“Oesophogitis. There’s no cure. You just learn to live with it. No heavy lifting that uses your stomach muscles or your food’ll come back faster than you can eat it.”
I already knew the last bit. If my Triumph Bonneville, a 1976 T140V, didn’t start in the first couple of kicks, or I had to heave its great bulk on to the centrestand, there was a fair chance I’d throw up. That's why I'd come to the surgery in the first place.
“You'll have to change your lifestyle". I didn’t like the sound of this but he went on: “Look at you. In a year or two you'll have your bus pass. Do you intend to continue this juvenile practice of riding that overweight, overpowered antique of yours?” I nodded. He was just warming up. “Shattering the early morning and late evening peace of our village? Breaking the law every time?". I must've passed him in his cage at some time. I nodded again.
“In your state of health it’s too heavy. It’s got to go.” I know he meant well but then he committed the ultimate blasphemy.
“If you must ride a bike why don't you change it for something lighter? One of those quiet Japanese things where you just press a button and off it goes.”
Me! The archetypal Brit with every prejudice to match. I wouldn't be seen dead on Jap iron! It then occurred to me that it might be better to stay alive with some Suzi-Yam-Hon-Kwack, or other, than die kicking a reluctant Bonnie into life.
German or Yank stuff was too heavy and expensive. Italians had style but too much temperament. I even thought about an MZ but it was no use - it had to be a Jap. I sat at the phone with the Yellow Pages open and my shopping list to hand. I was looking for something that would do the ton, weighed under 400lbs and cost about two grand, which was what I thought I'd get for the Bonnie. One of the dealers put me in touch with a customer who was Bonnie hunting. He was a nice young guy who found the exhaust note and simple classic lines irresistible. He bought the Bonnie two days later.
The dealer then said would I like to look at this little Kawasaki he had with less than 100 miles on the clock. It seemed the original owner - poor chap was about my age - had died shortly after buying the Kawasaki (nothing to do with bikes) and his family had only just put it on the market. Feeling sorry for myself over the loss of the Bonnie, and even more sorry for the guy who'd never had a chance to enjoy his new bike, I was introduced to the GPz305.
Exactly what you're looking for, the dealer intoned enthusiastically as I rolled it effortlessly on and off the centre stand, marvelling at the instant electric start. The next impression was that I was riding a highly tuned sewing machine with no exhaust note, and steering designed on some other planet. Riding over smooth roads at sub 70mph speeds, I didn’t know what I’d done to get round corners. It was like telepathy. Of all the bikes I’d ever owner or ridden I'd never met anything so easy and so completely user-friendly. And, much as I hated to admit it, it was fun!
Back at the dealers I admitted it was just what the doctor ordered but where was the ton plus performance? Had I used the gearbox and high revs? No. It was so new I'd kept it down to about 4500 revs. Then why didn't I take another spin and let it go a bit. A brief flip round the clock wouldn't do a modern motor any harm.
It was welcome to the nineties time! I discovered in a few short miles what the rest of the bike world had known for decades. Anything else I’d owned, with two wheels or four, had usually given its all by 5000 to 6000rpm. When the Kwak hit 7000rpm, a whole new world opened up. Despite its basic spec, the little motor made me feel I was hanging on to the Starship Enterprise as it moved into warp speed. This wasn’t just fun; it was exhilarating.
Next came an insanely happy few minutes during which I played tunes on the gear lever to keep the revs up where things happened. I was concentrating so much on the tacho I didn’t spot the imminent arrival of a T-junction with no escape routes. It was at that point I discovered how good the brakes were. We came to rest with the front wheel just peeping over the white line.
| felt rather than saw the glare of a frightened, middle-aged pedestrian beaming the unspoken message: it would've served you right if you hadn't been able to stop. With my heart pounding like the Bonnie on an uphill climb, I struggled to find a gear in which I could make a dignified departure. I wondered how much the irate ped could see through my visor. I wondered if he realised what he thought was an irresponsible juvenile on a speed induced high would soon be an OAP - that’s if he learns to keep his eyes on the road instead of clock-watching. I took the bike back at a more sedate pace, but couldn’t keep an ear to ear grin off my face. You've just sold a Kwak, said I. Whencanlihaveit?
At this stage, it hardly seems fair to compare the 18 year old lump of British brawn with nearly new Jap technology, especially as the Bonnie was losing Brownie points like Group Four loses prisoners. The Kwack was winning all ways - ease of handling, at rest or on the move; it’s half the size engine almost as quick but no vibes, all on unleaded petrol. An added bonus was 76mpg as opposed to the Bonnie’s 53mpg on four star. Modern brakes and lights were superior. Starting was child’s play.
And there’s no way any Bonnie’s going to be as reliable as a practically brand new machine. But instant infatuations can have short honeymoons. By the time the GPz went in for its 500 mile service the Bonnie was pulling back a little lost ground... although the acceleration of the two bikes was similar - sub wheelie, but more than good enough to deal with average traffic - that vital surge from 50 to 70mph was always instant with the Bonnie. All you do is open the throttle. By the time you’ve dropped a couple of cogs on the Kwak the gap might have gone and the sparkle definitely goes if you're carrying a passenger, whereas the Bonnie didn’t seem to notice the difference. What I really missed was the low down grunt and that reassuring bellow from the exhaust.
Perhaps better tyres would fix it.
The smooth belt drive seems a gem of an idea. Expensive to replace but lasting three times as long as a chain. On a motorway, which I find boring, it’s swings and roundabouts. The Kwack sits there quite happily at 75 to 80mph but gets blown about whereas vibes spoil life in the fast lane on the Bonnie. It’s worth saying that, like the poor, the Bonnie’s vibes will always be with us but are no worse that those regularly reported in the UMG, and elsewhere, on big, old Japs. They can, however, be greatly reduced by spending a quiet Sunday afternoon synchronising the fall of the carb slides into just one click as they hit the bottom - I’ve no idea why but a pair of new tyres also seemed to smooth out my Bonnie.
Regarding this strange business of image and owning a glamorous piece of history, the GPz305 comes nowhere. I’m totally ignored. And never again will I be as proud as when a lovely old fella shook me by the hand and thanked me for keeping such a beautiful old bike on the road. Turned out he’d been one of the Meriden workers and he gave me loads of useful tips. Altogether now... awww!
If this seems an odd way to enjoy biking there are thousands of like-minded souls who prefer to drive about in troublesome old MGBs when the same money would buy and run a faster, more reliable GTi. They probably like antique furniture, too. It takes all sorts. If anyone’s being seduced by all this sentimental talk - be warned: Bonnie ownership’s an expensive and mixed pleasure. If you're determined, buy the best you can afford. Avoid hybrids, they’re a lot of trouble and don't hold their value. Around two grand gets you one that's well sorted. Even then, keep £500 back as a contingency fund.
Three years running cost me £1500, including a £600 gearbox rebuild. A properly rebuilt Bonnie doesn't leak oil and I’ve a clean garage floor to prove it. Electrical problems do happen. It's worth changing any one or all of the three electrical switches at the first sign of trouble. The oil light switch (everything dies if it fails), the ignition switch when badly worn causes erratic running which is difficult to diagnose, and the handlebar cluster drivers you bonkers if you try to repair it. Even the metal seat base can short out the electrics over rough roads!
So which costs the most? GPz servicing's cheap, fewer parts will be needed, excellent economy in the short term it shouldn't cost much to run. But the Bonnie retains its purchase cost much better, I expect to lose a grand when I sell the Kwak. The GPz is loads of fun but being a sentimental old slob I'll never learn to love it, not like the unreliable but beautiful old Bonnie.
Stan Barrett
The FZ had rotted out its original exhaust system to the extent that it'd become straight through. Even idle sounded like a couple old jets fighting it out. Fists were often shook at me as I roared through suburbia and kids would try to lob bricks at me, only I was moving too fast for them to succeed. I could quite easily and cheaply have fixed the exhaust but I rather enjoyed the notoriety and the external surface still shone with vigour. It’s more than can be said for the rest of the machine. Its patina was nicely faded with time, its GRP cracked with fatigue and its engine rattled with wear. None of that stopped it shifting like a scalded cat injected with amphetamines.
Given a delinquent riding style, a disregard for traffic laws and an obscured numberplate, improbable velocities were entertained and quite a few replica 600s burnt off. Fun was easily achieved with a few minor body pains the only price paid. If I'd been sensible I'd have stripped her right down for a thorough check over. But I just wanted to let the good times roll. What else is your right wrist for?
One of the more outrageous moments of madness occurred on the Isle of Man Mad Sunday (appropriately named). A whole crowd of us hustled around the circuit. I became wedged between an FZR600 and VFR750. The latter out in front until the bumpy road sent it into a terminal wobble. At this point the FZR was trying to come past on my inside and if I took the outer line I would've hit the Honda. Yes, I did scream with the thrill of it all. I also hit the horn to wake up the Yamaha pilot to our mutual doom.
Just as I thought nemesis was at hand, the Honda went into an even bigger wobble and jumped right off the road. I cut in on the FZR anyway, nothing like annoying plonkers who've spent huge sums of money on newish Jap replicas. Glimpsed in the mirrors (non-standard, the stocks ones are only good for checking your lipstick) the Honda ploughing into a brick wall, stones exploding and the rider flying through the air. Didn't stop as there was a whole convoy of spaceship scooters (Goldwings) behind us. Give them something to feel superior over; god knows, they needed something! Naturally, I kept the FZR at bay until I tired of the game and let him past. He howled away on one wheel as if he knew what he was doing but half a mile down the road he was found fiddling with his plastic by the side of the.road.
I always found, the FZ motor being old fashioned in its air-cooling, that after a long hard thrash a cooling off period was as necessary as wearing iron underpants. I always knew when the engine was overheating as it'd refuse to rev out into the red. I could usually screw it until valve float set in. If I persisted in revving hard in second or third in those circumstances I could actually feel the pistons tightening up in their bores as the oil evaporated and the metal distorted.
It says something about the basic toughness of the mill that despite quite frequent abuse it never went as far as seizing. Rattle - well, that was an entirely different matter. Friends, who wouldn't know a con-rod from a crankshaft, quite often muttered something about an awful racket and never believed me when I enjoined that they were all like that, mate.
And, why not? Bikes like the FZ come with as many acres of bullshit as they do GRP. Which reminds me of the time I ended up with the whole seat assembly disintegrating under me. The signs had been there for a while - cracks, excess vibes and the kind of grating movement that made me think of earthquakes. I ended up crouched on the debris, my manhood threatening to disappear and peds rolling around the pavement in hysterics. Eventually I came to a halt. After the usual swearing session I rolled up my pullover as a perch as temporary as it was uncomfortable; made for home in jockey mode.
Eventually, the motor tired of the combination of neglect (I did change the oil when neutral became impossible to find in the still excellent gearbox) and abuse (who, me?). I would’ve ignored it until it seized, being lazy but not completely poor, but performance became so staid that the local hard case on an XS400 was threatening to beat me through town. Couldn’t have that so I whipped the motor out, destroying the fairing, electrics and air-filter in the process. No, it wasn’t cack-handedness, everything was rotting away merrily. Every bolt in the engine stripped its thread, gaskets crumbled and gunge obliterated the true lines of the engine components. All this at a mere 68000 miles, about half those under my merciless thrashing.
A long list of bits, including carbs (30mpg in the final days and not much better before), cylinder head, pistons, barrels and all the things I’d destroyed in the disassembly, were canvassed from reluctant breakers whose expectations of financial reward were two to three times what I'd been willing to pay. The bottom end of the motor was thankfully intact as far as I could discern, easing the job but dropping a can of old engine oil over the manual didn’t get me very far.
After a month of mumbling incoherently, that magical day came when the beast was finally reassembled. I don’t know what I expected when I hit the electric start. Certainly not for the engine to fire up at about 5000 revs. Boom, boom, boom... the baby wailed... it was obviously going to be a good day. After the kind of running in spree more suited to a stroker moped it was all set, once again, for the highway kicks. The engine was willing but the chassis was increasingly reluctant.
I'd done sod all to it in 30000 miles except replace the consumables just before they were due to disintegrate. I was never astonished by the wear rates so never kept note but think I went through three sets of tyres and two sets of brake pads. Something like that.
By the time the rebuilt engine was installed, the forks were as floppy as my legs after ten pints and the shocks as rigid as my member after a similar alcoholic excess. The bearings? Even the most optimistic recycler or bodger would have doubts about their worthiness as paperweights. The trouble with cracked bearings is that they also take out the shafts they are supposed to support. Even I couldn't take the thought of a wheel, swinging arm or shock falling off when a corroded, pitted spindle finally broke up. Used bits were about as much use as a joint in a Salvation Army convention.
Enough cash to start a revolution in Wales went on new bits and-many an enjoyable hour was blown knocking out spindles and slamming in bearings. I lost enough fingers to the sledge-hammer to make it as numero-uno in a Triad gang. The FZ was utterly transformed... OK, as usual, I’m lying. Despite some sterling work on the forks (a good a way as any to dump old engine oil) and a newish shock, the bike would still try to imitate the earth’s orbit when the tarmac turned rough. There was a sufficient deficiency in the fork’s resistance to have just about everything near the ground trying to scrape itself off on the tarmac, making enough noise to have any nearby cager creaming himself.
Being used to its ways I could still fling it around with the best of them even if my lines were as unconventional as a skinhead trying it on in a Bangkok bar. Don't ask how I know, some things are not fit to print even in the UMG. Comfort, even with the reconstructed seat, was on a par with being laid out naked on a slab of concrete which was sprouting its metal braces, but again, something that use, time and the sheer adaptability of the human body was able to overcome.
For all its faults, and the list could easily turn endless, the damn thing is rapidly approaching a hundred thou and still well able to put 130mph on the clock. I’ve got the money together to buy something newer, faster and flasher but can’t bring myself to make the move until the FZ finally blows it in a big way. The way it’s going I'll fall off before that unhappy day arrives.
Pete Lever.
I didn’t expect much, being cynical about road test exclamations of enthusiasm - the truth only emerges with the next model, when the old one is suddenly slagged off. Later models of the CBR600 that passed through my hands proved to be even better, a rare evolution of motorcycle design, in my experience, especially for a large multi-national company like Honda.
Red and silver paint enhanced the lines of the plastic on that first model. The only one I liked more was the white and red effort, which made a passable impersonation of a plod bike at speed. Useful if I was in a hurry. Bankrupt of further paint ideas, Honda lately turned the CBR into a suicide mission by the use of metallic grey paint that merged so perfectly with the tarmac that it all but became invisible to other traffic. Honda wasn't the only company to make this tragic mistake, many a GSXR also heading for an early bath. I shouldn't complain, at least there would be a ready supply of engines in the breakers. That first CBR seemed incredible after struggling with a GPz750.
The latter did run worn, stock suspension, so I shouldn't have been that surprised by all the effort needed, nor by some of the monstrous weaves. Truth to tell, the CBR was also wearing worn forks and shock, but the massive frame, relatively low mass and superior design made it seem like I was on another planet.
The effortless way it floated through bends, bimbled up and down mountains, and blatted along straights at incredible velocities turned me into the hero of the local bike gang and left me drooling at the prospect of more to come. 150mph on the clock, with me in a relatively comfortable crouch, the rev counter flirting with the red and just a flutter of secondary vibes through the plastic. The GPz was rough and elemental by way of comparison: The Honda was running a stock exhaust that undoubtedly aided the smooth carburation, a revelation after Kawasaki's amateur efforts. (not helped by a race 4-1).
If both bikes responded well to harsh use of the throttle, the Honda lacked the GPz’s torque below 7000 revs but confusingly ran much smoother due to its superior carburation. The Honda ran in a civilised manner at low revs where the Kwack would surge like a dying stroker, but wouldn't accelerate any harder than a Superdream unless a few gears were dropped and the throttle hammered to the stop. The resulting exhilaration was well worth the effort. This was a trait that became more defined on later models.
The only complaint that I had against this stroker-like need for the powerband blues was the gearbox. Honda had a long history of producing bikes with awkward boxes, especially after the first 20000 miles. The CBR was no exception, often seemed a throwback to the sixties, with more false neutrals than gears. Being used to aged machinery was a definite aid to producing a series of clean changes - after about a month I'd developed enough feel for the box to snap my way through the gears without too much hassle. If I let my concentration lapse, though, it was dead easy to have the engine screaming into an early death in a false neutral. The life of O-ring chains varied between 5000 and 13000 miles, depending on make and throttle abuse.
Later gearboxes had a slightly slicker change but were, again, badly affected by age and high miles. Persistence equalled a perfect change. I would've preferred a taller top gear, the engine always giving a revvy feel in all of the six ratios - I often found it easier to scream off in second rather than first.
The clutch was a beauty, light with plenty of feedback. I could even move off on a dead throttle by just gently feeding in the clutch. The real neutral was easy enough to find on the move but elusive at a standstill. Starting and the general controls were what you'd expect of such a sophisticated piece of machinery - bloody good. I did find it necessary to bung in a new set of plugs every 4000 miles, to avoid difficult starting and even the odd bit of cutting out in the rain during the winter months.
Maintenance wasn't easy as there was a ton of plastic to pull off, sixteen valves to adjust (rarely needing attention) and four carbs to balance (every 2000 in the early model and every 3500 miles in later examples), plus an oil change every 2000 miles (some owners reckoned that every 6000 miles was sufficient) and a new oil filter every third oil change. Not too onerous, I guess, and more importantly I never experienced any mechanical failures from an engine that did between some 60000 and 95000 miles. I never even replaced a camchain, although previous owners had probably enjoyed that chore at least once. Was I lucky? Maybe, there were some examples I viewed that had obviously enjoyed a sojourn on the race track and rattled and knocked like death was at hand.
Easily sussed if you know what a good CBR is supposed to sound like. I never came across the fabled one owner, low mileage example, they do seem to be turned over awful fast. Probably down to speed freaks seeking more kicks. The highest mileage example I came across had done all of 123000 miles, sounded like there were a few ball bearings loose inside the mottled engine casings. The owner reckoned the engine was basically stock, wouldn't even admit to a cam chain change. The experience does dull a little with extended exposure, the engine coming over as a little bland despite its massive power. Those use to big V-twins wouldn't be too enamoured of the high revving excesses but those used to Honda twins will find more of the same, only with a hundred fold increase in kicks.
All it takes to get the best out of the Honda is an interesting piece of road early enough in the morning not to have the police hiding in waiting (and they loiter in the oddest places). Handling, braking and acceleration are all sublime, at least to anyone brought up on the older style fours. A newish '92 model showed up my bike as a bit slow and worn (with eighty thou on the-clock), as equally past it in the ride quality as the acceleration, but I was soon used to its ways again. I sold that bike only because I was offered a brilliant trade-in deal on a new '92 example.
Not surprisingly, the dealer clocked my bike and sold it for even more than I was offered but ended up in court over the matter as I tracked down the new owner and told him the awful truth. Save for minimal servicing, a depressing excess of tyres and brake pads, and one wrecked half of a fairing when the side stand snapped, I did 61000 miles of wild riding, pure highway excesses, until someone stole the CBR. Except for even less low rev torque the bike was in every way superior to the earlier model. Because of increasing costs, I had opted for mere third party insurance, which unless you mow down a line of peds is worse than useless. Cry?
Various bits of this bike were handed back to me by the plod after the thief crashed into a lorry. About the only useful one was the engine. This was sold off for £750, some more money added to buy a ’91 CBR600 with 71000 miles up and scratched plastic. The least successful of the CBRs I’ve bought, it still hammered around the country at speeds so illegal that it finally helped get me banned for a year. Cops laying in wait down a deserted country road.
The latest adventure has been test riding a couple of ’94 models and taking a 93 example for a spin. Fantastic after a year out of the game. The engines definitely give their best with 30000 miles or less on the clock but don’t appear to have any chronic faults up to 75000 plus miles! Raced examples, obviously, should be avoided and minor cracks in the plastic can turn out very expensive. Soon, I’m going. to. buy a newish example but not one with the grey paint scheme, although it might be useful in avoiding the cops.
Gary
