In 1986 I launched a motorcycle magazine in the UK. Back then, a plausible line in chatter would persuade a distributor to get a magazine into the shops without any kind of promotional budget and if you were really clever the printer wouldn’t even demand the money up front. These days, more money is spent on promotion than on printing a new magazine... and it was a time when desktop publishing was just coherent enough to make production of a basic magazine plausible, without any need to go near expensive typesetters.
As well as having no publishing experience I had almost no writing experience – save for the odd article published in Motorcycle Sport and Engineering Today - and only a minimal grasp of the English language (readers were often kind enough to write in pointing out repeated instances of the same mistake – and I did mostly learn from experience). The only thing I had going for me was a love of motorcycles and a hard gained knowledge of used bikes, which along with a lot of help from friends and mechanics, made for the basis of the first couple of issues. The plan, which largely worked, was to get the readers, in future issues, to write about their biking experiences. And, just to emphasize the different ethos of the magazine, there would be no advertising.
The Used Motorcycle Guide came out as a quarterly, which neatly solved any cashflow problems as the money from the first issue paid off the printing costs and financed the second issue. A5 in size, black and white throughout save for some spot colour on the cover and inner pages – 80 pages packed out with info and hardly any photos, for 99 pence when the glossy Bike magazine sold for a quid.
The second year it turned bimonthly with double the initial print run (with a full colour cover but cheaper paper inside), which was about as good as it got – selling 30,000 plus copies an issue. Even when the print run went as high as 60,000 copies, the magazine didn’t really sell any more copies.
That kind of sales, back then, put it ahead of some of the glossy magazines, peaking as the fourth best selling magazine in the UK (then only eight or nine magazines). That level of success meant it didn’t take long for some companies to copy the idea and launch their own versions, usually hilarious because of all the mistakes contained in their adaptation of the buyer’s guide. The UMG even inspired a couple of car magazines, though they didn’t last long!
Other people reckoned they could do even better with glossy, full-sized magazines whilst the established magazines redesigned and reinvented themselves with much denser copy – gone were the huge swathes of artistic white space. Most of the new magazines went bust with the major exception of EMAP’s titles which more or less totally dominated the market.
I ran the UMG rather like I did my motorcycles, in total neglect mode, taking a particular delight in turning up at the distributors looking like I didn’t have two pennies to rub together even when it was making serious money; they mostly took pity on me and didn’t demand the excessive loot that was normally required to keep the print run of a magazine going strongly – the glossies spent huge sums on promotion to keep themselves on the shelves of the major newsagents.
Over the years, a graceful decline in circulation was largely compensated by increasing the cover price and cutting out various bits of the production cycle as desktop publishing programs improved. The real killer was when major newsagents decided, in their infinite wisdom, to compare, not the circulations of similar publications, but how much money they generated in a given period. By then, the glossies cost twice as much as the UMG, which rather than coming out monthly appeared six to ten times a year depending on how energetic I felt. And there were more than twenty magazines on the shelves.
This wasn’t amateur hour any more... the only way out was to go glossy, increase the price and come out every month, as well as bung the distributor a huge promotional budget. By then, the magazine market was mostly superbike orientated, an area I had hardly any interest in and I had little faith that throwing huge quantities of money at the UMG would transform its fortunes. I was actually so far out of things – spending most of the year in Thailand didn’t help – that almost every motorcycle magazine I liked actually went bust!
Even with a fast tumbling circulation, the relatively low print cost, cover price increases and almost zero overheads meant that the magazine was still profitable, albeit at a much lower level than in the past... bear in mind, with a portable computer I needed no fixed abode and could throw it together from some far flung corner of the world when the boredom got to me. The freedom more important than the money.
This benign neglect came to an end in 2000, when the profit seemed to be ready to do a disappearing act – an increase in print costs, for instance, would’ve been nasty. It takes up to four months to get a clear picture of the sales of a magazine, so there’s a certain art to exiting the scene before it goes bad! If you launch a monthly magazine it can take three months to find out how you are doing – meaning you’ve coughed up for another two or three print runs.
Having published and edited the magazine for fourteen years, I was ready to close it down and do a disappearing act but it was obviously more amusing to sell it as a going concern – for once, the enormous cost of setting up a new magazine working for me, as there was some value in the UMG as a going concern. An advert was placed in the magazine and on the website, in which I emphasized that it had been run into the ground in the same way I rode my bikes!
Anyway, what was later described as a frighteningly large sum was quickly thrust into my hands by a rather outsized chap with a beard (who demanded to remain anonymous) who turned the magazine monthly, added a lot of pages and improved the look of the rag – he lasted two years before bailing out (or selling on at a profit, for all I know) and as of July 2002 it was published by Morton’s Motorcycle Media, who had the major of advantage of being able to cross advertise in their other motorcycle magazines. The magazine was finally closed down in May 2003 but the website lives on!
I kept the website (www.net-motorcycles.com), which basically contains all the articles from fourteen year’s worth of the magazine up to the end of 1999 plus lots of new stuff and caries on in the spirit of the original rag – almost zero overhead, written by its readers and just a place for people who love biking to hang out with minimal hassle (no registration, free access, etc.).
In almost every issue of the magazine, I wrote a column called Loose Lines – ranging from the antics of motorcycle dealers to lounging around in Thailand, it usually managed to include something about, er, motorcycles. The column was inspired by Mark Williams’ Running Out of Road, who created Bike magazine – a marvellous read when I grabbed hold of the second issue when I was a bike-mad fourteen year-old – who seems to suffer from a similar boredom problem to myself, ending up in both American and British prisons on various charges.
I have so far managed to avoid that end, though no doubt the large number of people I pissed off in the UK would be only too happy to see that fate befall me – live in hope, children!
Bill Fowler
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Saturday 30 January 2016
Honda CBF500: Ninth life of a vertical twin
Honda have recently launched the CBF500 twin, which shares most of its engine with the CB500, more a styling refinement than anything else. Both have 58hp, DOHC parallel twin motors, the CB500 a typical rendition of a genre that Honda began to perfect in the mid-sixties. That is, the mill's easy going at lower revs but goes hardcore come 6500rpm, with a gravelly wail and an urgency that belies its near 400lbs of mass and mere 58 horses. And tough, too, regularly doing 50,000 miles in the hands of hardcore DR's without any hiccups. I bought one when they first came out, did 32000 miles in two years – not despatching, merely commuting and fun riding – and only sold the bike because the wife was nagging on about a second car for her...
Six months ago the same nagging wife was now an ex-wife. Supposedly, when couples divorce in the UK, they each end up with half of everything. Not if there are kids involved and the nagging wife becomes a lying wife, then you end up locked out of your own house and handing over most of your income in child support and mortgage payments. Having seen the end coming, and witnessed a friend come close to suicide when a similar thing happened to him, I had managed to secrete a few thousand quid in another bank account. The whole system collapses when you give up your job and do a disappearing act...
Of course, possible future destitution and removal of kids from one's life does add up to serious depression and I resolved to refocus my mind on past delights. No, not some long lost love from my school days, but another bloody motorcycle! There is nothing, in modern life, quite like leaping on to two wheels and charging into battle with the cagers – at the very least, it leaves no room for other thoughts!
It took me no time at all to find a CB500 for five hundred notes. I was the ninth owner, but the clock sported only 24,589 miles. Faded cosmetics and illegal consumables were the main downsides, soon sorted and I was off on the gold paved road to London (too many bad memories in Leeds) in no time at all. After hearing my tale of woe, a mate had offered me a room in his ex-council flat in Acton – still a keen biker he had a garage where the bike could be kept safely overnight.
Leaving my home town, I was filled with a strange euphoria that was at odds with my age (43) and predicament. The Honda whirled and growled in encouragement, doing a surreal, secure 85-90mph down the motorway, the summer sun shining brightly as I headed into a new adventure where anything was possible, or not. Later, the reality of a congested, polluted capital city had me wondering just which planet I was on but the CB didn't seem to mind at all, surprising me with the aplomb with which it shot down to Acton as if I wasn't really needed at the controls. It was like I had never been away from biking.
London and a CB500 equals despatching. At least in theory, it actually took a while to find a company that didn't demand any documentation, paid in cash and didn't seem to mind that I didn't know one end of Kensington High Street from the other. Nothing is ever that easy, the CB deciding it didn't like London – refusing to start until the battery was almost flat and sometimes cutting out. Not the kind of hassle you need in Central London traffic! After some digging around in the headlamp and under the tank, a corroded connector found as the culprit but by then the strange current surges had kneecapped the rectifier as well and total electrical failure resulted. After some eye strain on the MCN classifieds a replacement was found in the breakers and it was back to work.
If I hadn't been staying for free with my friend, I doubt if I would have survived for the first month – dodgy DR companies don't pay serious dosh and the first week I made all of eighty quid! Our rapacious government makes it difficult to find well paid cash-in-hand work – of the legal sort, anyway. Two hundred and fifty notes in a week the most I ever made despatching – the price, a poor old CB that was corroding under me. Anyway after four months of this I had actually added to my cash pile and decided to chance my arm abroad.
Oh forgot to mention the comfort factor – in normal riding the CB's one of the more comfy bikes on the market and initially I did not have many problems but about a month into things I began to shit blood – not being able to register with a doctor didn't help but a visit to the local casualty unit – talk about embarrassing – revealed that I merely had a case of piles! Cleared up nicely with application of Mastu S cream but it killed any juvenile ideas I had of graduating to a race replica – talk about age getting the better of me!
The Honda was serviced, disassembled down to the frame/engine, cleaned up and painted, then furnished with nearly new consumables and a pair of shocks that actually had some damping left in them. Shone brightly in the autumn sunlight she did, too. Used cables, rectifier and spare chain were taken along for the ride, no point tempting fate, was there?
By then the clock sported nearly 40,000 miles and the motor felt a touch tired, happier at 80mph rather than 90mph and turning in 45mpg rather than 55mpg. She would still scamper through the ton, but the vibration turned quite harsh by then, discouraging me from pushing it any harder – newish bikes do 110-115mph. I always bought secondhand tyres, so can only guess that a new set would do 8-9000 miles and it always seemed to churn through a chain in around 6000 miles (new sprockets would most likely double that!). Amazingly, the engine was still oil tight and didn't need topping up between 2000 miles changes.
So off to France went we, full of joy at hearing the ex-wife had been forced to move to a council estate and was spitting blood at the mere mention of my name. The Honda, six thousand quid in a money belt, a small tent, a few clothes and my father's watch represented the complete sum of my worldly goods but I had never felt better.
The Honda definitely liked France, seemingly reinvigorated by foreign soil, though thinking about it the UK was just as foreign to the CB. In two months it has done 12000 miles and shows no imminent signs of imploding. It has been a weird time, with myself falling for a French lady and moving in with her (a widow not a divorcee) – she is fifty but looks better than most British thirty year-olds – and introducing her to the joys of biking. She has her own bakery, so I help her with that off the books.
An happy ending? Well, I have the urge to do some serious exploring on a motorcycle so I expect to have a new tale to tell in a year or so. Not of the CB500 – it has exceeded all expectation but it's getting close to the end of its life, not ideal when contemplating high mileages. I would recommend a used one to anyone who wants a serious motorcycle that would do anything other than insane speeds.
Eddy P.
Despatches: Odd rides and strange chaps
The weirdest bike I ever used for despatching was a Morini 350 Sport. It fell into my hands when a neighbour had to sell quickly and I thought, buy it, ride it and then sell at a very nice profit. The first day showed the way things were going to be. The home-made electrics worked to a rhythm of their own. I eventually found out that my relatively bulky form was crushing the seat pan on to a dodgy connector.
The little 72 degree vee-twin screamed into life at 6000 revs, making a godawful racket. Turned the choke off, caused the engine to die a death. More kick-starting, this time with one choke on and one off! That got the little bugger rumbling until I engaged first gear and the bastard stalled due to clutch drag. By the time I finally got on the road I would've been in work on the venerable GT550.
This nastiness carried on right through the day, the good mixed with the bad. The good side was its narrowness and snappy acceleration, much more svelte than the GT and most other DR hacks. The bad side was the unpredictable starting (as bad when it was too hot as when it was cold), total lack of comfort and a double-sided drum brake that was a vicious old stopper. When it wanted to work.
As any DR knows, the best kind of bikes are ones you don't have to think about, all attention should be focused on the stretch of road ahead. The Morini was far from ideal, then. However, two days later the GT550 died an electrical death, was off the road for a couple of weeks. I rewired the Morini so that the ignition was always on, added a couple of spark plugs and new oil; began to talk quietly rather than curse the little Italian gem. A set of flat bars rather than clip-ons transformed the comfort.
The bike then proved quite a useful little DR hack. After a month of autumn riding, most of the tank and frame paint had fallen off, all the alloy had turned nasty and I was sure that the big-ends were knocking, or something. The GT550 was put back into use and the Morini tidied up, sold at a small profit. Most of the guys who turned up were rightly annoyed at the state I'd let the classic vee-twin degenerate into!
I've owned too many GT550's and 750's. The oddest one was a bike that had only ever been used for the DR chores. Gone through twelve owners and 260,000 miles, a sort of living legend. All the owners I knew had sold the bike thinking that it was on its last legs. Only to be confounded by its continued running.
My main mount was a nearly new GT550 so I could contrast the effect of a quarter of a million miles of abuse. Many of the chassis and braking components had been upgraded, so there wasn't a major difference there. Just a slight tendency to pull to the left, a legacy of a crash into the side of a bus that had left the hefty steel frame slightly bent. GT550 forks collapse in heavy accidents absorbing most of the impact!
No, it was the engine where most of the difference was felt. Secondary vibes sang through the chassis and the transmission was pretty awful, wear in the gearbox combining with a loose shaft drive. I usually trawled around town in third gear, reassured that clutch abuse was okay as the previous owner had fitted a newish clutch assembly. GT's stretch back so far into motorcycling history and are so widely available that most parts can be sourced from breakers, little need to buy anything new.
The bike was kept for a couple of months winter riding, which it shrugged off, and then sold to a newbie in the office. Weird chap, rake thin and about 6'6" tall! His helmet perched precariously on his large potato shape head. He was from the Welsh heartland but didn't seem to mind the sheep jokes. He didn't fit the GT very well but it was a lot less laughable than the C90 he'd ridden down the M4!
Within an hour of leaving the office the controller received an irate phone call from some cager who wanted to know who was going to pay to put the side of his car back on. The large fluorescent bib had given the game away and his description of someone who looked like an alien on steroids fitted Taffy perfectly. Of course, the controller denied any knowledge of such a strange looking employee!
He soon sold the GT, at a loss, to a veteran DR, and then found happiness with a Dakar replica. Being relatively short of leg (but not of beer gut) I never really got on with those kind of bikes. The Aprilia Pegaso I bought as a non-runner was soon sorted with an electrical rewire (believe whatever myths you want about Italian bikes but they still haven't sussed out the electrics) but every time I gave it a bit of throttle it wanted to go airborne.
By the way, Taffy was finally sacked when he rode his bike over the tops of half a dozen cages and he was last heard of holding down a job at one of the radio stations.
The Pegaso was soon off-loaded, but the GT didn't half feel lethargic afterwards. The slowest bike I ever did the DR hustle on was a Honda C90. An ancient step-thru that had been fitted with a relatively modern engine that featured a lack of airfilter and degutted exhaust. The chassis was up to 30mph but the motor would wind the bouncing abortion up to 60mph, given a long enough straight.
The chaos of Central London traffic meant that I was doing jobs quicker on the step-thru than on the GT. It went through impossible gaps like a ferret up a trouser leg, which was just as well as the SLS drum brakes didn't seem to work. It could be twisted through right-angles, shoved up on to pavements and skidded around roundabouts, having more in common with a skateboard than a proper motorcycle.
The antics of the bike so enraged one cager that he ran along the pavement until he managed to nudge the back of the Honda. The step-thru reacted badly to this, landing on its side. I'd managed to step/stagger off before it hit the tarmac and sort of ran along the pavement to shrug off the momentum. I looked over my shoulder to see some mad-eyed cager continuing in pursuit, having run over the fallen Honda. I sidestepped into a narrow alleyway and the cage roared past. I didn't bother trying to claim the C90, one glance told me it was completely written off.
One black-cab driver used to loiter outside our office, waiting for someone to knock off! When we sussed what he was up to, one of our gang of reprobates sneaked around the cab and put a bag of sugar in his petrol tank! We led him on a merry dance until his motor started to clang away when we gave him a cheerful blast on the horn.
He staggered out of his cab, ran at the nearest biker with death in his heart, but a bit of throttle put him in his proper place. Shortly after that event a firebomb was thrown into the office. Luckily, it didn't explode! For some reason taxi drivers think they are masters of the universe, when everyone knows that it's really DR's who enjoy that status.
Another odd DR hack I had the pleasure of was a GN400 Suzuki. Like the Morini, this was a temperamental starter, but it was so slow to wind itself up I often thought I'd stepped into a parallel universe. After a winter's worth of despatch riding it was reduced to total rat status, the rust so deeply ingrained into the metal that not even fervent wire-brushing had any hope of cleaning it up.
Also, all the chassis bearings were shot, the chain was reduced to knicker elastic and the engine, being both worn and lacking any balancers, rumbled ferociously. When the silencer fell off, it spat out flames and sounded like a runaway Sherman tank. I couldn't even give it away for free; next door's skip finally sufficed.
That wasn't the only commuter I'd had a go at riding through Central London. A nice little CG125 looked promising, but again proved just that little bit too slow to escape from enraged cagers, giving me several frightening moments. Didn't stop me putting 30,000 miles on the clock, by which stage there were cracks in the rear subframe and engine crankcases! At least a breaker gave me fifty notes for the rolling wreck.
At the other extreme, the biggest, nastiest bike I ever did the DR blues on was a Kawasaki Z1300 six. At times it seemed almost as wide as a small car but it made up for this by popping incredible wheelies on the back of its excessive torque. Several near death experiences didn't stop me enjoying a summer's despatching but as soon as the heavy rains came it turned into a rolling deathtrap, the power and mass being too much to control on slippery roads. I barely dented the engine's capabilities and the finish was much better than most Kawasakis, no problem selling it at a good profit.
One bike I never got on with was a BMW R80RS. Should've been a brilliant bit of kit for winter riding but I never managed to master the gearbox (which had 60,000 miles worth of wear in it); even the plod have problems riding them smoothly. It was also too wide for Central London.
Then there was... oh, enough, get some tackle, sign up for despatching and see for yourself. You could even make pots of money out of it.
W.A.
The little 72 degree vee-twin screamed into life at 6000 revs, making a godawful racket. Turned the choke off, caused the engine to die a death. More kick-starting, this time with one choke on and one off! That got the little bugger rumbling until I engaged first gear and the bastard stalled due to clutch drag. By the time I finally got on the road I would've been in work on the venerable GT550.
This nastiness carried on right through the day, the good mixed with the bad. The good side was its narrowness and snappy acceleration, much more svelte than the GT and most other DR hacks. The bad side was the unpredictable starting (as bad when it was too hot as when it was cold), total lack of comfort and a double-sided drum brake that was a vicious old stopper. When it wanted to work.
As any DR knows, the best kind of bikes are ones you don't have to think about, all attention should be focused on the stretch of road ahead. The Morini was far from ideal, then. However, two days later the GT550 died an electrical death, was off the road for a couple of weeks. I rewired the Morini so that the ignition was always on, added a couple of spark plugs and new oil; began to talk quietly rather than curse the little Italian gem. A set of flat bars rather than clip-ons transformed the comfort.
The bike then proved quite a useful little DR hack. After a month of autumn riding, most of the tank and frame paint had fallen off, all the alloy had turned nasty and I was sure that the big-ends were knocking, or something. The GT550 was put back into use and the Morini tidied up, sold at a small profit. Most of the guys who turned up were rightly annoyed at the state I'd let the classic vee-twin degenerate into!
I've owned too many GT550's and 750's. The oddest one was a bike that had only ever been used for the DR chores. Gone through twelve owners and 260,000 miles, a sort of living legend. All the owners I knew had sold the bike thinking that it was on its last legs. Only to be confounded by its continued running.
My main mount was a nearly new GT550 so I could contrast the effect of a quarter of a million miles of abuse. Many of the chassis and braking components had been upgraded, so there wasn't a major difference there. Just a slight tendency to pull to the left, a legacy of a crash into the side of a bus that had left the hefty steel frame slightly bent. GT550 forks collapse in heavy accidents absorbing most of the impact!
No, it was the engine where most of the difference was felt. Secondary vibes sang through the chassis and the transmission was pretty awful, wear in the gearbox combining with a loose shaft drive. I usually trawled around town in third gear, reassured that clutch abuse was okay as the previous owner had fitted a newish clutch assembly. GT's stretch back so far into motorcycling history and are so widely available that most parts can be sourced from breakers, little need to buy anything new.
The bike was kept for a couple of months winter riding, which it shrugged off, and then sold to a newbie in the office. Weird chap, rake thin and about 6'6" tall! His helmet perched precariously on his large potato shape head. He was from the Welsh heartland but didn't seem to mind the sheep jokes. He didn't fit the GT very well but it was a lot less laughable than the C90 he'd ridden down the M4!
Within an hour of leaving the office the controller received an irate phone call from some cager who wanted to know who was going to pay to put the side of his car back on. The large fluorescent bib had given the game away and his description of someone who looked like an alien on steroids fitted Taffy perfectly. Of course, the controller denied any knowledge of such a strange looking employee!
He soon sold the GT, at a loss, to a veteran DR, and then found happiness with a Dakar replica. Being relatively short of leg (but not of beer gut) I never really got on with those kind of bikes. The Aprilia Pegaso I bought as a non-runner was soon sorted with an electrical rewire (believe whatever myths you want about Italian bikes but they still haven't sussed out the electrics) but every time I gave it a bit of throttle it wanted to go airborne.
By the way, Taffy was finally sacked when he rode his bike over the tops of half a dozen cages and he was last heard of holding down a job at one of the radio stations.
The Pegaso was soon off-loaded, but the GT didn't half feel lethargic afterwards. The slowest bike I ever did the DR hustle on was a Honda C90. An ancient step-thru that had been fitted with a relatively modern engine that featured a lack of airfilter and degutted exhaust. The chassis was up to 30mph but the motor would wind the bouncing abortion up to 60mph, given a long enough straight.
The chaos of Central London traffic meant that I was doing jobs quicker on the step-thru than on the GT. It went through impossible gaps like a ferret up a trouser leg, which was just as well as the SLS drum brakes didn't seem to work. It could be twisted through right-angles, shoved up on to pavements and skidded around roundabouts, having more in common with a skateboard than a proper motorcycle.
The antics of the bike so enraged one cager that he ran along the pavement until he managed to nudge the back of the Honda. The step-thru reacted badly to this, landing on its side. I'd managed to step/stagger off before it hit the tarmac and sort of ran along the pavement to shrug off the momentum. I looked over my shoulder to see some mad-eyed cager continuing in pursuit, having run over the fallen Honda. I sidestepped into a narrow alleyway and the cage roared past. I didn't bother trying to claim the C90, one glance told me it was completely written off.
One black-cab driver used to loiter outside our office, waiting for someone to knock off! When we sussed what he was up to, one of our gang of reprobates sneaked around the cab and put a bag of sugar in his petrol tank! We led him on a merry dance until his motor started to clang away when we gave him a cheerful blast on the horn.
He staggered out of his cab, ran at the nearest biker with death in his heart, but a bit of throttle put him in his proper place. Shortly after that event a firebomb was thrown into the office. Luckily, it didn't explode! For some reason taxi drivers think they are masters of the universe, when everyone knows that it's really DR's who enjoy that status.
Another odd DR hack I had the pleasure of was a GN400 Suzuki. Like the Morini, this was a temperamental starter, but it was so slow to wind itself up I often thought I'd stepped into a parallel universe. After a winter's worth of despatch riding it was reduced to total rat status, the rust so deeply ingrained into the metal that not even fervent wire-brushing had any hope of cleaning it up.
Also, all the chassis bearings were shot, the chain was reduced to knicker elastic and the engine, being both worn and lacking any balancers, rumbled ferociously. When the silencer fell off, it spat out flames and sounded like a runaway Sherman tank. I couldn't even give it away for free; next door's skip finally sufficed.
That wasn't the only commuter I'd had a go at riding through Central London. A nice little CG125 looked promising, but again proved just that little bit too slow to escape from enraged cagers, giving me several frightening moments. Didn't stop me putting 30,000 miles on the clock, by which stage there were cracks in the rear subframe and engine crankcases! At least a breaker gave me fifty notes for the rolling wreck.
At the other extreme, the biggest, nastiest bike I ever did the DR blues on was a Kawasaki Z1300 six. At times it seemed almost as wide as a small car but it made up for this by popping incredible wheelies on the back of its excessive torque. Several near death experiences didn't stop me enjoying a summer's despatching but as soon as the heavy rains came it turned into a rolling deathtrap, the power and mass being too much to control on slippery roads. I barely dented the engine's capabilities and the finish was much better than most Kawasakis, no problem selling it at a good profit.
One bike I never got on with was a BMW R80RS. Should've been a brilliant bit of kit for winter riding but I never managed to master the gearbox (which had 60,000 miles worth of wear in it); even the plod have problems riding them smoothly. It was also too wide for Central London.
Then there was... oh, enough, get some tackle, sign up for despatching and see for yourself. You could even make pots of money out of it.
W.A.
Suzuki T500: Classic Strokes
I was rather taken by the late sixties Suzuki T500. The thing that immediately got to me was the lack of stroker smoke pall out of the exhaust. The trick is to use smoke-free lube and adjust the oil pump to its minimal setting. Usually, there's a bit of a haze but beware of heavy smoke as it can indicate that the crankshaft seals are shot, oil drawn out of the gearbox (with obvious consequences on its longevity - but easily sussed by a lack of slickness in the gearchange).
For a sixties bike, everything on the T is surprisingly smooth - gearbox, lack of vibration and even the controls. Compared to anything British from that era, the height of sophistication. It isn't exactly frenzied in the forward motion stakes but it will kill things like 400 Superdreams and shouldn't be underestimated. It doesn't have the stroker twin edge of an RD400, at least not in stock set-up and anyone who's fitted spannies to them usually rides in a wicked way; should be avoided if you want to get a good deal rather than a pile of trouble.
The owner wanted 1600 notes for the 23000 miler, which was basically a stocker and had only experienced three owners. Amazing what you can find in the classifieds. I fell for the bike instantly, liked its feel and its lines. One of those things! I kept that to myself, though, and offered 1200 notes, which I just happened to have on me. Loose change, rich bastard... no, only joking. The wife had given me the money to buy a bedroom suite she had set her heart on and I contrived to go via the T500 owner's house. He found this tale highly amusing and immediately agreed to the deal.
The moment I walked in the house the wife knew what had gone down. Not just from the motorcycle parked in the drive but also from the silly grin I sported. When we were courting (a silly, old-fashioned word, but it fitted) she loved motorcycles as much as I did, but her policy of fiscal probity prohibited massive indulgence (witness the ancient Honda C100 I usually pottered around on). After a bit of name calling she decided not to make a massive issue out of it and, instead, demanded a ride! This was the kind of woman you could fall in love with!
Two-up, the T500 was a touch muted but then we are both on the large side. However, I pushed the old girl to 110mph just to give wifey a thrill, though it has to be said that stroker tingles between the legs don't have the same affect as, say, a vee twin. But it's surprising what a fast blast on a bike can achieve later in the bedroom, almost worth the entrance price just for that!
I soon settled into life with the Suzuki. To be honest, it was such a pleasant old bumble bee that not much effort was needed on my part. Lacking an electric start, I could actually 'kickstart' it into life using hand pressure! The usual stroker peaks and troughs were lacking, too, though it wasn't bland in the way of the later GT500, there was a bit of an edge come 5000rpm. Enough to make for a pleasant saunter through the slick gearbox.
Cruising at the ton wasn't a problem, possible to put 120mph on the clock. Koni rear shocks and firmed up forks combined with a decent bit of tubular frame made for almost modern handling, only the relatively narrow Dunlop tyres giving the game away. Still, the previous owner reckoned they would last for more than 15000 miles! The TLS front brake was still a sharp little number and absolute bliss in the wet. The same couldn't be said for the SLS drum, which was basically on or off.
The latter was down to worn down shoes and oval linings, something I found out to my cost when the back end locked up as solidly as any sane person's backside in a public school shower. We did an almighty slide until I lost a massive amount of velocity by applying the front brake. I actually had to take the back wheel out, borrow a hammer to free off the shoes!
This was how I found out that T500 spares are now very rare on the ground. Just for a laugh, I phoned up a Suzuki dealer who promptly accused me of taking the piss. Anyway, a friendly engineering workshop did the business on the rear hub and mail order took care of the linings and shoes. It's worth noting that on sixties Jap's minor hassles can turn into major nightmares. Find a bike for spares!
That fixed, life was back to normal. The T gained much applause from various old rockers who wanted to know where they could get one but didn't want to hand over the two grand I was asking. That kind of dosh would buy a similar era Brit that was in a barely usable state, sixties Jap's as undervalued as they are underrated. But then they aren't backed up with the kind of re-engineering that's available for the classic Brit's.
The spares situation was a kind of worry but it shouldn't have been. I did 13000 miles in ten months, then sold the bike for 1900 sovs. In short, I was paid to enjoy myself and the wife finally got her luxury suite! Everyone was happy. The profit went on a Honda CB400N Superdream. But a nice one with a Transit full of spare bits. I was learning the way of motorcycle survival - fast!
Alex Trellis
Friday 29 January 2016
Hacking: Salvage Survivor
During my work for the local council, removing and squashing dumped cars - if you can call some of them dumped - I come across quite a few dumped bikes. So far I have acquired a Honda CB125, Honda SilverWing and my current bike, which is the only one that I actually got around to riding, a shaftdrive Yamaha T80. Well, it was free and had six months tax and MOT left on it, the guy's wife demanded he get rid of it due to old age - his not the bike's!
I did acquire a Honda 70, from the scrapyard we use, that had the rear shocks replaced by two bits of angle iron welded in position! I robbed that for the exhaust and wheels... even though it ran as well, so now I have a Honda 70 engine cluttering up my shed, along with the Yamaha, one mountain bike, a Chopper restoration project, various bits of computers and hi-fi, etc.
After cleaning it, buying a new battery, and repairing various holes in the rear mudguard that was letting water into the seat, it runs quite happily, pushing 140mpg if you like running on air. Not bad for nothing, all I have bought is a speedo cable that snapped when I achieved 45mph going to work down a slight hill one day, and deciding any faster might have the engine lose a few parts due to the vibration.
No oil has been bought, just using anything that looks about the right type found in the cars I take. Only clean oil, though. Three oil changes and about 500 miles later it, it still dies going up anything bigger than a matchbox - either ride in second screaming the tits off it, or sit in third at just above killing the engine speed.
I had my first fall on my bike the other week, the roads around where I live and work are atrocious, plenty of oil and diesel, along with maniac drivers, who seem intent on cutting you up, not waiting five milliseconds for you to get out of the way. On the same day, I was cut up three times in 50 yards and fell off.
On the day, it had pissed it down, so the roads were still wet and nicely covered in diesel, so there I was trundling along on my Yamaha T80, slowing down and being wary of the junction with maniacs coming in from the right side, when I saw the cyclist. Riding very close to the centre line in the nearside lane, so I slowed even more, and then it happened.
Give him his due, he did stick his hand out, just after pulling across in front of me, and then looking over his shoulder, as I braked and swerved out of the way. Not a very clever move on my part as I wobbled first one way and then the other, wondering how much this would hurt as I went down. Just then I realised why you don't use your front brake a split second before your back brake, never did that when I used to ride a pushbike to work.
After realizing that I wasn't too badly injured, I screamed abuse at the cyclist, who by now was across the lanes and on the pavement, thoughtfully looking over his shoulder to see me laying in the road, across my bike, ranting away.
Pulling myself up, I looked behind and saw a nice queue of traffic patiently waiting for me, and the school kids waiting to see what would happen next, as I pulled myself and bike back up, and hobbled and dragged the bike to the side of the road.
Once I had persuaded the bike to come out of gear, and checked it over, I kicked it over, and carried on back to work, where I took off the foot pegs and straightened them in a vice, along with a slight adjustment to the gear change. The biggest damage was cracking the front brake lever mounting lugs, so now I have to get new switchgear.
All I got out of that was to look very stupid, and not one bruise or scratch as proof of what happened. Very lucky you might say, but it taught me a lesson, in those two or three seconds before I hit the road, how easy it can be to come off, no matter how slow you are going, and you have to keep your wits about you at all times, even a simple thing like a moron on a pushbike could get you killed.
Steptoe
I did acquire a Honda 70, from the scrapyard we use, that had the rear shocks replaced by two bits of angle iron welded in position! I robbed that for the exhaust and wheels... even though it ran as well, so now I have a Honda 70 engine cluttering up my shed, along with the Yamaha, one mountain bike, a Chopper restoration project, various bits of computers and hi-fi, etc.
After cleaning it, buying a new battery, and repairing various holes in the rear mudguard that was letting water into the seat, it runs quite happily, pushing 140mpg if you like running on air. Not bad for nothing, all I have bought is a speedo cable that snapped when I achieved 45mph going to work down a slight hill one day, and deciding any faster might have the engine lose a few parts due to the vibration.
No oil has been bought, just using anything that looks about the right type found in the cars I take. Only clean oil, though. Three oil changes and about 500 miles later it, it still dies going up anything bigger than a matchbox - either ride in second screaming the tits off it, or sit in third at just above killing the engine speed.
I had my first fall on my bike the other week, the roads around where I live and work are atrocious, plenty of oil and diesel, along with maniac drivers, who seem intent on cutting you up, not waiting five milliseconds for you to get out of the way. On the same day, I was cut up three times in 50 yards and fell off.
On the day, it had pissed it down, so the roads were still wet and nicely covered in diesel, so there I was trundling along on my Yamaha T80, slowing down and being wary of the junction with maniacs coming in from the right side, when I saw the cyclist. Riding very close to the centre line in the nearside lane, so I slowed even more, and then it happened.
Give him his due, he did stick his hand out, just after pulling across in front of me, and then looking over his shoulder, as I braked and swerved out of the way. Not a very clever move on my part as I wobbled first one way and then the other, wondering how much this would hurt as I went down. Just then I realised why you don't use your front brake a split second before your back brake, never did that when I used to ride a pushbike to work.
After realizing that I wasn't too badly injured, I screamed abuse at the cyclist, who by now was across the lanes and on the pavement, thoughtfully looking over his shoulder to see me laying in the road, across my bike, ranting away.
Pulling myself up, I looked behind and saw a nice queue of traffic patiently waiting for me, and the school kids waiting to see what would happen next, as I pulled myself and bike back up, and hobbled and dragged the bike to the side of the road.
Once I had persuaded the bike to come out of gear, and checked it over, I kicked it over, and carried on back to work, where I took off the foot pegs and straightened them in a vice, along with a slight adjustment to the gear change. The biggest damage was cracking the front brake lever mounting lugs, so now I have to get new switchgear.
All I got out of that was to look very stupid, and not one bruise or scratch as proof of what happened. Very lucky you might say, but it taught me a lesson, in those two or three seconds before I hit the road, how easy it can be to come off, no matter how slow you are going, and you have to keep your wits about you at all times, even a simple thing like a moron on a pushbike could get you killed.
Steptoe
Travel Tales: Miscreant's Manoeuvres
This is a story of high hopes, big dreams and worse nightmares. A story of life, love, horrors and death (dead bikes are always the best investment an adventurer can make). This is the tale of Indiana Hipkiss and the pursuits of a GT750 (lovingly known as the bike of doom).
The machine in question was originally purchased for its worldwide reputation of long life and total devotion to their owners, made to be as reliable and dependable as man's best friend. But even the pet dog will crap on your floor once a year. It was meant to be un-blow-up-able, and it never has actually blown up.
Bought for 910 notes after haggling in the gutter with its previous owner. I wanted something that I would never clean, spend hours resurrecting from the mechanic's pit of my kitchen and could carry my holiday bags on it without concern for the paint. A basic workhorse inspired by fond memories of an XJ650 which I put 30,000 miles on in one year.
After buying the bike, I left my friend at the bloke's house while I went to fill up with petrol. After putting in the juice it refused to light up, later found to be a worn ignition switch. Thoughts filled my mind of 'oh no, not another dead bike to be put in the graveyard of my garden.'
Anyway, it made its jolly way back from Leeds. The bike ran perfectly for the next three months including a trip to the Island of Skye and back where it rained every day. Apart from a reluctance to start some mornings, soon solved through syphoning some petrol on to the airfilter, it never missed a beat.
Shame my user of a girl friend wasn’t as good, but I think the desperation of the Scottish weather got the better of her as we parted company once back home. The next few months I was impressed with the bike and the new girlfriend Scary-Bird. Sat at the traffic lights with Scary-Bird on the back bouncing up and down, engine revving through the knackered exhaust we caught the attention of Mr. Shiny-Red-Porsche!
Eye contact was made and the challenge was on. The lights turned to green and the Porsche was off with a happy pilot. Imagine the look on the starship driver's face a 100 yards down the road as we went flying past, engine screaming and shouts of encouragement from me and Scary-Bird. We were both that surprised that we had to praise the almighty GT.
With two weeks off work, some money to burn and a desire for adventure, the aim was as far into the Moroccan desert as possible. Whether this was a result of working with young adults with behavioural problems I don't know. I reckoned I needed enough spares to take with me to solve any potential hazard.
All of the parts came from a GPz550, which I bought for £100, a pizza and a bottle of whisky. It was nice to see the old bike back again, I’d sold it about nine months ago in perfect condition for £850. He sold it back cheaply due to the exploding con-rod and basically shagged condition of the bike (but that's not bad for Colin, they usually last half that in his capable hands).
Nevertheless, I extracted a pair of coils, complete set of cables, inner-tube, tyre and an ignition switch, none of which were actually needed until I got home from Morocco. The trip consisted of 4,000 miles from Hull to Plymouth, boat to Santandar, ride down to Gibraltar and as far south in my two weeks off work as I could get before turning round.
Basically it went like this. The 350 mile ride to leave on the noon boat started badly due to the very late night packing and final goodbyes to Scary-Bird. The ride through Spain was bliss. I met a pair of brothers riding down to the same area of Spain. They’d just spent £13,000 on their Harleys, I’d spent bugger all on my bike and I could leave them for dust, hands down, (that’s what budget bikes are for). Despite the ton cruising speed and lots of luggage, range was always better than 150 miles.
The only problems so far, a weeping head gasket now heavily torqued down, and overheating after four hours non-stop in the saddle. At Flamorage my lodger's Dad had a pub where I spent one drunken night and did one oil change. Next was the adventure on to Moroccan soil. Down to Gibraltar for the ferry to Cuta.
A port with a large shanty town built on a rubbish tip with herds of goats, sheep and camels living on a diet of cardboard and plastic. Not the most encouraging sight. Anyway I’d met Iona and Rick who were off to Cape Town in their Renault 4 on the boat and by that stage I needed the moral support. So I spent a day or two with them.
The GT might be a good touring bike but on Moroccan roads it's got problems. Too heavy, poor suspension, too hot. A combination of ridiculously steep hills, impossible road surfaces and cliff top falls either side of the road had me bleeding the brakes by the time I arrived in Fez. As luck would have it, it resulted in a broken back brake nipple. Either the result of poor metal or my mind going from too much heat and smoke, suitably fixed with a self-tapping screw into the nipple.
The ride back to Cuta was the most hostile I've ever experienced throughout all my travels. Riding through the Riff mountains, which unknown to me was the natural growing area for hash. If the locals weren’t pelting stones at you, they were trying to get you stoned, with their offers of hash by stopping you by almost any means on the main dirt track road.
The locals had perfected a combination of menacing and friendly gestures, attempting to get any bag off my bike if I slowed down to give them the opportunity. The only way to cope, right wrist used with big smile and no fear attitude to get to the next police road block. Taxis and small bikes were all sent in pursuit to get me to pull over!
Only once did things become overtly physical when a tree branch, plank of wood or something was thrown at the spokes of the GT. The bike shook heavily as the wood rather than the wheel broke. I had concerns over the wheel bearings or whether it had in fact buckled, but this was only down to my paranoia. Adrenaline pumping, I made it back to the port.
Anyone having made that crossing with a vehicle knows the paperwork and bribe money for the officials needed as well as patience to get through the border. I found it averaged 3 hours and a three pound bribe for the officials.
Once back in friendly Spain, the beer flowed heavily, happy to be somewhere safe. Exhaust blowing, brakes minimal and the lights only working when they felt like it, I set off for home. Only 1500 miles to go. Thinking I’d done well to drag the bike back to Santandar for the ferry to England I managed to miss the boat.
With very little money left and needing to be back at work I had to cover the whole of France by 7 pm the next day. Sadly I had to ride by daylight due to the lights (later found to be the ignition switch), I spent a night in a toilet on the Spain/ France border, due to my finances. Thinking I’m almost there, safely at the port, I paid the toll for a motorway and set off with the side-stand down...
A quick tussle with the barrier and pick the bike up off the hard shoulder. Some idiot had phoned 999 or the equivalent seeing me come off and the cops turned up for a laugh. Haggled down a 700 franc fine to a 200 franc parking fine, leaving me with enough money for one tank of petrol, I made it to the port.
Exchanged a few stories with some Ducati owners who’d done an impressive 100 miles. By then I’d simply had enough. Once on British soil the thought of the 350 mile ride home back to Scary-Bird's arms and legs on a bike with twisted forks, blowing exhaust and no brakes in British rain didn’t inspire. Time to phone the AA which I’d joined earlier while in Spain thanks to a phone call to a mate Steve at mission headquarters.
Once back in the mechanic's pit of my kitchen, time to uncover the damage. Several broken fins on the barrels, the forks soon twisted back into line, after loosening the yokes - much to my joy - worn out front tyre, replaced from the GPz550's (a good old Avon DeathMaster) - for any one else with a GT don’t ever fit one as it produces speed wobbles at a mere 95. The only reason it's on my bike is it was there and next to free. An ignition switch cured the lights; an indicator and headlight fitted from the same source.
The exhaust was removed to find the previous owner had welded the collars to the pipes. Through excessive engine braking due to no brakes etc, they’d come loose. By this time it was winter, time to dig the Z400 out of the graveyard and retire the GT to the warm climate of my living room. Christmas came and went, the GT just losing out to the GPz550 for pride of place as the Christmas tree bike (fairy lights, tinsel and everything), with the promise of fixing it next week.
January soon passed, frenzied fixing took place in order to make the bike worthy of a winter (well late February), trip to Prague. Planned to go from Rotterdam, to Amsterdam, have a night of fun, then do the Amsterdam to Prague run in as little time as possible. Plans were made, routes worked out, thermal clothes bought, we were ready, just a case of fixing the bike.
The exhaust was the major mechanical problem. On taking the headers off, one of the studs came out, not only taking the thread out but the alloy surrounding it as well. Despite Pete’s (our wonderful mechanic friend), every-thing-must-be-done-properly attitude and his frustration concerning working on old dead bikes and frequent choruses of 'For Christ's sake why can’t you get a newer bike,' the offending bolt was glued in place with chemical metal and another promise of love and attention.
Only the brakes to fix, plus the indicator and hope that it starts. With the bike back in the kitchen it's time to start it up. Yes it still goes but only when the bars are turned to the right. The indicator's bandaged up with a splint acting as insulation tape by a student nurse from the local hospital, and things are looking good.
With itchy feet to get back on to continental roads again, aiming for Prague, just a set of rear pads to fix the morning before the boat. Not even a one ton vice was having any effect with the brake caliper's piston, which was refusing to move in, so Pete's three ton fingers were called for. All bodged back together, right let's go!
The time's 5:15pm, jackets on, bags packed, the bike keys were still in the house and I’ve posted my house key through the neighbour's door so they can feed Roger the cat. After a quick panic we were at last ready. Two-up, loads of bags and a bit of a wobble, we make it to the port and settled down on the ferry. The bar, of course! After a rough crossing and getting only a little lost coming out of the Euro port we get well on our way to Amsterdam.
The journey's almost over (well the first part of it), and after battling with a mental lorry driver on the motorway we begin our approach to Amsterdam (centrum), a few miles away from warmth, coffee, beer, etc. A loud metallic clunk caused us to pull up 100 yards from the traffic lights to discover a front brake caliper flapping around. A quick game of chicken on the motorway looking for the missing brake pads turned out to be a fruitless pursuit. With the front caliper taped on with sticky tape we rode very wearily to the city centre of Amsterdam.
By the time we found accommodation, bought new pads etc, Prague was just not going to happen. The exhaust's collector box had by now rotted, upsetting the carburation and sounding like Concorde. Stopping in Amsterdam seemed fit. Going against the advice of the people in the hotel, the bike was parked on the pavement. Partly due to not wanting to waste any beer money on the car park and the perverse hope that someone might actually steal it.
After a couple of nights of fun it was time to go. Giving ourselves plenty of time to get lost, break down, etc, we set off for home. An uneventful motorway journey saw us at the Euro-port three hours before check-in, five hours before departure. After a quick drink in the only bar we could see, we go back to the port to have some food and sleep. Rotterdam is the armpit of the universe, later confirmed by the large number of men dressed up as cowboys.
After a bit of a mental struggle we soon realised we had booked our return crossing on the line-dancing spectacular (oh joy - not), most comical to watch a dance floor of coy boys and girls trying to stay inline on a moving surface in the North Sea.
The bike of doom, or better known as the GT 750, has proven a very useful and reliable tool if only a little boring. However, maintenance has been very regular oil changes every 1000 miles, (buy your oil in 25 litre drums as it works out very cheap), carburettors needing balancing every 6000 miles. Other than a couple of brake shoes, it has been very cheaply maintained.
If you're after some serious wheels for a long trip needing minimal maintenance so long as there is tarmac and roads you’ve got no problems. However on rubble, sand etc, as I found out in Morocco, the bike struggles. By the time this article comes out I’ll probably be in Russia as the hopeless tales of Indiana Hipkiss and the bike of doom continue. We take these risks not to escape life, but to stop life escaping us.
Greg Hipkiss
The machine in question was originally purchased for its worldwide reputation of long life and total devotion to their owners, made to be as reliable and dependable as man's best friend. But even the pet dog will crap on your floor once a year. It was meant to be un-blow-up-able, and it never has actually blown up.
Bought for 910 notes after haggling in the gutter with its previous owner. I wanted something that I would never clean, spend hours resurrecting from the mechanic's pit of my kitchen and could carry my holiday bags on it without concern for the paint. A basic workhorse inspired by fond memories of an XJ650 which I put 30,000 miles on in one year.
After buying the bike, I left my friend at the bloke's house while I went to fill up with petrol. After putting in the juice it refused to light up, later found to be a worn ignition switch. Thoughts filled my mind of 'oh no, not another dead bike to be put in the graveyard of my garden.'
Anyway, it made its jolly way back from Leeds. The bike ran perfectly for the next three months including a trip to the Island of Skye and back where it rained every day. Apart from a reluctance to start some mornings, soon solved through syphoning some petrol on to the airfilter, it never missed a beat.
Shame my user of a girl friend wasn’t as good, but I think the desperation of the Scottish weather got the better of her as we parted company once back home. The next few months I was impressed with the bike and the new girlfriend Scary-Bird. Sat at the traffic lights with Scary-Bird on the back bouncing up and down, engine revving through the knackered exhaust we caught the attention of Mr. Shiny-Red-Porsche!
Eye contact was made and the challenge was on. The lights turned to green and the Porsche was off with a happy pilot. Imagine the look on the starship driver's face a 100 yards down the road as we went flying past, engine screaming and shouts of encouragement from me and Scary-Bird. We were both that surprised that we had to praise the almighty GT.
With two weeks off work, some money to burn and a desire for adventure, the aim was as far into the Moroccan desert as possible. Whether this was a result of working with young adults with behavioural problems I don't know. I reckoned I needed enough spares to take with me to solve any potential hazard.
All of the parts came from a GPz550, which I bought for £100, a pizza and a bottle of whisky. It was nice to see the old bike back again, I’d sold it about nine months ago in perfect condition for £850. He sold it back cheaply due to the exploding con-rod and basically shagged condition of the bike (but that's not bad for Colin, they usually last half that in his capable hands).
Nevertheless, I extracted a pair of coils, complete set of cables, inner-tube, tyre and an ignition switch, none of which were actually needed until I got home from Morocco. The trip consisted of 4,000 miles from Hull to Plymouth, boat to Santandar, ride down to Gibraltar and as far south in my two weeks off work as I could get before turning round.
Basically it went like this. The 350 mile ride to leave on the noon boat started badly due to the very late night packing and final goodbyes to Scary-Bird. The ride through Spain was bliss. I met a pair of brothers riding down to the same area of Spain. They’d just spent £13,000 on their Harleys, I’d spent bugger all on my bike and I could leave them for dust, hands down, (that’s what budget bikes are for). Despite the ton cruising speed and lots of luggage, range was always better than 150 miles.
The only problems so far, a weeping head gasket now heavily torqued down, and overheating after four hours non-stop in the saddle. At Flamorage my lodger's Dad had a pub where I spent one drunken night and did one oil change. Next was the adventure on to Moroccan soil. Down to Gibraltar for the ferry to Cuta.
A port with a large shanty town built on a rubbish tip with herds of goats, sheep and camels living on a diet of cardboard and plastic. Not the most encouraging sight. Anyway I’d met Iona and Rick who were off to Cape Town in their Renault 4 on the boat and by that stage I needed the moral support. So I spent a day or two with them.
The GT might be a good touring bike but on Moroccan roads it's got problems. Too heavy, poor suspension, too hot. A combination of ridiculously steep hills, impossible road surfaces and cliff top falls either side of the road had me bleeding the brakes by the time I arrived in Fez. As luck would have it, it resulted in a broken back brake nipple. Either the result of poor metal or my mind going from too much heat and smoke, suitably fixed with a self-tapping screw into the nipple.
The ride back to Cuta was the most hostile I've ever experienced throughout all my travels. Riding through the Riff mountains, which unknown to me was the natural growing area for hash. If the locals weren’t pelting stones at you, they were trying to get you stoned, with their offers of hash by stopping you by almost any means on the main dirt track road.
The locals had perfected a combination of menacing and friendly gestures, attempting to get any bag off my bike if I slowed down to give them the opportunity. The only way to cope, right wrist used with big smile and no fear attitude to get to the next police road block. Taxis and small bikes were all sent in pursuit to get me to pull over!
Only once did things become overtly physical when a tree branch, plank of wood or something was thrown at the spokes of the GT. The bike shook heavily as the wood rather than the wheel broke. I had concerns over the wheel bearings or whether it had in fact buckled, but this was only down to my paranoia. Adrenaline pumping, I made it back to the port.
Anyone having made that crossing with a vehicle knows the paperwork and bribe money for the officials needed as well as patience to get through the border. I found it averaged 3 hours and a three pound bribe for the officials.
Once back in friendly Spain, the beer flowed heavily, happy to be somewhere safe. Exhaust blowing, brakes minimal and the lights only working when they felt like it, I set off for home. Only 1500 miles to go. Thinking I’d done well to drag the bike back to Santandar for the ferry to England I managed to miss the boat.
With very little money left and needing to be back at work I had to cover the whole of France by 7 pm the next day. Sadly I had to ride by daylight due to the lights (later found to be the ignition switch), I spent a night in a toilet on the Spain/ France border, due to my finances. Thinking I’m almost there, safely at the port, I paid the toll for a motorway and set off with the side-stand down...
A quick tussle with the barrier and pick the bike up off the hard shoulder. Some idiot had phoned 999 or the equivalent seeing me come off and the cops turned up for a laugh. Haggled down a 700 franc fine to a 200 franc parking fine, leaving me with enough money for one tank of petrol, I made it to the port.
Exchanged a few stories with some Ducati owners who’d done an impressive 100 miles. By then I’d simply had enough. Once on British soil the thought of the 350 mile ride home back to Scary-Bird's arms and legs on a bike with twisted forks, blowing exhaust and no brakes in British rain didn’t inspire. Time to phone the AA which I’d joined earlier while in Spain thanks to a phone call to a mate Steve at mission headquarters.
Once back in the mechanic's pit of my kitchen, time to uncover the damage. Several broken fins on the barrels, the forks soon twisted back into line, after loosening the yokes - much to my joy - worn out front tyre, replaced from the GPz550's (a good old Avon DeathMaster) - for any one else with a GT don’t ever fit one as it produces speed wobbles at a mere 95. The only reason it's on my bike is it was there and next to free. An ignition switch cured the lights; an indicator and headlight fitted from the same source.
The exhaust was removed to find the previous owner had welded the collars to the pipes. Through excessive engine braking due to no brakes etc, they’d come loose. By this time it was winter, time to dig the Z400 out of the graveyard and retire the GT to the warm climate of my living room. Christmas came and went, the GT just losing out to the GPz550 for pride of place as the Christmas tree bike (fairy lights, tinsel and everything), with the promise of fixing it next week.
January soon passed, frenzied fixing took place in order to make the bike worthy of a winter (well late February), trip to Prague. Planned to go from Rotterdam, to Amsterdam, have a night of fun, then do the Amsterdam to Prague run in as little time as possible. Plans were made, routes worked out, thermal clothes bought, we were ready, just a case of fixing the bike.
The exhaust was the major mechanical problem. On taking the headers off, one of the studs came out, not only taking the thread out but the alloy surrounding it as well. Despite Pete’s (our wonderful mechanic friend), every-thing-must-be-done-properly attitude and his frustration concerning working on old dead bikes and frequent choruses of 'For Christ's sake why can’t you get a newer bike,' the offending bolt was glued in place with chemical metal and another promise of love and attention.
Only the brakes to fix, plus the indicator and hope that it starts. With the bike back in the kitchen it's time to start it up. Yes it still goes but only when the bars are turned to the right. The indicator's bandaged up with a splint acting as insulation tape by a student nurse from the local hospital, and things are looking good.
With itchy feet to get back on to continental roads again, aiming for Prague, just a set of rear pads to fix the morning before the boat. Not even a one ton vice was having any effect with the brake caliper's piston, which was refusing to move in, so Pete's three ton fingers were called for. All bodged back together, right let's go!
The time's 5:15pm, jackets on, bags packed, the bike keys were still in the house and I’ve posted my house key through the neighbour's door so they can feed Roger the cat. After a quick panic we were at last ready. Two-up, loads of bags and a bit of a wobble, we make it to the port and settled down on the ferry. The bar, of course! After a rough crossing and getting only a little lost coming out of the Euro port we get well on our way to Amsterdam.
The journey's almost over (well the first part of it), and after battling with a mental lorry driver on the motorway we begin our approach to Amsterdam (centrum), a few miles away from warmth, coffee, beer, etc. A loud metallic clunk caused us to pull up 100 yards from the traffic lights to discover a front brake caliper flapping around. A quick game of chicken on the motorway looking for the missing brake pads turned out to be a fruitless pursuit. With the front caliper taped on with sticky tape we rode very wearily to the city centre of Amsterdam.
By the time we found accommodation, bought new pads etc, Prague was just not going to happen. The exhaust's collector box had by now rotted, upsetting the carburation and sounding like Concorde. Stopping in Amsterdam seemed fit. Going against the advice of the people in the hotel, the bike was parked on the pavement. Partly due to not wanting to waste any beer money on the car park and the perverse hope that someone might actually steal it.
After a couple of nights of fun it was time to go. Giving ourselves plenty of time to get lost, break down, etc, we set off for home. An uneventful motorway journey saw us at the Euro-port three hours before check-in, five hours before departure. After a quick drink in the only bar we could see, we go back to the port to have some food and sleep. Rotterdam is the armpit of the universe, later confirmed by the large number of men dressed up as cowboys.
After a bit of a mental struggle we soon realised we had booked our return crossing on the line-dancing spectacular (oh joy - not), most comical to watch a dance floor of coy boys and girls trying to stay inline on a moving surface in the North Sea.
The bike of doom, or better known as the GT 750, has proven a very useful and reliable tool if only a little boring. However, maintenance has been very regular oil changes every 1000 miles, (buy your oil in 25 litre drums as it works out very cheap), carburettors needing balancing every 6000 miles. Other than a couple of brake shoes, it has been very cheaply maintained.
If you're after some serious wheels for a long trip needing minimal maintenance so long as there is tarmac and roads you’ve got no problems. However on rubble, sand etc, as I found out in Morocco, the bike struggles. By the time this article comes out I’ll probably be in Russia as the hopeless tales of Indiana Hipkiss and the bike of doom continue. We take these risks not to escape life, but to stop life escaping us.
Greg Hipkiss
Thursday 21 January 2016
Yam XJ400Z v. Suzuki GS250FW: Watercooled hybrids
At first glance I thought it was yet another bland old Yamaha four. A second glance revealed a watercooled four cylinder motor. I racked my memory but couldn't recall ever reading a test on one. The dealer told me it was a 1984 shadow import. He had some literature in Japanese from which we were able to ascertain that it made 55 horses at 11500rpm and weighed in at 400lbs. That sounded okay, a test ride arranged.
Mileage was 23000 kilometres, general condition was good with just the odd bit of alloy rot spoiling its looks. Bikes have an easier time in Japan than they do in the UK, where any decade old sickle is usually very rough.
Sitting astride the bike, I felt perched atop a quite wide and high motorcycle. Felt heavier than the claimed 400lbs, due to too much mass placed too highly and widely. Eighteen inch wheels shod with old Jap Bridgestones added to the feeling of remoteness and edginess.
The motor came alive at 9000 revs but ran fluidly if not powerfully below that. The engine was easily the best bit of the machine but not good enough to make me buy it on the spot.
Told the dealer it was a rolling deathtrap with those tyres. He had a quick spin and agreed! Okay new Avons thrown in for free, how about that, sir? Well, I'll think about it. The 1400 quid price rapidly dropped. 995 notes with the tyres fitted that day. If I had the cash I could ride it away. He even drove me down to the bank! Keen or what?
Test rides only reveal a hint of a machine's abilities - or disabilities. The 20 mile ride home on a strange vehicle was quite interesting. The engine seemed much too powerful for the chassis, which didn't really want to swing through the bends in an exuberant manner. I decided that the tyres needed scrubbing in, brand new they were barely making an impression on the tarmac.
A few hundred miles, the handling was the same. I nearly shoved it through a hedge a couple of times. Just too unsettled when banked over. Playing around with the tyre pressures helped a little but I wasn't too confident in the bike's abilities. The motor was a rev happy little beast that would put 14 grand, or more, on the clock in the blink of an eye.
A couple of months went by and I became used to the machine. It needed a riding style whereby I kept it as upright as possible and leant off the bike when going through bends. This probably looked as odd as it felt but around bends it would then motor. The rear shock often tried to turn into a pogo-stick, so a secondhand shock, that was half an inch shorter but stronger, was fitted.
The bike was now lower, felt much more natural. Still needed a bit of shuffling around to make it go where I wanted. Top speed was 120mph but it weaved a bit too much for comfort, the ton was the most I felt really happy with even on motorways. Secondary vibes weren't too apparent, general comfort was close to excellent. A bit of stiffness in my neck after an hour at the ton was the only complaint.
The bike lost its edge with a pillion and became downright lethargic when two-up with a couple of panniers, top box and tank-bag. Only by revving into the red through the gears did it manage a decent clip. Took a bit of effort but didn't stop me heading for the Continent with the nearest and dearest on the back. She had a reasonable bit of seat and a pad on the top box to lean against.
The extra mass out back made the bike run very wide in bends under acceleration but a bit of a body weight shuffle compensated for it. The motor actually felt better the harder it was revved. Surprisingly, it stayed in tune without any effort on my part. I was expecting 1000 mile sessions due to its highly strung nature but just an oil change sufficed.
Did about 4500 miles on French and Italian roads. A few close shaves because the natives really didn't understand how to drive properly but they didn't all seem packed into small areas, plenty of open spaces to enjoy. The bike was also useful when the ground was too hard to put the tent pegs in, could use its bulk to tie one side of the tent down and use the panniers on the other side. One hurricane wind that came out of nowhere made it collapse on top of us. Never mind, all part of the fun of foreign touring.
More than 300 miles in a day, I became a bit tired of all the effort needed on the box and clutch. Odd aches and pains popped up in places I didn't know that could complain. The wife was happy enough, only a bit saddle sore if I did much more than 400 miles in a day. It was pushing its limits a bit but the bike survived long distance touring unscathed.
On the open road, cruising at 80-100mph, fully loaded up, the bike gave an exceptional 60mpg plus! In town, it was around 50mpg and at slower speeds on the open road close to 65mpg. Flat out, figure about 45mpg due to the incredible aerodynamic forces involved. As the tyres lasted for over 10,000 miles, the O-ring chain rarely needed any attention and the brake pads never needed replacing, one of the bike's best qualities was cheapness of running costs.
I finally sussed out what was making the handling so dodgy. Replacing the tyres, it was immediately apparent that the cast wheels were very heavy. This unsprung mass at the extremities of the bike amplified any looseness in the chassis and all the tarmac inputs. The Yamaha was fighting a losing battle against the sheer momentum of its wheels!
Heftily cast eighteen inch wheels with discs at each end suggested erring on the side of caution or saving production costs. I was never happy with the front twin discs, far too powerful for the tyres, had to be used with extreme caution even on dry roads. The rear disc was an on/off device that produced interesting skids on wet roads.
Dump the whole lot and fit something more modern, I thought. There were plenty of back wheels available but finding front wheels proved impossible - everyone and their dog writing off their bikes by hitting something head on. Well, the only bikes with dodgy back ends were the tiddlers, mowed down by cagers due to their lack of speed. I was stuck with the stock stuff.
As I wanted to use the bike through the winter, I fitted a handlebar fairing. The bike looked very similar to the same era XJ900, so I shouldn't have been that surprised when it went into a speed wobble, for which the 900's had been infamous. The extra weight on the forks tipped the balance, bringing out all the nastiness that the bike usually managed to hold in check. The fairing came off, it was going to be a cold winter.
With this in mind I went back to the dealer hoping to find a winter hack. The cheapest bike he had on offer was an 800 quid Suzuki GS250FW. Another import, 1983, 45000 kilometres and a little bit tired looking. I could have new tyres and an MOT. The bike had quite a large half fairing that I could imagine hiding behind. 40 horses at 11000rpm, 360lbs and a three month guarantee on the engine.
Long, low and lean, felt much more at home than on the Yamaha and it screamed up the road at a really rapid pace. Because there was a strong powerband at ten grand it felt harder running than the XJ. There's also a 400cc version but the dealer had sold the last one a couple of days earlier.
The only sore point was the sixteen inch front wheel. These were infamous for twitchiness but though very fast turning I couldn't find any lack of stability and thought it way ahead of the Yamaha. All down to weight distribution and steering geometry, as well as the unsprung mass of the wheels.
The combination of a single front disc and rear drum worked much more coherently and safely than the Yam's fierce stoppers. Made the bike much safer on wet or iced roads. The fairing still left my hands out in the cold but at least it twirled the water around my body. The wife didn't like this, as it coalesced where she sat. She also complained about the seat and the position of the pillion's pegs.
Wasn't a great problem as the Suzuki soon settled into the commute whilst the Yamaha was kept for long distance, two-up riding - little of which was done in the winter. My faith in the GS was tested when the front wheel slid away, with absolutely no warning, in a slow corner. The bike bounced up on to the pavement, finding a soft landing on a couple of peds! I bruised my shoulder but the leathers saved me from serious damage.
The GS was mostly unmarked. Or so I thought. Five minutes later the watercooled motor was overheating furiously. A displaced water hose had let the radiator drain. I'm a modest guy, but if I'd got the pecker out to piss in it, the ladies would've started a riot. Ended up knocking on some old dear's door and begging a bucket of water off her. Later I had to drain it all out and fill with proper coolant because pure water corrodes the aluminium.
The black paint on the exhaust began to fall off, thanks to our wonderful acid rain. The wheels' finish turned into loads of white fur. The paint was okay but all the fasteners sprouted rust by the time February came round. I brought the Yamaha back into play, but it actually felt no faster and didn't handle very well in comparison. If it hadn't been for the wife's bleating I would've sold it and ridden the Suzuki as my main bike. A weekend's work cleaned it up okay.
I decided I would have to sell both bikes and find something as comfortable as the Yamaha and dynamic as the Suzuki. Oddly, the latter wasn't so economical, only rarely turning in more than 50mpg. So I put 60mpg on the list of requirements. Both bikes were advertised for 950 quid, the Yamaha sold within two days and the Suzuki within the week.
For 1500 quid I was able to buy an early Diversion, which had a better combination of qualities than the two imports and only 9000 miles on its clock. I'm happy, the wife's happy and the bike seems happy, too! Just shows, that old imports aren't necessarily the best budget buys.
Teddy S.
Kawasaki KH250: DR hack
Mixed pleasures, trying to ride the ancient Kawasaki 250 triple rapidly. The engine could still sing a song, aided by some heavenly spannies, but the chassis was all wrong. The geometry wasn't exactly inspired when the bike came out of the factory, add in a couple of decades of abuse, the result was best described as wanton. As in going in and out of frightening weaves in an entirely random manner.
I tried to check the wheel alignment out using a plank of wood but didn't get very far. Left all confused by the different sections of the tyres. Didn't look too far out, anyway. The rubber was pretty dubious Far Eastern stuff that could turn nasty on wet roads but there was plenty of tread. I suspected most of the problems were caused by the forks as they lacked any kind of smoothness in their action and often seemed to stick.
Bumpy roads had the front end going off on its own unique joy ride. The only surprising thing was that the bars didn't go right out of control. After the initial couple of weeks I began to realise that if it felt like the chassis was falling apart, the wobbles didn't develop into something really deathly. Impossible to ignore the front end's machinations but actually quite safe to ride flat out when the circumstances allowed.
Having failed to blow the motor up in the first month, despite revving the engine flat out everywhere, I opted to fit a GPz305 front end. I just happened to have one laying around the garage after exploding the vertical twin's motor. Didn't take much effort. The GPz's forks aren't exactly huge but the twin discs would surely come in handy, the old single disc on the KH never working very well. They didn't exactly go straight on but after machining the yokes I was set for the test ride.
All was well up to about 75mph when the most alarming speed wobble imaginable went down. I almost went down as well, the bike threatening to bounce right off the M4. At least the discs worked properly, hauled the speed right down in an instant and basically saved the day. An act subsequently repeated many, many times.
Not really wanting to be limited to 70mph in my daily excursions, I gave the front end another look over. Some very minor slack in the lower yokes. Loosened off the clamps, filled with Araldite, tightened up and waited overnight. It was with a very tentative right hand that I hauled the KH up to 75mph and was very pleased with myself when it continued to yodel all the way up to the ton with nothing more than the odd bit of weaving. In the right circumstances, 105mph on the clock wasn't impossible and 85-90mph cruising quite feasible (if you were an Arab sheik - see later!)
Turned out to be a rather splendid bike once the front end was sorted. Spirited, fast enough for modern roads and able to whizz-bang through most circumstances. Part of its charm was the way it went through spark plugs, oil and fuel... that's what I kept telling myself, anyway, and the small garage owner nearby always grinned widely when I pulled in to stock up on these essentials. It's probably possible to get 40mpg and 100mpp but the low revs involved will invariably gum up the spark plugs, so the unlikely expense will get you that way instead.
The good side of the triple was its unique exhaust note - a real spine chiller - and its wacky appearance that shouted style and power. At best, the handling was adequate, at worst it would get rid of constipation pronto. Pillions usually got off all white-faced, looking for somewhere to throw up. Well, the rear shocks were original fare but still up to solo riding - I guess Kawasaki just bunged on stuff off their larger triples and it worked well when new. The 250 always had the reputation, in later models, of being the triple that actually had a passing stab at handling.
Into month three of ownership, the 34000 miler began cutting out, refusing to start and threatening to burst into flames whenever I turned on the lights. Some of the wiring in the alternator was shorting out. I did the decent thing (exchanged it!) before it could take out any of the expensive black boxes or even the battery. Bits of insulation came off some of the ignition wires, another chore requiring a bit of time and effort if not much money, just replace the dying wires.
The three cylinder engine showed its distaste for high revs with excessive vibration, though it was always thrumming away in the background even under moderate usage. The power doesn't actually run out until the vibes reach a level that blurs vision, so the real nutters can run them into the ground in a few thousand miles. I always backed off from that extreme, was rewarded with an engine that ran until 43000 miles...
It always was a noisy engine, lots of ringing, dinging and slapping, but added to that cacophony was a large amount of knocking and rattling - thrashed big-ends and main bearings. I didn't let the engine explode, an exchange crankshaft did the business. In fact, the bores were heavily worn by then but I decided to sell it rather than fix it. At quite a nice profit, too.
Loads of Kawasaki triples still about, the 500's costing serious dosh, with the 750 not far behind. The 250 and 400 triples are the relatively cheap ones, which is all the odder when you consider they are the toughest and easiest to use. They lack the sheer class of the bigger triples, not to mention the wild, wild handling antics and mad acceleration. It's all down to buying something that takes your fancy and taking the consequences.
Al Reading
Yamaha XS250: Good and bad
My cousin had owned the 1980 Yam XS250 since new, 17 years worth of riding adding up to 54000 miles. In the last six months he'd had new electrics, forks and back wheel fitted to the bike. The engine was still basically stock, just some clutch plates replaced.
He was finally ready to move on to a bigger bike. Wait for it, a Honda CB250 Two-Fifty. The dealer was willing to give him 600 notes for a trade-in deal and I could have the XS if I could match that price. Not a bike I ever had dreams about but enforced poverty didn't exactly give me a load of choice and it had to be better than the knackered old Urinal 650 that loitered out front. No-one showed any inclination to nick it even when I left the key in the ignition.
There was nothing basically wrong with the Yamaha. Just that the mileage suggested the OHC vertical twin motor couldn't be far off meeting its maker. But then I knew the owner had treated it well, done regular maintenance and oil changes. The bike had gone through a vile phase when the electrics started to rot - typical of the breed, by the way - but that had all been sorted by complete replacement.
The specs worked out as hardly earth shattering, 30 claimed horses, an effective top speed of 90mph on the clock, good fuel at 65-75mpg and about 360lbs of mass to fling around. All the chassis bearings were new so the handling was steady, the bike basically a breeze to pot around on as long as you didn't mind a bit of throttle and gearbox work.
I didn't. Was amazed at the gearchange, (after the Ural) which should've been a bit loose and imprecise at this kind of mileage but wasn't. The new clutch plates must've helped. No real problems for the first few months then one of the silencers lost its baffling. The exhaust had been replaced twice over the years, so don't expect more than 20,000 miles from a set.
An XS with a baffleless silencer doesn't just sound odd, it runs very oddly, too. Large gaps in the powerband and not a lot of inclination to go above 7000rpm, where most of the power hides. Not willing to pay Yamaha prices, I fitted a set of cans from the breakers. Easy enough with a bit of cutting and couple of Jubilee clips. I also got a spare length of chain as that was becoming a bit stringy (cheap, short-lived stuff).
The bike ran a touch lean, as in not wanting to start from cold and hesitating around 6500rpm. On the other hand, it went deeper into the red when pushed hard and the indicated top speed improved to 93mph if I was in a desperate mood.
The engine never really vibrated even when the tacho went off the scale. In fact, the harder it was revved the smoother it seemed to run. The motor had a relatively simple design, lacked any balancers. Which meant no Superdream style tensioners to adjust. Hurray! The only serious maintenance needed was valve adjustment every 750 miles, the exhaust's clearances having a tendency to tighten up and burn out the valves.
The bike was a bit lacking in poke, I tended to rev it madly everywhere. Much to the old owner's annoyance, his Honda Two-Fifty couldn't keep up! The CB was nicer to look at and sit on, but in terms of performance it was a total loss, barely able to keep up with the cages on the open road.
All the mad thrashing finally took its toll on the bike, but not until I'd had more than 14000 miles and fourteen months out of the deal. The initial decline was down to worn carbs, became impossible to balance them and the tickover went all erratic, with lots of cutting out in traffic and then refusing to start. A couple of holes in the airfilter helped for a while.
Later, whenever I used the engine in anger there was a harsh grinding sound, like something was breaking up inside the mill. I put it down to my imagination and carried on regardless. Suddenly, there was a total lack of power below 3000rpm, the drag from engaging first gear stalled the motor dead numerous times. Soon, pulling the skin off a rice pudding was way beyond the bike's abilities and I began to wish for pedal assistance.
Finally, the engine clunked up solid with a very final crunch. Dead meat. I haven't bothered stripping the motor yet as it was obvious that the built-in obsolescence had caught up with it. At the moment a GS125 engine has been shoehorned into the chassis. An unlikely combination but it gets me out and about!
Dave Williams
Suzuki GSX250: Desperation and delerium
Games. Highway insanity. Madness. Almost lost my licence on a CBR1000. An unlikely hustle but a bloody fast one. Sold that. Had to have some wheels. Slow, cheap and reliable. Sounded like an MZ for certain. Before that fall from grace, saw an ad for a Suzuki GSX250. DOHC vertical twin, 26 horses, 380lbs and 90mph. All there, 400 notes, ran okay. I'll have it.
Gutless, madly revving engine. Held its line, didn't want to brake. Back drum didn't work at all. Front disc responded to muscle with funny noises. Engine braking helped not a lot. A few swift kicks with my boot made no difference. The usual grazed knuckles in the caliper disassembly. Pads had plenty of meat, the pistons gone all sticky. Cleaned it up, reassembled, one working brake. Thank you very much.
Braking was as potent as the acceleration. Not very! Handling was heavy and slow, basically stable. Not much power to threaten the overbuilt chassis. Suspension so firm it kept throwing me out of the seat. Not stock, then.
Gearbox slick, clutch light. Throttle to the stop in all the gears. Throaty roar from the silencers, rusted out baffles. 95mph top end. Not bad from a 35000 mile motor. Front disc not up to heavy braking. Disc scored heavily, not enough pad meeting metal. Took the rear brake apart, shoes down on the rivets. New shoes, worked fiercely until bedded in. Overall stopping much improved.
Town riding easy. Not a wide motorcycle, sneaked through small gaps. Kept it in second or third, acceleration adequate. A-roads, needed the throttle hammered but went round bends very nicely. Motorways, flat out all the way, a touch of a weave at 90mph. Nothing to worry about. Cars speeded up as I tried to take them, the GSX had nothing left in hand. Could be a bit dangerous in the fast lane.
60mpg, minimal consumable wear. Kept the bank balance healthy. Oil changes every 1000 miles. Balance the carbs at 2000 miles. Ran like clockwork for 9,800 miles. Camchain death rattle. Tensioner greased, washer behind spring. Kept it going for another 650 miles until the chain snapped. False economy!
No engine damage, went at tickover. Replacement chain fitted, secondhand tensioner. Didn't run as well. 85mph and 50mpg. Must've stressed something. No use on the motorway, otherwise okay.
45000 miles, one of the silencers disintegrated. Gone back to dust. Made the sign of the cross, gave the other one a tap. Followed suit. Bellicose bellow on open downpipes. Windows almost popped out of their frames and dogs howled. Permanent eardrum damage.
Breaker gave me a pair of rusty mega's, fitted with slices of metal as spacers - from a beer can! Big hole in the midrange power. Went faster with the choke on. Some ancient CD175 baffles fitted inside the down-pipes, mega's popped back on. Music to my neighbours' ears. Slight hesitation around seven grand, otherwise nicely flowing power. Never intense, though.
Frame and tank finish still good, some alloy and wheel rot. Didn't want to polish up, soon ruined by rain. Rusty exhaust, new ones meant crazy money. More than the bike was worth.
54000 miles, the exhaust went all smoky. Worn out bores and pistons. Used stuff from a breaker, forty notes. Old gaskets plus Hermatite sufficed. No major oil leaks but a noisy motor. Performance was off, 75mph and 45mpg. The crank's bearings still tight, the gearbox still slick. Really, only of use in town. Too many things to go wrong on long distance rumbles. Was never inspired to clean the machine again.
61000 miles, partial seizure. Camshaft lobes lost hardening, piston rings ruined. I should've made sure all the oilways were clear of accumulated debris. A used cylinder head, barrels and pistons fitted. New, pattern gaskets this time. The old ones fell apart, superheated beyond their design limits. Performance improved, 82mph and 50mpg. Still didn't clean the machine.
62,500 miles, wheel and swinging arm bearings went. Blow torch heated them out, otherwise would've ruined their housings. Had to wire-brush the rust off the swinging arm and paint. Only decent thing to do. New bearings, got rid of an 80mph weave. The front brake needed a rebuild and new set of pads. Was it worth spending the dosh? Just.
64,750 miles, motor started knocking. Fearing the worst, decided not to strip it down. Did 700 miles before the main bearings went. The top end and gearbox still okay. Used crank from a breaker for fifty quid. Old gaskets and Hermatite this time round. Something wrong here, very noisy engine, only 75mph and 40mpg.
The clock broke through the 70,000 mile mark. Never ventured out of town, didn't want to push my luck. Still a solid little commuter. Never had any of the starting hassles, someone had already rewired the bike.
73000 miles, the engine was on its knees. 60mph and 35mpg. Even the gearbox had lost the plot. Before the motor blew, the front wheel developed cracks around its hub. Suicide in waiting. Grown quite fond of the old thing. A run around the breakers. One running engine for 120 notes and GS450 front end for sixty quid. Cheaper than finding a replacement hack.
Much spanner twirling later, I was in hack nirvana. 93mph and 60mpg. Stopped in an instant, almost went over the bars first time I tried. Didn't last long, the motor most reluctant to start. An old pair of spark plugs needing more electricity than the battery could generate. Soon sorted.
79000 miles, rear subframe rusted through. Spat off one of the shocks! Town speeds meant the get-off wasn't terminal. Couldn't weld it, metal so thin that it just vaporized when heated. Broke what was left, nearly two hundred quid. Brilliant as a cheap commuter. The built-in obsolescence gets them in the end.
K.F.
Kawasaki Z250: More fun than a rattlesnake
The old dear who claimed to own the Kawasaki Z250 kept bending down to point things out on the bike, flashing a large pair of knockers that looked like they would flop all over the shop unless restrained by a bra. Took all my effort to stop myself going beetroot red, had to concentrate on the motorcycle! One of the first models, with twin rear shocks and chain final drive instead of the later Uni-trak and belt drive. Both of which were fine when new but potentially troublesome and expensive on anything more than half a decade old.
The Z was nearly 20 years old but in remarkable cosmetic shape and only had 17000 miles on the clock and two owners in the registration document. Knowing my luck, the engine was just about ready to blow its top end! I asked the lady if she did the oil regularly and she told me she always liked to keep well lubed up, giving me a wicked wink that only served to emphasize the deep wrinkles in her fifty year old face. The engine ran, didn't knock, didn't smoke and revved up without any hesitation. No test ride allowed but she'd take me pillion.
Quite an experience, given that she was wearing a flimsy mini-skirt, low cut blouse and black stockings. The only way to hold on was way too intimate. I was so overcome with embarrassment that all I noted about the ride was that it seemed to take forever! I said the bike needed new silencers, chain and sprocket set and a back tyre (they were actually okay for a few more months!). She accepted my four hundred quid offer straight off. The only hassle was getting out of there, she seemed to think a quick shag was part of the deal! In the end I gave in, ended up well bruised!
The Z250 proved to have a knackered seat that didn't have much foam left, causing some mighty twitches in some intimate places. I soon replaced it with an item from the breakers, off some other Kawasaki model. Ah, bliss! The bars and pegs were reasonably matched to my average height and weight frame, equally comfortable whether pottering through town or holding a steady 85mph on the motorway. The Z would go a bit faster than that but I didn't want to push a twenty year old bike to its limits.
If smoothness was any indication of the level of internal engine wear, then the Kawasaki was in fine shape. The pistons move up and down alternatively, no balancer, making it smoother than a higher mileage Superdream I'd had the brief pleasure of. No, it didn't blow up but was nicked by someone of little taste, ended up in the local river, no-one bothering to recover it. The Z really smoothed out between 5000 and 10,000 revs, good power pouring out - I actually had to restrain my wrist, otherwise it would've dived right into the red zone. At least in the first four gears. I never had much impression of power on the CB250N, more a case of the engine fighting through the godawful balancer system.
Handling was also better than the Superdream, though the Z had stock suspension against R and R shocks on the Dream. There wasn't that much in it, both relatively light and low powered, but the Kawasaki was easier to flick through curves and felt more stable on motorways. The front end sometimes felt a bit lost when hitting bumps on the exit of corners but it could hardly be called dangerous.
Only the brakes were a touch naff. The discs quite heavily scored and the calipers gummed up. There was a disc at each end but they didn't really seem to want to work together - perhaps it was just me. A Z500 I bought next had similar problems, the same kind of calipers that self-destructed when I attempted to take them down. The local breaker made derisory comments about my mechanical ability but matched all the components up with stuff in reasonable condition. The braking was still too remote but about two times more powerful - I still preferred the Dream's combination of rear drum and front disc, mind!
This was the start of a series of visits to the breakers to replace various components that fell apart or wore out. Silencers, tyres, chain and sprockets, disc pads, cracked mudguards, rectifier, battery, bits of the wiring harness, handlebar switches, etc. He even stopped insulting me; easy money!
These fun and games went down over a three month period, 21,400 miles on the clock at the end of it. Satisfied with my offerings, the bike then ran like a Swiss watch for the next 7500 miles. Did loads of UK riding, including an End-to-End epic journey in the company of some much bigger machines. Laughably, it was the BMW R80 that broke down.
Its owner had explained at length, as if to a moron, that the Z's top end must be only minutes off dying. He didn't realise that I knew the weakness all too well, changed the oil every 500 miles and didn't rev the bike until it'd had a chance to warm up for a few minutes. Once fresh lube got to the cam there wasn't a problem!
Some good stuff. Fuel ranged from 55 to 75mpg. Worn examples thrashed to the limit do way worse. Although I kept checking things like valves, carbs and ignition, worrying about the motor blowing up if they were neglected, they were always okay!
The bad side of the bike was the way it was eaten alive by the corrosion - frame, tank, engine and wheel alloy, the replacement calipers, and the exhaust. The swinging arm bearings were remarkably short-lived - 5000 miles or less! Their demise marked by some violent back wheel shuffling - replace immediately or visit the nearest ditch.
The bearings were a relatively easy job (as long as the swinging arm's spindle is given a good greasing, if not it won't want to come out again - I could work in a joke about the previous owner there, better not!), keeping the finish up to spec a daily chore involving much polishing and touching up of paint.
It went so deep that when starting became difficult and running awkward, I worked out straight away that it was probably crud in the fuel line from the petrol tank rusting away internally. Spot on. An in-line fuel filter was added and cleaned out on a daily basis. The tank not so far gone that it would actually give when caressed tightly with my knees.
As 29000 miles were approached, my attention was distracted from the fast disappearing finish by the engine rattling, nay, knocking. No effect on performance or frugality. Gave it another couple of hundred miles to see what would happen... was told by my neighbour, some kind of car mechanic, that it sounded like the small-ends were dying a death. I went along to the smart Kawasaki dealer who seemed annoyed by the thought of such an old hack still running; their mechanic reckoned it was the big-ends.
My more experienced mate helped with the strip. All the crank's bearings were loose! You just can't buy secondhand Z250 cranks and new ones were more than the whole machine was worth. Secondhand engines were rare but I tracked down one on offer from a private ad. Sixty quid, told the top end had gone. So combine the two motors, see what happens...
This was more like the typical Z250/GPz305 horror story. Loads of rattles, lots of vibes and not much performance - almost as slow as a Superdream 250! At this point I decided to let the finish have its way, use the bike for however long it lasted through the winter. I'd already bought a running Z500 as the next step up the motorcycle ladder.
The recombined Z250 made it through to April, 34,700 miles on the clock when it failed terminally. The engine was on its last legs - as in a 65mph top speed and 30mpg - but it was the rusted through rear subframe that really stopped me in my tracks. Literally but luckily at a set of traffic lights. For a moment I wondered why I was sitting on a bike with a 20 inch seat height; then I just laughed and legged it!
H.C.
Wednesday 20 January 2016
Suzuki GS450: Broken dreams
Old was a kind description of the GS450 DOHC twin. Alloy and chrome weren't so much faded as covered in several layers of crud and corrosion. That the engine still ran, with 68,750 miles on the clock, was testament to the basic strength of the unit that could trace its roots back to the 1976 GS400. It wasn't that old in years - seven, in fact - but in terms of abusive owners it was well and truly, er, knackered.
Or that was how it seemed at first glance. Always one on the lookout for a bargain, I didn't dismiss it out of hand. The tyres and chain were nearly new, the tax disc and MOT still valid, and the owner only wanted a hundred quid to get shot of it. True, there was some smoke out of the exhaust and a top end that rattled merrily, but I knew that the local breaker had a couple of GS450's in for spares, and could be talked into trading some of the junk in my garage for the bits I wanted.
Both GS's had extensive front end damage, probably something to do with the way the calipers liked to corrode up but I was pretty sure their engines were okay. Anyway, I went ahead with the deed and even rode the rotted GS the seven miles to my house. An exciting ride, but not in the sense of an overabundance of performance, more in the sense of waiting for the engine to seize as it gave every indication of being on its last legs.
The next move was to whip the motor out and take the top end down. Sounds easy enough but you have to take into account the seized in engine bolts and a cylinder that seemed welded into the crankcases. Nothing some work with a big hammer and chisel couldn't solve. That and an afternoon's swearing fit.
Dead camshaft bearings, oil rings way past their sell-by date and scored bores were the major damage. A trip down to the breaker with a stash of old Honda Benly bits produced a pile of appropriate engine parts. Putting the motor back together's always more fun... there was a day's delay whilst I waited for two of the cylinder studs to set in Araldite! Old Jap metal is crap.
A couple of new spark plugs were needed to persuade her into life, even then it took a good ten minutes for the idle to settle down. Or sort of, tickover varied between 1000 and 1500rpm, which was down to a couple of very worn carbs. Couldn't get their measure, in the end I gave up on them and left them to their own devices.
GS450's are the sort of vertical twins that are very reliable until they go wrong, when they are a constant pain in the butt. No end of minor hassles with my new toy but nothing that a bit of bodging couldn't fix. It went okay up to about 80mph when it just turned in a large burping noise and failed to achieve any greater velocities however furiously I played on the still slick gearbox and loose throttle.
The chassis was pretty loose and the braking desperate at times, but all of that was expected from its rotted appearance. Nothing that would actually cause it to fail an MOT (it came with six months worth) but had it still been capable of ton-plus speeds I would've been in trouble.
A reflection of its worn state was found in the 35-40mpg that was turned in and also in the need for constant infusions of lubricant - I used cheapo recycled stuff as there didn't seem any sense in buying the proper motorcycle oil if it was going to disappear before it had a chance to degrade. The same philosophy was used with regards to actual oil changes. Some of the oil was burnt, due to a mismatch between the replacement rings and cylinder bores, the rest of it leaked out due to the use of old gaskets.
The oil added to the general decayed state of the finish, which picked up all the debris in the air. It got so bad that there was a layer of grease left on my clothing! Two cans of Gunk and one jet-wash later, all was revealed. Most of the frame paint missing, deep alloy corrosion and a remarkable absence of chrome.
At this point I decided on a quick tidy up and sell on at a profit. Out with the silver and black paint, polish up the alloy with help from an attachment on the electric drill and tighten down all the engine bolts to stop the worst of the seepage. From ten yards away it didn't look half bad but up close you'd have to be blind to see that it wasn't anything other than a rat in disguise.
MCN did the honours, lots of people turned up for a look but no-one wanted to give me any serious dosh. At that point, a mate started up a despatch company and offered me the chance to pit my skills against London cagers. The GS450's vaguely popular with DR's, who usually destroy the motor in about 60,000 miles. Destroy as in wrecked crankshafts.
The bike surprised everyone by surviving for 20,000 miles! It only made it through the hell that is despatch riding because I never went mad on the throttle, kept the revs below seven grand. By the time the engine and chassis were on their last legs, I'd had enough of the DR game. Made a pretty profit, though.
Three hundred quid bought a running motor, some cycle parts and consumables. Threw all of that together, the bike had never run, handled or looked better. Of course, it went so fast, as in 90mph, that I had my first accident when the brakes couldn't cope. Smashed into the side of a VW, mashed the front end, not to mention the cage.
More bits from the breaker got me on the road again but by then I was kind of tired of the experience and longing for pastures new. Another advertising blitz, this time at a greatly reduced price in Bike Trader, soon off-loaded what could easily have become a liability.
Don't let any of this put you off. My experiences were in rat country, just served to show what you can get away with on a minimal budget. The GS450 ain't an inspiring bike but it is a useful workhorse that will do almost anything a sensible motorcyclist could ask of it - but little more. Prices and condition vary to a huge extent but they aren't exactly popular, possible to buy prime examples for silly money. Give 'em a look over.
Graham Fredricks
Kawasaki GT550: DR hack nightmare
Give me some wheels, man, whined I to the back street dealer. He took one look at the camouflage gear, sighed, and jerked his finger backwards. Hey, I don't want that rat in matt black. What? It's only two hundred nicker? Well, maybe. The motor was fired into life on the starter and I spent the next ten minutes on my knees searching for my eardrums! Major surgery but narrowly avoided!
Alright, I reluctantly admitted, I'll have the damn thing. Seeing straight was a major achievement with the buzz that the round-the-clock (at least once!) motor put out! My mantra for the day was, I don't wanna die, which I repeated furiously every time I tried to use what was left of the triple discs. Not much, as it happens. Somehow, I avoided hitting anything but it needed psychic overload!
London and rotten GT's don't mix very well. Fast moves, rapid acceleration and a certain delirium needed, which the GT totally lacked. Only the fact that I really didn't give a damn allowed me to carve a path through the cages. They soon got the right idea, swerving, cursing and playing on their horns as they realised I was coming through regardless.
The combination of worn gearbox and, er, shafted shaft added up to leaving the box in second or third. The vibes blitzed my mind numb but at least I could discern the acceleration. In fourth or fifth the bike entered another dimension, one that seemed to send the plot shooting backwards. F..king dangerous, an extended suicide note, in Central London.
Expectations of the GT were zero. Maybe that it would last a couple of months. I tried my hardest to hit something or blow the engine into a million pieces, a minor nuclear reaction. But try as I did, the thing just kept running and running. A dead battery was the first thing that gnawed its way into my consciousness. Visionary moments - or momentary visions - during the bump starts! Kept my neighbours amused.
The battery wasn't working because there wasn't any acid left in it. And I wasn't even sniffing it, more's the pity! The local auto shop refilled it for free. Probably figured it was worth it to stop me scaring off the customers. I didn't even bother charging it, bumped the bike for the rest of the day whilst the alternator did the business. Worked so furiously the next day there was smoke coming out of the starter motor. Maybe it was just all the tab's I was dropping as the smoke coalesced into a raging dragon and I had to get out of there fast, man.
Days blurred into each other, the vibes turning my brain into mush, the GT just asking for more and more abuse. Riding around with a sump all but empty of oil for a week didn't even add to the machine's scars!
After too many months, the front calipers finally seized up, a grating noise that split my brain in half and whilst I was putting the pieces back together the ungrateful beast threw me down the road. I screamed with the casual violence of it all, bumped off the front of a cage and rolled under a bus, whose back wheel stopped about an inch from my legs.
Immediately, I was full of visions of a future life without any limbs, did a crippled roll back the way I came, all the time screaming at the top of my lungs. Dazed and confused I looked around for the GT, finding the bugger implanted in someone's shop window surrounded by dangerous looking shards of glass which had ripped the tyres to pieces. A couple of burly traffic wardens of indeterminate gender held on to my shaking form until the plod proper arrived.
After a night in a cell I was reluctantly released, something about my total non-existence as far as the nation's computers go. I walked about ten miles to the site of the accident, found the GT left down a side alley. I cried my eyes out when I saw the state of it, gone over by vandals, down to the frame and engine. No-one had had the decency to put a match in its tank...
J.L.
Suzuki SP400: Jackhammer!
Starting the SP took some effort. The big four stroke single had been upgraded with wild cams and electronic ignition, a combination that didn't work very well below 2000rpm. I often had to do a running start, the shock of my 75 kilos lurching on to the saddle the only way to blast her into life of a cold morning.
Once fired up, the motor had a touch of the tearaway, wanted to shoot up to about 8500rpm before things slackened off. The blare out of the exhaust was something out of the distant past, a vintage race track star in the making. Car drivers never acted as if I didn't exist and quite a few plod had some unwarranted exercise running alongside waving their notebooks. As if I, or any other sane person, would take any notice.
This was a very light and narrow motorcycle which despite its tallness (no problem for me at six foot) was easy to throw around. In heavy traffic, a useful view over the cages' roofs was afforded which went some way to compensating for the very poor SLS drum brakes as I could usually second-guess what the drivers were up to. Most of the time.
On a good day, I could extract one emergency stop out of the brakes, then they went all soggy, as in bloody useless. The drums are too small, there's almost no point in messing around with various shoe and lining combinations, the best bet's to find something modern, but I haven't bothered and they haven't got me yet. Lots of near misses.
So far, then, the SP has awkward starting and dangerous braking, with enough go to get the adrenaline running. What else? Brilliant economy, for a start - it's a very bad time when it does worse than 70mpg, 80mpg's usually possible and as much as 90mpg achievable. Compared to any other modern bike able to break through 80mph it's brilliant.
The design has a couple of weak spots - the kickstart gear and valve train - but other than that it's a pretty tough mill. Good for 35-40,000 miles before the bore or piston's gone. The key is very regular oil changes, using top grade stuff - I use Duckham's every 750 miles. It doesn't take much oil, so not as expensive as it sounds. Crankshaft bearings are next in line, around 50,000 miles - by then it's time to look around for a replacement engine, either another SP (or DR400) or something more modern. I've got one SP370 and one DR400 mill, both in need of attention but salvageable.
The condition of the cycle parts is usually down to how much off-road riding the bikes have done. They are quite accomplished trailsters with stock engines, though mine is quite fierce, likely to send me off the side of a mountain if used in anger. The fact that the engine cuts out if used at tickover revs means it's not a very good off-road tool in its current form.
Road use, the cycle parts don't go off particularly rapidly, fading away finish-wise rather than being blistered with rust, with the exception of the swinging arm and its bearings, both extremely quick rot. The electrics are more of a worry, with a typical dodgy Suzuki generator. The tiny battery doesn't help matters any. The lights and horn are predictably pathetic and not easily upgraded. It's possible to wire up the ignition so that it can run without a battery but don't expect anything else to work.
The brakes and lights are definite limits on its practicality but don't get in the way of having fun on the road, it's a thrill a second kind of ride if you are into big singles, minimal mass and instant torque. I give any number of modernly mounted riders a lot of heartache, not to mention earache. I wear earplugs myself, so haven't gone insane yet - probably!
SP370/400's and DR400's do inspire a large amount of loyalty amongst owners, and despite being twenty-odd years old, there are still many reasonable ones on offer. At less than a grand a throw, well worth a blast.
Andy Paine
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