Copyright (c) umgweb.com 1998
'Oh-soffa-what?' I asked the Doc.
Oesophogitis. There's no cure. You just learn to live with it. No heavy lifting that uses your stomach muscles or your food'll come back faster than you can eat it.'
I already knew the last bit. If my Triumph Bonneville, a 1976 T140V, didn't start in the first couple of kicks, or I had to heave its great bulk on to the centrestand, there was a fair chance I'd throw up. That's why I'd come to the surgery in the first place.
'You'll have to change your lifestyle.'
I didn't like the sound of this but he went on,
'Look at you. In a year or two you'll have your bus pass. Do you intend to continue this juvenile practice of riding that overweight, overpowered antique of yours?'
I nodded. He was just warming up. 'Shattering the early morning and late evening peace of our village? Breaking the law every time you go out?'
I must've passed him in his cage at some time. I nodded again.
'In your state of health it's too heavy. It's got to go.' I know he meant well but then he committed the ultimate blasphemy.
If you must ride a bike why don't you change it for something lighter? One of those quiet Japanese things where you just press a button and off it goes.' Me! The archetypal Brit with every prejudice to match. I wouldn't be seen dead on Jap iron! It then occurred to me that it might be better to stay alive with some Suzi-Yam-Hon-Kwack, or other, than die kicking a reluctant Bonnie into life.
German or Yank stuff was too heavy and expensive. Italians had style but too much temperament. I even thought about an MZ but it was no use - it had to be a Jap. I sat at the phone with the Yellow pages open and my shopping list to hand. I was looking for something that would do the ton, weighed under 400lbs and cost about two grand, which was what I thought I'd get for the Bonnie.
One of the dealers put me in touch with a customer who was Bonnie hunting. He was a nice young guy who found the exhaust note and simple classic lines irresistible. He bought the Bonnie two days later. The dealer then said would I like to look at this little Kawasaki he had with less than 100 miles on the clock. It seemed the original owner - poor chap was about my age - had died shortly after buying the Kawasaki (nothing to do with bikes) and his family had only just put it on the market.
Feeling sorry for myself over the loss of the Bonnie, and even more sorry for the guy who'd never had a chance to enjoy his new bike, I was introduced to the GPz305. Exactly what you're looking for, the dealer intoned enthusiastically as I rolled it effortlessly on and off the centrestand, marvelling at the instant electric start.
The next impression was that I was riding a highly tuned sewing machine with no exhaust note and steering designed on some other planet. Riding over smooth roads at sub 70mph speeds, I didn't know what I'd done to get round corners. It was like telepathy. Of all the bikes I'd ever owner or ridden I'd never met anything so easy and so completely user-friendly. And, much as I hated to admit it, it was fun!
Back at the dealers I admitted it was just what the doctor ordered but where was the ton plus performance? Had I used the gearbox and high revs? No. It was so new I'd kept it down to about 4500 revs. Then why didn't I take another spin and let it go a bit. A brief flip round the clock wouldn't do a modern motor any harm.
It was welcome to the nineties time! I discovered in a few short miles what the rest of the bike world had known for decades. Anything else I'd owned, with two wheels or four, had usually given its all by 5000 to 6000rpm. When the Qwack hit 7000rpm, a whole new world opened up. Despite its basic spec, the little motor made me feel I was hanging on to the Starship Enterprise as it moved into warp speed. This wasn't just fun it was exhilarating.
Next came an insanely happy few minutes during which I played tunes on the gear lever to keep the revs up where things happened. I was concentrating so much on the tacho I didn't spot the imminent arrival of a T-junction with no escape routes. It was at that point I discovered how good the brakes were. We came to rest with the front wheel just peeping over the white-line.
I felt rather than saw the glare of a frightened middleaged pedestrian beaming the unspoken message: It would've served you right if you hadn't been able to stop. With my heart pounding like the Bonnie on an uphill climb, I struggled to find a gear in which I could make a dignified departure. I wondered how much the irate ped could see through my visor. I wondered if he realised what he thought was an irresponsible juvenile on a speed induced high would soon be an OAP - that's if he learns to keep his eyes on the road instead of clock watching.
I took the bike back at a more sedate pace, but couldn't keep an ear to ear grin off my face. You've just sold a Kwack, said I. When can I have it?
At this stage, it hardly seems fair to compare the 18 year old lump of British brawn with nearly new Jap technology, especially as the Bonnie was losing Brownie points like Group Four loses prisoners. The Kwack was winning all ways - ease of handling, at rest or on the move; it's half the size engine almost as quick but no vibes, all on unleaded petrol. An added bonus was 76mpg as opposed to the Bonnie's 53mpg on four star. Modern brakes and lights were superior. Starting was child's play. And there's no way any Bonnie's going to be as reliable as a practically brand new machine. But instant infatuations can have short honeymoons. By the time the GPz went in for its 500 mile service the Bonnie was pulling back a little lost ground.
Although the acceleration of the two bikes was similar - sub wheelie, but more than good enough to deal with average traffic - that vital surge from 50 to 70mph was always instant with the Triumph. All you do is open the throttle. By the time you've dropped a couple of cogs on the Kwack the gap might have gone and the sparkle definitely goes if you're carrying a passenger, whereas the Bonnie didn't seem to notice the difference. What I really missed was the low down grunt and that reassuring bellow from the exhaust. But it's nice not to have vibes as the limiting factor on top speed.
The sheer lightness of the GPz, one of my reasons for buying it, can become its worst enemy. Every little breeze deflects it from the straight and narrow. I soon began to miss the way the heavier Bonnie sat on the road, especially at speed (at least once a set of TT100's was fitted). Hit a coarse surface, like newly laid gravel, and the Kwack's uncannily light steering disappears. Suddenly, it's like tip-toeing on eggshells. The front wheel takes on a life of its own and feels liable to go anywhere without notice. The only solution is to hold your breath and keep the bike straight up until the terra became firmer. The Bonnie didn't like loose gravel either, but at least I felt I was still in control.
On the sort of long, sweeping 70mph plus bend we all know and love, there's a whole lot of twisting goes on at the GPz's back end. At least that's what it feels like. I haven't figured it out yet but the chassis looks too solid to twist. Perhaps better tyres would fix it. The smooth belt drive seems a gem of an idea. Expensive to replace but lasting three times as long as a chain.
On a motorway, which I find boring, it's swings and roundabouts. The Kwack sits there quite happily at 75 to 80mph but gets blown about whereas vibes spoil life in the fast lane on the Bonnie. It's worth saying that, like the poor, the Bonnie's vibes will always be with us but are no worse that those regularly reported in the UMG, and elsewhere, on big, old Japs. They can, however, be greatly reduced by spending a quiet Sunday afternoon synchronising the fall of the carb slides into just one click as they hit the bottom - I've no idea why but a pair of new tyres also seemed to smooth out my Bonnie.
Regarding this strange business of image and owning a glamorous piece of history, the GPz305 comes nowhere. I'm totally ignored. And never again will I be as proud as when a lovely old fella shook me by the hand and thanked me for keeping such a beautiful old bike on the road. Turned out he'd been one of the Meriden workers and he gave me loads of useful tips. Altogether now, .....Awww!
If this seems an odd way to enjoy biking there are thousands of like-minded souls who prefer to drive about in troublesome old MGB's when the same money would buy and run a faster, more reliable GTi. They probably like antique furniture, too. It takes all sorts.
If anyone's being seduced by all this sentimental talk - be warned. Bonnie ownership's an expensive and mixed pleasure. If you're determined buy the best you can afford. Avoid hybrids, they're a lot of trouble and don't hold their value. Around two grand gets you one that's well sorted. Even then, keep £500 back as a contingency fund. Three years running cost me £1500, including a £600 gearbox rebuild.
A properly rebuilt Bonnie doesn't leak oil and I've a clean garage floor to prove it. Electrical problems do happen. It's worth changing any one or all of the three electrical switches at the first sign of trouble. The oil light switch (everything dies if it fails), the ignition switch when badly worn causes erratic running which is difficult to diagnose, and the handlebar cluster drivers you bonkers if you try to repair it. Even the metal seat base can short out the electrics over rough roads!
So which costs the most? GPz servicing's cheap, fewer parts will be needed, excellent economy - in the short term it shouldn't cost much to run. But the Bonnie retains its purchase cost much better, I expect to lose a grand when I sell the Kwack. The GPz's loads of fun but being a sentimental old slob I'll never learn to love it, not like the unreliable but beautiful old Bonnie.
Stan Barrett
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Two years with a Rickman 650 Triumph reminded me of nothing more than my first wife. It was a right bitch. Liked nothing more than to show me up in public. Just as I was going completely berserk, a brief moment of exhilaration would cause me to gasp with shock and hold back. Then it'd be back to public breakdowns, screaming sessions and general mayhem. Moments of intense passion stopped me taking a large hammer to it. The wife ended up costing me every penny I had. The Rickman was bought as a consolation prize on the back of a £3000 bank loan. Yes, it is dangerously stupid to get involved with a new mistress on the bounce.
Especially one with an insane heart. The Rickman chassis was designed to take any unit Triumph motor. Mine was a worked over '68 Bonnie. Worked over by a lunatic with a death-wish. The compression ratio was so high I could stand on the kickstart. The cams were so wild it'd spit flames out of the massive Amals. The open megaphones were so loud that window panes tried to jump out of their frames and even the deaf would scream abuse at me.
Starting involved flooding the carbs until there was a puddle of fuel on top of the crankcases, leaping a yard up in the air and giving the lever a full bodied lunge. So committed had to be the kick that if it backfired I was either launched through the garage roof or suffered such leg pain that the surrounding environment was blue with curses for hours afterwards.
When the engine finally deemed to start, after anywhere between five and ten kicks, the booming noise was accompanied by such an excess of vibration that the bike would shuffle across the garage floor on the stand and I could feel the fuel and oil gurgling away in their tanks.
Both the clutch and the throttle were so heavy that even a Moto Guzzi Le Mans owner would be writing away for a Bullworker. Both were vicious. The clutch take-up would hurtle the bike forward or stall it dead. The throttle springs brought the revs back to 1000rpm in an instant if I tried a right-hand turn signal as an alternative to the weekly replacement of the indicator control box.
These traits were combined with one of the nastiest riding positions I'd ever come across. It recalled some of the sexual games the first wife insisted I should play; you can guess who ended up in the submissive role! With low clip-ons, a skimpy seat and a body stretching reach over the long petrol tank, town riding was akin to being tortured on the rack, sexually abused by a donkey whilst having one's head stuck inside a 1000 watt bass speaker.
Moments of relief were found by opening up the throttle in second and third. Come 5000 revs the vertical twin engine put out an extreme amount of power that pushed the rock steady machine forward like a steam-roller falling over the edge of a cliff. Whilst acceleration was suitably inspiring, submerging the vicious vibes under the thrilling way the road was eaten up, trying to maintain a constant velocity was an entirely different bag of horrors. Down to the vicious vibes the vile power unit was putting out.
That's the trouble with Triumph twins. They were originally designed as a mild 500 when their OHV pushrods were acceptable and the puny two bearing crankshaft was able to withstand the minimal engineering forces. Over the years they became both bigger and higher tuned without any fundamental rethink to their design. More cubic capacity and power added up to an increase in vibration and decrease in longevity. Where a well put together Tiger 100 was a neat bit of tackle, a racing spec Bonnie was hard pushed to do a 1000 miles without something failing or at the very least falling off.
The Rickman trellis was hefty high grade steel with bright nickel plating. It was so strong that it only needed a bit of mild modification to take the CB750 engine in later guises. It was easily good enough to take any excess that the Triumph engine could put out. A stock Bonnie might be good for 120 to 125mph, mine might manage 130mph in theory but in practice the primary vibes were so intense that I rarely tried to break through the ton. The engine and frame didn't seem well matched, any tendency the motor had to buzzing amplified by the large diameter, thin walled tubes.
Vibration had always been a problem with big British twins. Norton cobbled together their Isolastic mounts, Royal Enfield dynamically balanced their cranks and Triumph relied on rubber mounting everything that didn't need to be welded to the frame (except the engine whose bulk was used to reinforce the swinging arm mounts). The Japanese didn't do much better, they either built the chassis so heftily that it weighed as much as a four or fitted huge engine balancers that robbed the machine of most its power and lost the marvellous direct connection between throttle and back wheel in which the hoary old Triumph, for all its sins, revelled.
There were a series of coastal back roads in the Fenlands where the Rickman really showed its mettle. The flatness of the area meant I could see way ahead, ride on both sides of the road to set the bike up on the racing line when necessary. The roads were a bit bumpy which gave the stiff Rickman forks a hard time but didn't stop me banking over until my boots were buffeted by the tarmac, nor cause the Rickman to veer off the desired line.
It wasn't quite as quick steering as a stock Bonnie but made up for that with much better stability. If the riding position made no sense, if debilitating road shocks aged my body and if pot-holes threatened to break my arms, I just knew that I could ride it straight over logs and heel it so far over that I threatened to go horizontal. This on thin old-tech Dunlop tyres that lasted for more than 10,000 miles.
The only time stability was really upset was when the half fairing fell off on to the front wheel. Rickman made lots of GRP products, their quite curvaceous half fairing being reasonably stiff, although the screen used to buzz about a bit. The vibes had got to the fairing's bracket, causing it to slam down on the minimal front mudguard. At the time, I was doing 35mph through town. The bike went into a massive wobble around the screaming front wheel. I had a rude meeting with the tarmac as the Rickman flew through a collection of startled peds. Luckily, their soft bodies absorbed its sudden self-destruct tendencies.
The fairing was wrecked, though, with large cracks. The headlamp and front guard were also broken. Neither were much cop but dealt with the niceties of the law. I took the opportunity to fit some clamps and bars, as well as a big chrome headlight. That made the bike more tolerable in town, where my back no longer ached is if I'd spent the day carrying around 50 kilo bags of cement.
A major hassle during town riding was the front brake. Rickman were, I believe, the first company to fit discs at both the front and rear on a 'production' roadster. Both were Lockheeds, that also made an appearance on other British bikes, which at least meant I could still buy pads and seals. The biggest problem with the single front disc was that when used below 30mph it'd lock on as solidly as a Dobberman on a thief's balls! The rear brake was just as touchy, sending the back tyre into an ear busting screech. Throw in some wet roads and it was broken leg time. The thin tyres had no answer to the locked up wheels, other than to try to fling the Rickman down the road.
With a 31'' seat height and low centre of gravity it was relatively easy to get a boot down before the bike got away from me. I only messed up completely the once. The bike flipped up but then slid over on the other side, catching my ankle in its descent. I was howling with the pain as it was actually broken. The peds looked at me as if I was insane; there was no blood nor amputated limbs littering the pavement, so they thought it was a lot of ado about nothing. I eventually ended up in a wailing ambulance shot full of pain-killers.
When the Rickman Triumph and I were reunited, the bike showed no signs of its demise save for some grazing on the GRP petrol tank. I hobbled around for a couple of months until I could regain its seat. I took that time to polish up the engine and chassis. Rickman made their chassis to quite a high quality. Although it'd tarnish quickly over the winter, a bit of polishing would soon restore its patina, not bad going for a bike that was 18 years old! Even the spokes laced into chunky alloy rims resisted the urge to go brown with rust. I did have to replace the Girling shocks whose springs had corroded to the point where I thought they were going to break up.
Many more engine parts than chassis bits went west in the 14000 miles I extracted from the reluctant motor. The crankshaft, for instance, wasn't good for more than 6000 miles, at which point just about every internal component, save the four speed gearbox, was just as worn out. The engine had some lumpy racing cams that proved impossible to replace when great chunks of their lobes went missing. Standard Bonnie items were still available, so it seemed like a good idea to detune the beast a little. The lightened pushrods and polished rockers I retained. The huge valves had cut back guides that barely lasted 2000 miles, but there wasn't enough meat left in the head to replace them with stock stuff.
The primary chain boasted a belt conversion, whose great expense appeared justified in the lack of attention it needed compared with the standard chain drive. The clutch had heavy springs that shot across the garage when I removed their retaining nuts. Despite the vicious clutch action the plates lasted nearly 10,000 miles. The drive chain, despite the swinging arm being mounted on eccentric adjusters, lasted for less than 5000 miles, whilst spraying loadsa oil over passengers and the back end (as did the rear wheel with water due to the total lack of mudguarding). I think the short chain life was caused by the half a foot between swinging arm mount and final drive sprocket. The latter needed the usual tedious chaincase disassembly to replace.
As well as the engine rebuilds there were the weekly, sometimes daily, maintenance chores. Points, valves and carbs all needed attention, along with a tediously extensive list of bolts that needed spanner work. The carbs had a peculiar tendency towards falling off. They usually hung on by the hose or throttle cable but I had one roll down the road, ending up flattened by a following truck. The Rickman Triumph is the kind of bike that makes membership of the AA or RAC compulsory.
All relationships have to come to an end. The good ones from death, the bad ones from separation. The Rickman was sold, funnily enough, when I decided to get married again. Yes, I never learn (only joking, dear). The Rickman has one massive drawback with regards marital relationships and the courting process. It's only fitted with a solo seat. That was the excuse I needed to off-load the troublesome terror at a massive loss. The beast had served its purpose, kept me amused for a couple of years until I recovered from the trauma of the divorce. But it's not a motorcycling experience I ever want to repeat again!
Phillip Smith
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I had only a very sketchy idea what it was, but I knew it was British and it had to be mine...it looked like a raw racing bike, the fever was so strong that I bought it without looking at the details. The guy agreed to deliver it to my home but the engine blew before he got there. I still wanted it and let him repair the motor.
The destruction was caused by one of the timing gears splitting in half like a walnut, causing the pushrods to tangle. Replacement effected a complete, if temporary, cure. It started about tenth kick and sounded wonderful. After the XS250 it made a noise like nirvana, it just reeked of the race track and, er, burning oil.
Closer inspection revealed a Triumph 650 engine stuffed none too neatly into a Norton slimline frame, creating a classic cafe racer. The gearbox was a close ratio Norton job, a nine stud cylinder head was less prone to cracking that the eight stud item and high compression pistons meant a hefty kick was required to start her. Many a macho friend was left limping by the bitch and a short flight through the air resulted if the motor kicked back.
This was the raw material to be moulded by my bare hands (I had very few tools in those days) into a living legend, a tarmac eating monster just like in Classic Berk. I started badly, using molegrips and went on to stiltsons - my enthusiasm knew no bounds.
The true nature of the beast was revealed as I worked - everything was utterly shagged. Swinging arm, both wheel bearings, steering head bearings.......I broke out in a cold sweat and threw it back together, hoping I wouldn't notice.
Somebody famous once said it showed strength of character to set out on a journey that you knew you may never survive. I had bags of the right stuff at the time, so set off for Bristol, about 200 miles away. The five gallon alloy tank full of petrol which slopped around, causing threepenny bit cornering and hairy moments on roundabouts. On the way it dropped a con-rod circlip, causing mechanical carnage to the bores: with inspired insight I failed to notice.
Merrily, I poured can upon can of oil into it without even once wondering where it was going. After all, they were supposed to breathe a bit, all part of their character. She got there and back, the only casualty, as far as I was concerned, was a stripped spline on the kickstart, something which happened all the time due to the compression and stupidly small Norton splines.
I arrived in the Bristol rush hour and had a fine old time slipping the clutch to keep down to 30mph, the engine was running a bit hot by then. On the way back I experienced a bit of character building exercise when she ran out of petrol with virtually no warning (no reserve tap), she just took a deep breath and stopped. Two petrol stations closed as I watched horrified from the other end of a quarter mile straight. A mile later, a bloke gave me a lift to Crowmarsh Downs, incidentally, lecturing me on the intricacies of the Velo clutch; slumped in the passenger seat I was too weak to protest.
Eventually, I did notice the engine's imitation of a two stroke as far as oil burning went, and soon the molegrips whizzed into action. After having to deal with the morons in most Jap shops, meeting an interested and alert human being behind the counter of a British bike shop came as a revelation. Several times I was directed to another shop or told of a better bit to fit.
Somehow, 200 miles didn't seem like enough of a test of bike and man, so the next trip was planned. Cornwall, and hopefully back, a total of 600 ill-considered miles. Just before departure the gearbox went west in a small way. It started to jump out of first into neutral under load, delivering a Ninja like blow to my right foot. I know now that the dog-clutches were cream crackered, but I decided the indent spring was too weak, so I put some washers under it, which proves faith is stronger than reality.
I remember the pride in a job well done I felt as I stepped back to survey my work. It still jumped but was twice as difficult to hook back into gear. Wear to the dogs was probably due to the close ratio nature of the box, as they necessitated a lot of abuse when launching. I also recall the clutch centre falling out from the same cause.
I started out at four in the morning. Darkness was all around, so was gearbox oil. Even more luggage made the handling even more hairy. A particularly huge pothole in Berkhampstead almost fetched me off and did serious damage which I studiously failed to notice. Exeter was coming into view when the handling deteriorated to an extent that even I couldn't fail to detect - two lanes of carriageway proved insufficient and I ended up on the verge feeling sick.
My first puncture. I had to lay the beast down (no stands) to get the wheel off and start walking. In my opinion Sunday is the only day to have a flat, people are much more sympathetic and a guy gave me a lift to a friendly garage where I was given an old tube and instructed in the use of tyre levers free of charge. I refitted the wheel and was on my way again in an hour feeling able to cope with anything.
The one in four hill up to my parents alpine retreat was negotiated in first, neutral, second and pink, pink, pink. I arrived at the holiday cottage in Mousehole filthy and tired but indomitable. The journey back was equally uneventful, until the damage done in Berks started to make itself felt. A bit of a wobble developed into full scale jelly on stilts in the cross winds all too common on the A30.
My confidence knew no bounds so I stripped the steering head in a quiet spot. After reassembling it, I continued in the conviction that I had cured it. Of course, it was worse, but I had run out of knowledge so I carried on at moped speeds. Briefly, I experimented with the steering damper but became discouraged when a hefty twist resulted in a lock to lock weave.
Something was happening in Wiltshire. Groups of bikers were being stopped by the police. I toddled ever onwards, unaware that the police were fixing to have a riot the next day; even the razor wire around Stonehenge failed to alert me. Amazingly, they failed to stop probably the most unroadworthy vehicle in the country.
I wobbled on with another puncture at Thatchen where I met a nice man who raced Norton outfits, who smiled in disbelief at my pride and joy, but gave me another tube anyway, and a file to remove the rust that was causing the deflationary tendencies.
About a week later I found the cause of the handling problems. Norton had the bright idea of using an alloy pinch bolt arrangement on the fork leg - it fell off. I fitted a modified leg with grubscrews, just like Norton used when racing.
After my extensive touring successes, my thoughts ranged far and wide. A suitable challenge, what else but a Continental excursion to a 24 hour endurance race, to see how the pros handled the sort of problems I handled every day. The Belgians seemed to be running contrary to their reputation by staging something interesting, and not too far into enemy territory. Plans were made, a new front tyre fitted, tickets were bought.
Again, an early start, travelling through London so early that it took the only taxi on Hyde Park Corner minutes to catch up and cut me up. It started to rain heavily but I was going well until I got to Rochester when the right-hand silencer fell off, and later the clutch exploded. Working against the clock, I pushed the bike under a handy bridge next to the police station. The clutch responded to treatment but the magneto decided to pop out of its cam ring. With sparks occurring at every point but the right one she literally breathed fire, through the carbs.
It started to snow, I started to swear. True to her Brit soul she did not want to go abroad, and it ended up thus. I had just finished reassembling the mag when a chap and chapess pulled up on an XS400, grinning, he said, 'Lovely Briton, I always wanted one, want to swap?' We exchanged documents at his house, although it broke down twice on route to his place. He invited me to visit any time. Possibly for the first time in my life I got sensible and never went near the place again.
A couple of weeks later he sent me a letter, mentioning that it had ruined its mains but by that time Classic Berk had done a special on the things and their value had shot up, so I thought he was adequately compensated. He had been warned.
That bike was the most unreliable machine I ever owned, but also the most enjoyable. Now, I'm older I still ride worn out bikes, but I often say that if you want to get somewhere you go by train, if you want to have an adventure go on one of my bikes.
Jon Guyver
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