To make things interesting we all put in twenty quid, the total winnings going to whoever survived the knock-out rounds. There wasn't any timing gear, so it was just a matter of elimination rounds, pairs of bikes fighting it out until a winner eventually emerged. It was no big deal, really, and we certainly did no harm to anyone else, although there were a couple of serious injuries when someone overcooked it. We had a supply of pain killers, a medical student and an ambulance if the worst happened (well, an ancient Transit van that had a bed in the back as well as several crates of beer).
Drag racing a 20000 mile CB900 was a quick way to break it! The top end was fragile and winding it up to maximum revs before dropping the clutch lever did nothing for the longevity of the crankshaft. What can I say? The kick from growling off the line in full wheelie mode against a rival bike was akin to mainlining heroin - and just as potentially injurious to health, especially in the early days when the front end had a tendency to come down from the wheelie at an angle. I was repeatedly accused of trying to knock other people off if I couldn't beat them!
This madness went on for about six months. I had to rebuild the engine twice during this time. Once, the clutch drum exploded and the second time the camchain tensioner disintegrated. I'd acquired a cheap, crashed CB900 for spares, which I figured made the whole process just about acceptable. One guy broke a leg and another almost ruined his back when the machine he was on looped the loop! Towards the end there was some police interest but we outnumbered the lone plod car by about thirty to one and you could see the fear in the cop's eyes.
It wasn’t even this that turned me off. Some bright spark, towards the end of the day, decided that playing chicken would be fun. Each rider put up fifty quid, the first to swerve out of their collision course would lose. Mad! After three runs without death, although one guy swerved so violently he landed up in a ditch, the final run of the day was called. The stakes were doubled and the drunk riders helped on to their machines. A great roar of engines and grinding gears. They hit each other head on! Both bikes were such write-offs they were abandoned and reported stolen. The riders both escaped, somehow, with bruising and dented egos. I gave up going after that but the madness still goes on and if anyone in the West Country wants to join in, write to me via the UMG.
That left me with a near wrecked CB900, which steered like a shopping trolley and ran like a worn out truck. The frame was actually bent from one of the spills and caused an almighty wobble every time I pushed the hesitant motor up to 80mph. Wobble as in having the bars flicking from stop to stop with enough force to wrench them out of my hands. When the wobbles weren't trying to kill me the grinding vibes above 6000 revs caused my hands and feet to go arthritic.
Obviously a basket-case that should be sold off to the nearest breaker or just dumped. But I had a spare bike which despite being crashed had a straight frame. I'd already used all the good engine spares but a few visits to some breakers, along with my psychopathic mate (who went out of his way to stare down Doberman dogs), soon found a decent crankshaft, cams and minor gearbox parts. His habit of dropping lighted matches into discarded fuel tanks ensured that I didn’t pay over the odds.
After about a month of hard work the rebuilt machine was ready for the road, although the wholesale use of heat resistant matt black paint on almost every surface didn't exactly leave it gleaming with newness. After a couple of hundred miles of running in, top speed turned out to be 135mph, there was enough guts to burn off CBR600s up to the ton, and the handling was equal to whatever madness my mind could take the kind of bike that liked to be dominated by sheer muscle power and responded best to those with minimal imaginations.
The menacing looks of the large matt black machine, an exhaust so loud it set off burglar alarms and my own mad glint, all combined to let me elbow my way through slow traffic, working on the basis that if a gap was wide enough for the front wheel it'd soon open up for the rest of the machine. If it didn’t the worst that would happen was that the engine bars would take off the side of a car. The CB900 let the rider think he was a master of the universe in its wacky ways and insolent manner.
There was always some self-deluded creep in a thirty thousand quid car who thought I should give way to him, didn’t even respond to a blast on the air-horns or a curse. When such a creature was woken from his reverie by the sound of crunching metal, the sudden reality was often too much for him, but I usually had time to take the adjustable wrench out of the top box. As long as the quick collapsing front end, that would buckle if I so much as sauntered up a pavement, was kept out of harm’s way there was usually much more damage to the car than the bike. I never bothered reporting the accident to the insurance company which stopped him pursuing his claim!
In avoiding accidents the brakes were not much help, the front often deliberately locking on when braking on wet roads. The violent way the front wheel slid away made the resultant wrestling match with the handlebars all the more taxing. Trying speedway tactics on such a heavy brute was more likely to break my leg than let me survive the slide. The basic problem with the brakes was that the discs would go very thin very quickly then warp. The ultimate solution is to throw the whole rotten front end away but I never quite got around to that.
The primitive handling and unruly engine made for some good times as it usually reacted vilely in an entirely predictable manner. Heroic acts in fast corners were entirely possible and likely to give riders of more modern machines heart attacks as they viewed the bucking monster swinging through a highly dangerous line with all the verve of a rabid dog trying to get its teeth into a victim. As unlikely as it sounds, I actually enjoyed the fight with the shifting metal and the monstrous flood of power, torque and vibration that quaked through the chassis.
Neither the seat nor riding position were stock but once I’d become used to the vibration, which a friend reckoned was the same as a jackhammer at idle, I found I could do a few hundred miles in a day, with stops for fuel every 150 miles, without turning delirious or deranged. Cruising speeds in the 90 to 110mph range were entirely possible, although there wasn't quite the speed to burn off avenging cop cars.
Continuous abuse gave an engine life of around 15000 miles, although a brand new motor would go two to three times that distance before needing attention. That low mileage was down to a combination of bad design, thrashing, neglect and the use of dubious second hand parts in the rebuild. My devotion to revving into the red in the first few gears meant that crankshafts were just as likely to rumble as camshafts were to scream. The vibes also managed to ruin ignition units and blow the lights, sometimes at very awkward moments that I only survived through sheer luck. Anyone who buys a CB900 for riding like a headbanger should immediately start collecting engine spares!
Not all CB900s are ridden like that, some are used as long distance tourers, although that makes no sense with the high cost of its consumables and poor fuel economy. Tyres last for less than 7500 miles, drive chains for around 5000 miles and pads about 6000 miles. Fuel varies between 30 and 45mpg. But at least these tourers represent a chance to get hold of a decent example of the CB900, which can then be thrashed, crashed and raced until either the engine blows, the frame cracks up or the Grim Reaper intercedes. Only joking, but I do find that my CB900 brings out the worst in me, some resonance between its primitive nature and my soul.
Daniel Farrington