Kawasaki Z1

Kawasaki Z1

The first time I saw a Kawasaki Z1 I thought it was too big for the twisty roads I enjoyed. At the time I was living in the San Francisco Bay Area and riding (and racing) a 1973 Yamaha RD350. But two years later I moved to southeast Idaho and discovered that a small displacement two-stroke twin with exceptional handling was not suited to the local roads which were either unpaved tracks dating to the time of Brigham Young or paved desert highways. A Hodaka Wombat solved the dirt needs, but what about those highways? What else but a 1974 Z1.

When I first saw it at the dealers I was impressed by the monster DOHC motor, the swoopy tank and seat, and the imposing four-pipe exhaust. I was disappointed by the plastic mirrors and I worried about the handling of a 550 pound bike with the same tire size as a Triumph 650 twin. But even these issues turned out to be positives in a weird way.

A two-up, one-day 450 mile trip from Idaho Falls to Salt Lake City and back convinced me that this was one powerful bike. The Z1 was bulletproof, other than burning through a chain and rear tire every 4,000 miles (which meant that it consumed these items almost as rapidly as my RD350 had consumed spark plugs). The Z1 delivered thousands of sedate (and not so sedate) highway miles including a ten-day tour to Glacier Park, the Calgary Stampede and Lake Louise.

But in 1976 I returned to Northern California and the Z1 began to show its evil side. Roaring down the same roads that had been such a delight on my RD350 proved to be a harrowing experience on the Z1. Twice the power, twice the weight, but essentially the same frame, forks and tires; not a formula for confidence inspiring handling.

Every attempt to hustle through the twisties began with a tiring struggle to control the bike's direction. Wrestling with the wide bars resulted in a slight wobble as the skinny forks, frame and tires tried to catch up to the massive motor. Continuing to push the bike turned the slight wobble into a heart stopping tank slapper. But here's the weird thing - I got used to it! I could tell when the bike was going to wobble, and I could ride it out. It got to the point where people would ride with me just to watch the show.

I tried a few modifications to reduce the wobble. I added a steering damper. I reversed the front fork legs to place the brake piston behind the axle - this was supposed to reduce the angular moment of inertia but I didn't notice much improvement. Like most sane riders (including legions of Superbike racers of the era) I learned to civilize the beast by squaring off each turn. This meant entering each turn straight-up and full on the brakes, tiptoeing through the turn, and then whacking open the throttle. Riders of better handling bikes dismissed my style as requiring no riding skill, but few of them volunteered to swap bikes with me.

Over time I grew tired of fighting the beast. I finally cried "Uncle" and turned the Z1 into a full tourer. Rather than stiffen the suspension to improve handling, I bought softer springs (forks and shocks) to improve the ride. I added a Vetter Windjammer fairing and fiberglass saddlebags; had a genuine 120 mph tourer. In this trim, the Z1 and I enjoyed some of California's finest highways at obscene speeds. Flat out down the Pacific coast (Highway 1) or the backside of the Sierra Nevada mountains (Highway 395), the bike was rock solid and stone reliable.

It was in this touring phase that the bike's weak points saved my life. A group of us were riding down Highway 140 from Yosemite, not going particularly fast so we could enjoy the scenery. An old Chevy pick-up passed us, going way too fast for such a twisty road. The driver began to pass me in a right hander and cut back in front of me, very close, in the following left hander. All of a sudden the Z1 went into a horrendous tank slapper. I was going downhill at 50 mph and the bike was lurching from side to side, just like the old days.

My instincts took over and, as before, I rode it out. When the handlebars stopped oscillating I noticed that the left mirror was gone. The driver of the pickup truck had cut his pass too close and clipped my mirror as I was banked over towards him in the left-hander. The cheap plastic mirror head exploded and induced the wobble. A more expensive steel mirror would have twisted the bars full lock and dumped me.

My companions saw what happened and assumed they'd be pulling my body and the bike up from the Merced River canyon below. When they saw I'd survived, they said "let's get that guy." We followed the pickup to a gas station where we discovered that the driver was as drunk as a skunk and had a cab full of empty beer bottles. We took his keys away from him and called the Highway Patrol. The call did not result in instant justice, instead it yielded a vague promise to keep an eye out for him. We didn't think that was sufficient, so we threw his ignition key over the edge of the canyon and continued our ride.

Despite the Z1's loyal service I sold it and bought a "proper" tourer - a BMW R90/6. With its gentlemanly manners it gave years of reliable service with nary a chain replacement. Once, for old time's sake, I tried to ride it too fast on a twisty road and induced a mild hobby-horsing wobble, but it wasn't the same. There will never be another bike like the Z1.

Dan Rosen