Survival on the Fittest
Lovely little bike, innit, said the back street dealer. He went into a story about some old chap bringing in it, saying it wouldn't start any more. A change of spark plug and coil, it was ready for sale rather than being split into a million pieces. At 350 notes it seemed a steal, even the alloy still shone as if lovingly polished every day.
The Z200 is a small bike but one with nice proportions and a proper motorcycle look. If it had BSA on the tank it would've been declared a classic rather than a bag of old nails, as my mate reckoned. That comment was down to the rattling engine, a result of 31000 miles under the tender hands of just one elderly owner. And if you believe that, you'll believe anything.
The engine was a gem of OHC thumper technology, at least when new. Lacking any kind of balancer system, the 200cc's were the kind of pure engineering that the Japanese did so well in the sixties. By the time it fell into my hands there were minor rumblings at all revs with a heavy frenzy coming in when flat out at an indicated 85mph (probably 75mph in harsh reality). This wasn't a speed I'd like to hold for very long because the shining chassis hid the fact that all the suspension damping had a long time ago completely disappeared.
The result, the front end needed a very firm grip to stop the bike leaping out of its lane whilst the back end went into a pogo-stick routine even on the smoothest of roads. Being an optimistic and persistent soul, I actually went back to the breaker to complain. He was so shocked by this effrontery that he threw some shocks and fork springs at me before coming to his senses. After almost taking my nose off when the forks came apart with a bang and almost having an heart attack when I found the upper shock stud on the right-hand side was about to fail due to internal corrosion, I began to think about dumping the bike in the nearest canal. However, a mate with a welding torch fixed up the frame and a bit of brute force had the front forks reassembled.
Gods knows their source. My 200lb neighbour was instructed to leap up and down on the saddle, with about a millimetre's worth of suspension travel resulting. Fed with copious supplies of beer and allowed to watch my porno video's in the garage (you've got to find somewhere for a bit of peace and quiet, haven't you) he spent the day bedding in the suspension by bouncing up and down on the bike. Eventually, a couple of inches of travel were gained and I felt the bike was safe to take out into the world.
A right weird sensation it was too. Added to the engine's vibration, the stiff suspension allowed every minor road imperfection into my backside, feet and hands. It took a couple of weeks for all this to fade into the background, as it invariably does, and before I really began to enjoy the machine. At least the front end now had an unknown precision, even if the back still weaved around a touch. Further investigation revealed swinging arm bearings that were on the way out - some plastic rubbish that as soon as a little wear gets into them begin to rapidly go down. Figure a life of less than 5000 miles.
Wanting to pop along at 70mph, I decided to whack them out, upgrade them with some phosphor-bronze replacements. That sounds nice and easy but the swinging arm spindle was corroded in and destroyed the swinging arm by the time it popped out! The breaker charged me a reasonable fiver for a replacement and then lost my custom for life by calling me a shirt-lifter! Don't know why, as he was twice my size I let it go.
With all that fixed the Z finally handled as well as it looked but I was soon dismayed by the lack of top end go. It would top out at a reasonable 85mph but getting there proved a tiresome business. It'd buzz up to 60mph at a reasonable rate but after that it took ages to wind itself up. Torque seemed to peak at 60mph, it'd plod up hills and into head-winds at this velocity but either of these could knock any extra speed right off.
As could be imagined, 60mph on the modern roads was asking to be knocked off by speeding cagers. To make matters even more interesting, all I could see in the blurred mirrors was the vaguest of images. The only way around this potential death scenario was to take to the country lanes. Here, the Z made some kind of sense, plodding away at 50 to 60mph with a heavy blast out of what was left of the silencer. Smiles all the way, except that the brakes faded when used heavily in the corners and the bumpier roads threw me around in the saddle - it's quite easy to catch a very sensitive piece of the anatomy on the back of the tank.
The bike would've been brilliant for slicing through traffic had not the motor liked to stall at low revs if the throttle wasn't continuously blipped at junctions. The gearbox didn't like low revs either, and it was dead easy for the clutch to overheat - sometimes fading and sometimes slipping! Didn't know if I was coming or going. Apart from these minor imperfections, the bike could be weaved through the narrowest of gaps and even taken up on the pavement.
Low speed running was improved by fresh oil - I wouldn't want to leave the oil changes longer than 500 miles. The valves stayed resolutely within tolerances whilst the camchain needed a tweak every few hundred miles to keep the chainsaw blues at bay. The ignition system seemed a bit marginal, wet weather making the bike burp and backfire - you don't want to lose power when there's only one cylinder. In the wet, the tyres seemed like they were on a knife-edge but didn't actually slide down the road.
After approximately 6000 miles I began to tire of the Z. It lacked sufficient top end go for me to take it too seriously, and was becoming an increasing pain during the commuting chores. On the good side, 80mpg was regularly turned in and, once sorted out, consumables wore slowly, although the chain needed constant attention and the odd link removed (it could have been there from new for all I know, the sprockets certainly looked like they had been).
The bike was polished to a mirror shine and put on the market at 600 quid. The machine refused to start when the first punter turned up, only revived by a new spark plug - I nearly stripped the thread putting it in; crap Jap alloy doesn't age at all well. I had some fun hustling dealers for part-ex, getting test rides on an XJ600N, CB500S and CBR400. The most offered for the Z was 400 notes.
An old geezer in waders turned up with a mate who was on a Panther with huge sidecar. This dynamic duo looked upset when I refused to let them take the spark plug out as a prelude to whipping the head off. There were enough tools in the sidecar to make it a rolling workshop. After several test rides, lots of pushing and pulling, I was offered 500 notes in dirty fifties and grabbed it with both hands. I felt the Z wasn't far off going expensively terminal. They tottered off with the poor old Kwak sticking out of the sidecar - some people!
So there you go. A venerable little thumper but worn examples aren't really up to modern road speeds. Cue for someone to write in with tales of world travel on a Z200...
H.K.
Twin Peaks
I had seen the Honda 200 wafting around Bath almost every day. The rider's commuting route crossed my own - I sat fuming in the cage whilst he gave the old Honda twin some welly through the traffic gaps. When I saw a CB200 for sale in a local newsagent's, I guessed whose bike it was and I was right. The clock read 56000 miles, the bike sporting a rebuilt top end and the ability to come to life first kick. Still had plenty of go and didn't leak any oil. Pretty amazing for a bike over twenty years old. 300 notes was all it cost.
I rode home, happily exploring the bike's limits, and feeling good about my new purchase. My last bike had been ten years ago - a GS550 - and I was soon revelling in the freedom of the road. Note that the bike had a TLS front drum off a CB175 rather than the notorious standard disc and a newish set of Michelins. That added up to safe riding even in the drizzle that had set in the moment that I bought the bike. Wouldn't like to think about riding such a bike on plastic Jap OE tyres and a nasty disc brake.
The previous owner had the bike in his care for twelve years, only selling up due to retirement and his moving down to the Costa. He recommended new spark plugs every 2500 miles and an oil change every 750 miles. Ignoring the latter resulted in a gearbox with an excess of false neutrals, and not doing the former meant that the bike would need ten to twenty kicks before it came to life rather than the normal first kick (the electric boot was long gone). The valves and carbs had worn into themselves, whilst tweaking the camchain tensioner seemed to make no difference whatsoever.
The one area where its age was shown up was the electrics. Not only were the lights and horn at best described as pathetic, but the wiring was shedding its insulation at a stunning rate. Fearing the bike going up in flames I hastily made with the insulation tape, which got me out of immediate trouble. Later, the headlamp stopped operating halfway home from work and when I tugged and pulled on the wiring inside the shell all I got for my pains was a fistful of wires. Some fun was had sorting it out.
One time the bike didn't want to start. Being an old hand at this game, I shook the petrol tank, sniffed the air and kicked the engine. It still didn't want to start. Out with the plugs. I'd forgotten that it wasn't a good idea to hold the spark plug cap when testing for a spark; the shock made my hair stand to attention! I cleaned the plugs, which got me back home. New coils, points, HT leads, caps and plugs followed, which brought back the first kick starting. Any degradation in any one element mucked the bike up, marginal electrics or what?
During this period I'd played around with the fuel tap, the whole caboodle pulling out of the tank with a bang! Rust and brute forced added up to a knackered petrol tank! The back pages of MCN were consulted; the result a brand new petrol tank for twenty quid, some old dealer selling off ancient stock. Admittedly, the bike looked a bit odd - covered in road grime with the exception of the petrol tank. I decided it deserved a good clean.
Silly boy. Gunking the frame and making with the brillo-pad revealed great scabs of paint falling off, leaving a frame that was half rust. Foolishly, I left it like that overnight in the open - the next day the whole frame was covered in rust! My ninety year old neighbour came out of his bout of senility long enough to rant on about the things the Japanese had done in the war, got so wound up that he gave the shining new petrol tank a few taps with his walking stick. The dented tank bleeded paint and rapidly began to rust, so at least it didn't look out of place.
I was quoted more than I paid for the machine for a complete respray! Down to Do-It-All for a couple of cans of Smoothrite in deepest black, whilst I managed to knock the dents out of the tank and patch up its paint. Meanwhile, the rust had spread like cancer, ruining the wheels, forks and shock springs. I eyed the neighbour's skip but reminded myself of the horrors of public transport.
Surprisingly, for the next three months the little twin whirred away through the cold and wet of winter without any real problems. The need to get a boot down when the roads went slippery was just a test of character and the odd scrape with a cage was shrugged off thanks to the large pair of crash-bars I'd fitted. They also shinned a couple of ped's who thought they were masters of the universe.
Compared to taking a couple of buses, the nine mile journey time was cut from nearly an hour to less than 15 minutes whilst a cage would take two to three times that depending on the density of the traffic. Unlike modern bikes, the CB was miserly in nature, not doing much damage to the consumables and turning in around 75mpg. Combine savings in running costs with extra overtime done, the bike paid for itself in less than a month!
I also had something to bop around on in the evenings and of a weekend. The Honda thrived on revs, seemed to smooth out when accelerated through the gears at maximum throttle. It wasn't quite fast enough to cause black-outs but it got the adrenaline going and was quick enough to get into trouble on. Handling was okay rather than inspiring, the stands digging in before the tyres lost their grip, although the way the bike leapt around didn't quite make this a safety feature. Overall, I found the experience highly enjoyable.
So much so that I was soon looking for a larger set of wheels. A new XJ600N at £3300 seemed like bargain basement time, though the guy wouldn't take the CB200 in part-ex. The XJ600N isn't very fashionable but I liked its lines and didn't want the complexity of watercooling. Light of weight, it made the best use of its 60 horses and had a ride/handling combination that was, fittingly, a couple of decades ahead of the CB200.
However, such was the chaos of traffic that commuting speeds were actually slightly slower, as I didn't really mind scraping the CB along the gutter whereas the slightest mark on the XJ would've thrown me into a rage. The Honda got the short straw of daily commuting stress whereas the XJ was kept for serious riding. The CB200 didn't seem to mind, kept running for the next eighteen months and 12000 miles. It needed lots of minor attention to the chassis and electrics - the dreaded rot setting in but the engine just whirred away as if it had come straight out of the crate.
At this point I was foolish enough to teach the other neighbour's daughter how to ride a motorcycle. Her clutch control consisted of screaming the engine to max revs then slamming on the brakes when the bike tried to get away from her. It didn't take long for the engine to turn molten! At this point I'd realised that I'd been quite tender handed towards the Honda. Not riding slowly, as such, but easing it up the rev range, giving it time to warm up and generally not trying to take the piss. I do the same with the Yamaha, but this is because it cost lots of money and I want it to last for at least 20 years!
After being blasted by the neighbour, the Honda didn't really want to know any more. Leaking oil, smoking heavily and losing half the power through the knackered clutch. As the chassis was bursting with the need to rust back to nature, I figured the bike had come to the end of its life. That didn't stop me advertising it. I didn't put a price on the bike, thinking I would be lucky if someone took it away for free. I was quite amused when two fanatics turned up at the same time and insisted on talking the price up. 250 notes, thank you very much. CB200's are going classic, don't you know. And if any bike deserved such a fate, the little Honda twin is right there with the best of them.
T.H.
The Great Cliff Crime
Digger had a way with women that was entirely lacking in his relationships with various motorcycles. His sweet nothings amounted to little more than a threat with the biggest hammer available. Before he could do it any permanent damage, I rescued the elderly but two owner SR500. There was still more shine than rust but it was an awkward bugger to start, even compared to a BSA 500 I'd had the pleasure of owning in my youth!
They still make them new in Japan (about three grand on the shadow import circuit) which tells you all you need to know about these old OHC thumpers. About as basic as Japanese engineering gets without any real payback in terms of performance (90mph), frugality (50mpg) or handling (all soft and soggy) - all mine had going for it was a cost of less than 500 notes and a mean, classic line in style.
That isn't to say it was more style than substance. After actually getting the mill to fire up, there was plenty of blood and guts in the form of excessive exhaust noise and sufficient vibration to have the handlebars shaking in my hands whilst the bike tried to hop across the road. Anyone who's ever owned a big Norton twin will feel right at home. But not with the gearbox, which engaged first gear like a gun going off (how to make the neighbour drop his keys down the drain!) and tried to break the clutch up. Violent power pulses attempted to shred the ancient rear chain and made the bike hop up the road like a drugged kangaroo.
Sex, drugs and rock'n' roll, thought I, out of nowhere but then the SR's the kind of bike that soon blasts any coherent thought right out of you! After steadying the handling, working the box up to third and saying a few prayers, the plot settled down a bit. A series of deep pot-holes soon removed any impression of togetherness, both ends of the bike trying to unfurl whilst I had the marital tackle beaten to a pulp against the seat base which was poking through the dead foam. By the time I did the five miles to home I was shaking like a mugging victim and walking like a bum-boy.
Some foam, a bit of bolt tightening and some more prayers got the old heap running about ten times smoother. I could do 50 miles without any threat to my health, though doing twice that gave me white-fingers and blurred vision if I wanted to do more than 70mph. Top speed was 90mph but the bike was a lot happier at 80mph but I usually ignored that, let the old thing thrum along mightily flat out! Amazingly, nothing actually fell off or failed!
This apparent toughness soon encouraged a reign of neglect and thrashing. Even the important oil changes were neglected. Why did I start behaving like Digger, from whom I'd rescued the poor old thing? Probably because the bike was so slow that it earned no respect. I had the vague idea that I would be able to rumble along at a steady 60mph, revelling in the thumper beat and torque. At those kind of velocities all the SR offered was an excess of vibration and vague if not dangerous handling.
The bike would actually wheelie if it was revved out and the clutch dropped. There wasn't any actual control, the front wheel waving around as it came back to smack me in the gob. Had to jerk my head quickly, peer around the bars to see who I was terrorizing! The bike reacted to any backing off by slamming down on the front wheel. First time it happened, the bars sprang out of my hands and bike fell over on my leg. Ouch! The second wheelie the chain broke, which caused the front end to nose-dive again. This time I held on and rolled to a halt.
The chain had battered the back of the crankcase but hadn't broken through. Close examination revealed that the output shaft's bearing was a bit loose and the final drive sprocket was missing a couple of teeth. I went wild by buying a cheap chain and sprocket set, and silly by ignoring the bearing. The gearchange didn't improve, it would suddenly disengage, causing the valves to float at impossible revs.
I soon gave up on the idea of wheelies and felt lucky that the bike didn't fall apart under me during the commuting chores. It kept going for the next couple of months but I didn't fall in love with it. Finally refused to start, turned out the oil ring had become gummed up in the piston. A bit of work freed it up, cleaned everything and bolted it all back together with plenty of gasket goo. Started after about twenty kicks and ran like some old diesel engine, a top speed of 65mph and 45mpg!
It was still rideable so I kept going for the next month until the exhaust smoke became too heavy. A decent piston and barrel had, by then, been secured and went on without much hassle. I also replaced the gearbox bearing as an expensive amount of oil was being spewed out. The selectors looked shot but I didn't have any replacements so smoothed them out with the file and hoped for the best.
That turned out to be a three speed gearbox, a top speed of 78mph and about 50mpg. Engine and exhaust noise drowned out every howling dog in my street and had the usual parade of cops trying to pull me over. I ignored them, ducked and dived down alleyway, across building sites and rode straight over roundabouts. They soon got the message and left me well alone, probably happy in the knowledge that the bike looked like it would fall apart under me.
Actually, I was quite impressed with the chassis paint, which stayed on despite the sporadic cleaning sessions and all the road gunge thrown up via the rotted mudguards. That quality did not extend to the exhaust system - I was waiting for the internal rot to meet the external rust!
It took another month for that to happen. The downpipe blared out enough noise to drown out a battalion of tanks and on the overrun, in the dark, flames used to light up the night as well as sounding like a cannon going off! Real cool when motoring through quaint English villages at one o'clock in the morning!
The breaker threw an end-can at me for a tenner, which was persuaded on with a hammer, giving my hearing a chance to recover but doing nothing for general performance, 70mph and 40mpg. Smoking like a stroker, sounding like a cement mixer and handling like a camel, the SR was a bike with true character. So much so that Digger bought it back off me for 300 quid - three months later he rode it off a cliff, sailing down about a 100 feet into the sea. He stayed on until the last moment.
We got this on video, as well as his crazed grin when he emerged from the sea half an hour later, mumbling something about strong currents almost sending him off to France. That was probably an unfair end to the SR but it was a dangerous old heap by then that was likely to cause a massive accident. For sure, he could've sold it for restoration for a couple of hundred quid but that would've been almost as great a waste. I'd have another one, albeit an example with less mileage and more life left in it. They are still out there at around the grand mark.
Hugh Silver