which may well have been original, was well worn out with the slots a funny shape and all the plates warped. The incredible torque and nasty gearbox that showed not a sign of improving with the fitment of a second hand clutch, were to blame for the early demise. I say early because the reputation of the motor is such that the engines are supposed to go around the clock with little more than oil changes.
I don’t know how to describe the gearbox. Its action was very variable, therefore difficult to accommodate. Sometimes it'd approach a slick change between two ratios, then go into a graunching act on the next change. Sometimes the lever went almost solid as if the oil was turning very thick. Other times the change went very light with no feel. It was pretty much pot luck whether or not the gear went home, a fifty-fifty chance of ending up in a false neutral.
It soon dawned on me why the old clutch had burnt out. The easiest way to ride the bike was to get her into fourth and stay there all day. Such was the torque of the engine that only a little bit of clutch slip was needed on, admittedly sedate, take-offs. Once under way it was just a matter of snapping open the throttle and waiting for the ton, or more, to come up.
One of the stranger aspects of the FJ was that a bike with such a worn out gearbox should have such a smooth transmission, with no chatter from the drive chain. When I later checked, the cush drive looked new, so was probably replaced just before I bought the bike. The hefty O-ring chain lasted well for such a brute, over 10000 miles, but needed removal of the swinging arm to replace unless you're willing to buy one with a split link. I wasn’t, not with all that splendid torque running through the chassis.
With the engine sorted I rode hard and fast for a couple of weeks. Straight line stability wasn’t half bad, but it was dead easy to lose it all in the bends. Bits of the bike dug into the tarmac when I became too enthusiastic. Such reactions with reality left the bike wallowing (on the undoubtedly worn suspension), way off line and with a total disinclination to react to my fervent muscular inputs. Sitting on a heap of heavy metal which had suddenly found a mind of its own was rather like finding yourself in a darkened alleyway with an escaped psychopath. I had no idea which way the bike was going to react.
This was all mildly amusing, far better for me than going brain dead sitting in front of the. TV. Alas, one time the thing buckled upright, shot across the front of an oncoming Transit and ran into a hedge. It didn’t just run, though, for the only way I could avoid extinction from the van, was by twisting the throttle wide open for a second or two. The bike seemed to leap, like a pure bred horse over a fence, into the hedge. The momentum was such that the bushes parted before us until the front wheel dug in. I cartwheeled over the fairing, rolled over a couple of times on the damp, soft earth, coming to.a final halt with one hell of a thump.
Nothing was broken, both bike and I merely bruised. I was stiff for a couple of days and I never did get around to dealing with the scratches on the fairing. I modified my riding to a more point and squirt approach as well as dumping the centre stand and hammering a dent in the exhaust where it was catching. I was still caught out a few times but managed to ride the bronco back into submission.
Wet weather riding wasn't too brilliant. For sure, the half fairing gave useful protection, but the front tyre didn’t have much of a grip on reality. Even with an expensive Metz there was a tendency to try to slip off road markings, the wheel whipping away with a suddenness that was heart stopping. It gripped again once on the tarmac proper but it seemed to me that if I came across a patch of oil it'd go before I had any time to react. The back wheel would wheelspin given a reckless hand on the throttle, but the waggling rear end appeared easy to control.
Later bikes have uprated suspension, better wheels, superior brakes, etc. FJ brakes don't like winter after a couple of years worth of abuse but my machine had newish calipers and discs. I found the brakes both powerful and safe, putting in some startling stopping distances. Just as well because it wasn't the kind of bike to wrench around erring cagers.
I could live with the weight, handling and even the gearbox, what I couldn’t take was the way the carbs celebrated 95000 miles by turning the engine very recalcitrant. They were so worn they proved impossible to balance and I had no end of hassles with the engine turning into a triple, becoming difficult to start and cutting out at junctions. The electric starter sounded on its last legs by 100000 miles. A newish set of carbs was acquired and three days and nights spent fitting the buggers.
Fuel still stayed at a pathetic 30 to 35mpg, the engine still rumbled with its rough edge, but all the other problems cleared up, with even more low down torque. I was worried that the new carbs might not suit the non-standard exhaust but the worthy old warrior could be strung out at 10000 revs at the mere price of everything going a little blurred. The old carbs needed an attempt at balancing every 500 miles, the new ones stayed in adjustment for 6000 miles.
By 110000 miles the front forks had become so loose that I could only calculate the position of the wheel to within a foot. The weaves dissuaded me from going above 100mph, giving both the engine and my licence an easy time. I’d seen 150mph on the clock and what I thought was a cop car in the mirrors. I held on to the speed until it was no longer there and took the next exit off the motorway.
For about six months the bike was used as along distance commuter but abandoned at the weekend in favour of a Lotus Elan (a rather fast car with an open top that was a knock out with the gals). The FJ was still hard work to hustle through the cars, but the juggernaut dimensions kept most of the cagers at bay.
One old boy in a GTi insisted on chasing me each morning, apparently unaware that big though the Yam might appear it was still much narrower than his cage. I would zoom down the road at 80, 90mph with the old git sticking on my tail like he was being sucked up by my airstream. I held my speed, dodging down two lanes of cars, pressing hard on the horn to make sure they knew I was coming. I once went past two cops cars in that mode. The GTi driver usually squealed his brakes but one time he was too slow, back-ending two cars. The debris was still there, shunted to the side of the road, when I floated back home. No sign of blood or severed limbs so I assumed he’d survived.
That exercise in commuting meant there was 126000 miles done by the time I bought a GPz500S for the hardcore chores and odd weekend blast. I kept the FJ for a while, to impress innocent pillions. I could actually throw them off the back in full fury mode. If the sudden acceleration didn’t get them the sudden lurch when I mucked up the first to second change would finish them off. Evil, man!
A mate who'd received this treatment was so impressed that he kept pestering me to sell him the bike. I let him borrow it for a weekend (Insurance? What’s that, mate?) and he came back full of enthusiasm if a bit grey haired from the handling foibles. He offered me £850, I said no way.
He went looking for another one whilst I used the FJ hard again when the nimble GPz lost its front wheel in a corner. I thought the FJ was bad but the GPz lost it with no warning whatsoever. Death row stuff. By the time the FJ was up to 130000 miles it was turning into a right grumpy old sod. I think the valves or rings were on the way out.
The friend came up with a £1250 offer which I felt I couldn't turn down. He fitted newish suspension and has pushed her to over 150000 miles without the motor blowing up. The cheeky sod now burns off my resurrected GPz! He’s got no engineering sensibility, just screams the engine into the red and hangs on, rather like a monkey on the back of a cart horse. The FJ's got a tough motor but the gearbox and handling may not be to some tastes on old ones.
A.H.