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.