Reared on a variety of British singles in the early sixties, and retaining an interest in vintage flat tank rallying, the Jap invasion only came home to me when my teenage daughters choose to pursue my interest to my delight and support. A ratty Honda PC50 first graced our yard, when I was deeply involved in riding and maintaining a '59 G12 Matchless - the big twin which I’m now informed helped the marque to their ultimate extinction. As in-laws and daughters graduated to Teutonic and Nippon models, my view that Brits were still, overall, best value for money was confirmed.
The delightful PC50 (brakes excepted) gave way to an elderly - and very temperamental - YB100, which caused my eldest daughter so much aggravation that eventually I bought it off her. Still, I found it soft and responsive after a big Brit twin, and began to appreciate why the British motorcycle industry had caved in.
The G12 had been acquired in largish lumps and rebuilt with help and spares from members of the owners club within 4 months (Easter 1980). My wife and I took a careful sojourn to the Loire valley, accompanied by in-laws aboard anew CX500. Apart from fairly severe vibration, especially in the throttle hand, the trip abroad found the mounts about equal - greater comfort on the CX was matched by the much better steering of the Matchless under the double loading.
Confidence in the venture prompted a trip to north Spain during Easter 1981 - in-laws this time aboard a nearly new Gold Wing. Now, of course, the comparisons became contrasts, our womenfolk seated at vastly different levels of comfort. I must admit to carrying a tank top full of tools and spares, which I needed one morning when the beast refused to start. Consternation, but bit by bit a roadside check-up tested the components - no sparks. I gently eased a finger into rear HT pickup to test the slip-ring. Found ring to be thickly coated with carbon dust - and on turning the mag over cleaned it out and, also, inadvertently nearly blew my arm off when the spark came through.
We motored on as planned, a bit late but smugly satisfied that the British twin had been reborn with only a jawbone of an ass. That very evening the Honda refused to start. It didn’t look like a roadside job and I wasn’t keen to tow the beast through the mountains. Luckily, the problem was soon found, some natives had loosened the HT leads, once pressed fully home, all was well.
But the risks of the trip were beginning to tell. On return to the UK my wife swore never again to straddle a bike. Neither has she - and so the G12 had been solely my own and in the past seven years suffered the expected mechanical setbacks. Yes, the iron crank did split (though didn’t wreck the rods or casing), front chains have broken quite often, oil had preserved both casings and wellies, tank bolts have fallen out and handlebars levers have broken off through vibration. But at 70mpg plus, 80-90mph cruising, minimal tyre wear, good tractability and torque, I wasn’t complaining.
Younger daughter took up the craze, and began her life on possibly the finest little motor to come our way. The 1975 Yamaha RD125 twin proved to be a ferocious animal, with quite exhilarating poke in the higher revs. Often we’d go two up though I did find its five speeds a strange phenomenon. On passing her test the Yam was sold to a girlfriend (where it continues in life in near glistening form) and an M-reg 360 Honda was acquired in virtually new condition. Ideal for a lass, reasonably light and cheap to run, not too pokey but tractable for town use once its six speeds became familiar. But unlike the G12 and RD the Honda lacks character. Despite that, and ending up badly twisted a number of times, the Honda always got us home safely in the end. One of those bikes that have been overlooked in the evolution of the Honda stable.
Last February decided it - 513 miles to Manchester and back via the A6 across Greenland, er, Derbyshire. The front candle barely lit up the first cat's eye. The cold plus vibes created havoc in both hands. Braking was precarious as ever. At fifty years of age the truth was dawning. What was needed was a Brit-like machine with no vibes, proper lights and good stoppers - as cheap as possible. BM? Duke single? Rocket 3? After much talk with old chaps who knew about such things (and were half my age) I settled for an XBR500. There weren’t many about until four surfaced last October in Motorcycle News. Sale of a shed full of cycle parts followed telephone negotiations. A trip with conveniently UB40’d companion to Portsmouth resulted in a deal being struck with a lass of 23 who'd covered 6100 miles in its 22 month life.
After an uneventful 140 mile test ride home, an untypically flashy red Honda adorns my stately front drive; daughter drooling on my good fortune. So now we wait and see... no Haynes manual (yet?), rust signs on the chrome already, ridiculously small footrests beneath my large wellies, and a strange steering sensation that the cognoscenti tell me Ill soon get used to - you can’t steer it with your knees with hands removed from the bars. I can do that up to 70mph on the G12! But it feels good, sounds like my old Venom used to and has an engine configuration like my '37 Rudge - possibly the best compromise after all.
Mike Knight
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