I arrived at the house, which was empty but unlocked as usual and opened up the garage. Geoff had taken his car to work and left his collection of bikes at home. I knew what was there, of course, but I never failed to be impressed - and jealous. The guy who shared the house had a disgusting Yamaha XS250 Custom, which he was out on. He also had a Benelli 900/6 which he had recently crashed and broken his leg. The Benelli sat, minus exhaust and tank/seat unit in a corner of the garage, a sad sight. His brother's GT750 Kettle sat next to it, awaiting his master’s return from somewhere in Africa. My mate’s collection was British, Italian and Japanese - he arguably had the best of each. A Triumph Trident, a Ducati 900SS and, his latest buy, a Kawasaki GPz900.
Lucky bastard, I thought, as I wheeled the Duke and GPz out to make space to work on my tired old 750 Honda. It took less time than I'd thought to do the service, the tappets were OK, the carbs only took half an hour (it took half an hour to get the middle plugs out and back in again - nice one Mr Honda).
Replacing the tank on the Honda, I glanced over at the GPz. The keys were in the ignition. As someone once said, I can resist anything except temptation. A matter of minutes saw the speedo drive disconnected and I was ready to go. As far as the nearest small village I let the engine warm up, but once past the 30mph limit I gave it as close to full welly as I dared. The straights just weren't long enough to hit maximum revs, but I must have reached 140mph.
Even more impressive than the speed and acceleration was the way it tracked smooth and easy round long sweeping bends at up to 120mph. To put it simply, it was fan-bloody-tastic. I had ridden a 1000cc Katana before and been impressed, but the 900 was better. Much better.
My downfall, literally, came as I swept out of a 100mph right hander onto a short straight. I spotted the tractor and trailer coming along a field toward the road and automatically backed off a bit and covered the brakes. I had the headlight on but the sod didn’t look. As he trundled onto the road I went into emergency braking, bum clenched mode. I nearly stopped in time, the GPz pulling up quicker from 90mph than my Honda could from 50mph but with both wheels locked and the back end sliding around, I thumped sideways into the trailer.
So there I was, surveying the damage and visualising what my mate, who is 6’ 5” and has the build to go with it, would do to me for this. I turned the air blue around the ears of the tractor driver but as with a lot of apparently dumb country folk he wasn't as daft as he looked. He knew I'd been speeding and as threats of violence were out of the question (there were two large yokels riding in the trailer, grinning from ear to ear) he chugged off, leaving me to consider my fate.
I checked my watch. It was five to three. I might just make the 30 mile round trip to the Kawasaki shop and fit the bits, if nothing went wrong. I jumped on the slightly battered bike and screamed up the road. A mile or so up the road I made a very rude gesture as I passed the tractor.
There wasn’t a lot of traffic, which was just as well as the speed didn’t drop below 100mph very much, even through several small villages on the way into Aberdeen, where I rode like a demented despatch rider using every trick in the book. Overtaking on the inside, ignoring keep left signs and bulldozing oncoming traffic out of the way.
Threading my way to the front of a traffic light queue, I ended up between a Porsche and three litre Capri, both of whose drivers saw this as a personal insult. While they revved their engines in a macho manner, I hotshot the lights on amber, slipping the clutch to feed in 7000 revs and pulled the biggest wheelie ever done by accident as well. The big GPz was on the other side of the junction before the two cars had moved.
I crashed through the door of the Kawasaki shop, leaving the GPz on the pavement outside, shaking like a leaf and wild eyed with adrenalin charged excitement. The guy behind the spares counter and the two waiting customers froze and watched with slack jaws as I sprinted up to the counter. Briefly and breathlessly I explained the situation and pleaded to be allowed to jump the queue. The two customers agreed and the man started beavering through his files and computer while I hopped up and down, filling in the details to the two guys waiting.
Luckily, they had the parts in stock, and wincing a bit at the price, I bounced a cheque across the counter, stuffed the bits down my jacket and with a shouted thanks ran from the shop. The journey back was relatively uneventful, it took about 12 minutes to cover the 15 miles, almost half of which was through built up areas. I could almost feel my licence quivering in anticipation of more points being slapped on. A copper with a radar gun could have collared his fastest ever speeder that day.
Screeching to a halt outside the garage I checked my watch: 3.30. Great, I could do it. As I started to unbolt the broken indicator the fan on the bike switched on and started to cool down an almost overheated engine. Frantically spannering away, I muttered fervent prayers that it would cool enough not to arose suspicion by the time its owner arrived. Then I'd done it! I even remembered to reconnect the speedo. With minutes to spare, I picked up the 750’s tank, suddenly realising I must have used a couple of gallons on the GPz. He was sure to spot that. There wasn't enough in the Honda, but I raided the Benelli; it wouldn't be moving for a while.
I just had time to put the Benelli tank back before he arrived. “Managed it all alright, then?” He never did think much of my mechanical abilities. “Yeah, no problems,” I lied. He noticed something odd in my appearance and said, “What's up with you, you're shaking like a goat shitting a soup tin?” | blurted out a tale of taking the 750 out for a spin to see how it was running, and some blind bastard pulling out and nearly killing me, which was true enough apart from a minor detail. What's more, he believed me, ‘cos I'm still alive.
Mike Moore