Basically Brutish
Kawasaki's Z1000 DOHC four was always one of my favourite bikes, but out of reach money-wise when I was a youth and it wasn't the kinda hotrod that wifey, bless her heart, would exactly have embraced in the years of high mortgages and expensive babies. But some business success and the years rolling on by had left me reasonably well off and a birthday treat was on the cards.
Being out of the motorcycle game for a long time, a sensible bike like an ER500 should've been my first choice but whilst loitering in the nearest dealer I spied the Z1000, more or less stock and shining just like it'd wandered out of the showroom. The clock showed 9000 Californian miles, an import from the land of sun and smiles.
It was one of those occasions when I couldn't hide the grin, just as well that the price was already on the bike otherwise the dealer would've probably run away with himself. Call me a rich bastard, if you must, but I thought the 1995 quid rather reasonable. Loose change left as a deposit whilst I rushed down to the bank to get the cash, excited like a fourteen year-old rather than forty-something who should know better.
Could easily have been a complete disaster. But it wasn't. The air-cooled beastie a bit of an handful in the beginning but it felt well planted on the road, scads of power in each and every gear – a bit too much in first. The gearchange wasn't exactly a knife through butter affair, with a few missed changes until I got used to it. The brakes had a wooden feel but worked after a fashion. The indicator switch had a mind of its own and I wasn't particularly happy that the headlamp was one of those always on jobs.
Nevertheless, I roared up to our Surrey residence with an appropriate grin, only to be slightly deflated by the wife flatly stating that the machine was much too big for me. One teacher, in the days before our socialist masters outlawed such cruelty, used to call me a right little short-arsed git, but I could touch the tarmac with the tips of both feet so there was hardly any need for the wife to join in, even if she is, in her sublime blond way, a notch (or three) taller.
A few days exploration, with and without the reluctant wife on the back, revealed a hardy soul that was ready for most things I could throw at it. New engine oil, a properly adjusted chain and lovingly applied WD40 to all the electrics sorted most of the immediate problems, leaving just the front discs as a possible cause of heart palpitations.
Plenty of meat on the pads... change the hydraulic fluid seemed the easiest option – until you ponder the quality of Japanese alloy placed close to the road debris – ie the caliper screws didn't want to come undone. Not wanting to render my new toy useless by smashing the brakes to pieces a quick visit to the local mechanic ensued. A few sharp taps on the spanner had the screws loose, no charge other than for hydraulic fluid. Nice chap.
Now the brakes worked in a noticeably modern fashion, though I wouldn't like to be caught out behind a cage doing an emergency stop. Until it rained when they began to stutter on and off in quite an alarming manner. Slamming the throttle shut and losing speed due to the engine braking helped save the day; the rear disc one of those fearsome on/off devices. When the bike was new, motorcyclists were quite aware of the need to shave off water in the wet with gentle on/off application of the brakes, something I soon emulated to good effect.
Mixing it with other bikers I often found myself stomped upon by the likes of CB500N's and GPZ500's whenever there were any corners involved. Even on smooth, straight roads the Z would start to weave come 90mph, discouraging me from pushing the beast any harder. Not to mention hidden cameras and the prospect of licence confiscation.
One time, with the nearest and dearest providing ballast out back, the bike rocked through the ton with nary a shake and then stated slapping its handlebars from side to side. The sages say don't back off or brake but I did both, the chassis feeling like it was going to break up before it finally straightened out! I told the green-looking wife that they all did that!
I figured either old age or the stock swinging arm to be the culprit but found it easier to ride legally than fix the old beast up. I have some distant experience of working on old motorcycles and find the more you try to fettle them the more problems turn up.
So after about 1500 miles and four months, I began to wonder if this was really the bike for me. I loved its looks, snarling engine (rusted out baffles?), relaxed riding position and excess of stomp but the overall package didn't quite seem up to the shifting sands of modern road usage – a number of times I'd only missed disaster by millimetres, the excessive bulk proving reluctant to change direction on a whim.
A few test rides on various secondhand Zephyrs surprised me with how far modern motorcycles had moved on, albeit ones that the hardcore bikers would spit at. Not only did they have more torque and power, they could be hustled around on a fifth of the muscle the big Z demanded, not to mention braking that threatened to batter the old marital tackle into submission against the petrol tank.
In its mildly ridden form, the Z did turn in around 50mpg, didn't do much damage to its rubber and required no internal engine fiddling. It did stretch the chain like knicker elastic, though it may have been on the original sprockets.
After the character building speed wobble the wife didn't want to go anywhere near it but a ride on a 1100 Zephyr's pillion felt so secure by comparison that she demanded I swap machines immediately. I was reluctant to give in that easily, eying speculatively some websites devoted to updating the breed but in the end the Zephyr won out – a 5000 miler only cost me 500 quid in exchange (the Z was later priced at 2500 sovs!).
Times move on and unless you have a particular fetish modern bikes are much easier and safer on our chaotic roads - I am well pleased with my upgrade.
Derrick