A
Anonymous
Guest
I have been without a bike for the past 4yrs and have tried to avoid reading any bike magazines or pay too much attention to bikes because it always fills me with regret that I had to sell my Zed Thou to a friend. I needed the money to help fund moving house to an area of the UK that is a national forest with open sweeping roads and fantastic twisting and banking corners; perfect bike roads, it's been a nightmare. I try but I cannot resist looking when a motobike goes past; and when I hear one blasting up the dual carraigeway through those trees over there, I yearned for a bike again... but could not afford one, until now.
Two days ago I purchased a Suzuki GS650 Katana for the pricely sum of ?50 (about a days wages), from a young hooligan who needed the money for drugs. I'd had to get a friend of a friend to give me a lift down there, and I arrived with a can of petrol, my helmet and protection and a large amount of foolish optimism that all was going to go well. For that price I wasn't expecting much but surprisingly the bike started first time, (although it wouldn't idle). I was told "there's no choke, but you don't need it anyway, just rev it up... and you have to fiddle with the fuel tap as you ride along to keep it going". The lads neighbours were kicking up a stink about the noise (the exhaust can was lying on the floor) so I quickly gave him the dosh before sanity struck, suited up, then wazzed off down the road trying to remember not to expect second gear to work because it doesn't. All seemed to be going great. It was a warm sunny day, I was a biker again and there was plenty of power available to satisfy my adrenaline deficiency. After nervously negotiating a few bends I hit a straight and opened up the throttle. There was a fantastic surge of power followed by what seemed like fuel starvation and the engine cut out. Of course, I had failed to pay full attention whilst being trained on the fiddling procedure and had assumed that instructions to put the tap at between four and five o'clock and sometimes at three o'clock were clearly wrong. If "ON" didn't work, "RES" would,... Wrong!! I fiddled, and the Kat started again no probs. Off I went for another mile til it happened again, this time I ran the battery flat trying to start it again.
I had no-one following me in a car to make sure I got it home alright. I had no credit on my phone, but since I had conveniently broken down at a petrol station I just waited for the first biker to drop in, knowing that without a hint of hesitation he would let a fellow biker use his phone to get help. I phoned Lisa who I had told to wait at home "just in case" (even though there was no plan of action for "just in case") and two minutes later the guy who gave me a lift arrives with the guy I bought the bike off and a car full of girls. I'm standing there sweating like a pig with my leather jacket and biker jacket on (with it's zip in winter liner), the exhaust can shoved inside my jacket, a spare helmet half up my arm (?5) and a bike in front of me with a fuel supply problem, mud on the tyres, no silencer, no insurance, no road tax, and no MOT (roadworthyness certificate), serious trouble should the police arrive.
I went and put some more fuel in, after which the guy who I'd bought it off suggested we push it round the forecort to try bump start it. I was reluctant to accept, thinking it would rouse too much attention from the cashier and she would call the police thinking it was a stolen bike or something. I could not refuse however as it was the only option I had. We pushed and jumped and shoved and grunted at the bike to no avail for a considerable amount of time, blocking cars trying to get out at one stage, when I finally decided I needed to stop and think this through a bit. If the truth were known, the adrenaline rush I'd had when riding that bike, the first one for a long time, was just starting to wear off, to be replaced by paranoia that the police were going to arrive any second. I was probably a great source of amusement to the girls in the car playing loud music who unusually, I didn't even notice.
Whilst I was standing there in a state of shock the guy I bought the bike off says "I'm going in to the garage to borrow some jump leads"...he returns with nothing... but is followed shortly by a woman cashier saying "try not to get them dirty so I can put them back in the box". Meanwhile the fuel tap was left turned on and had decided to work. Fuel had pissed out of all the carbs leaving a puddle on the floor. Regardless, and delighted about the jump leads we connect them up and for some bizarre reason I am of the mistaken belief that the bike is actually going to start immediately when I hit the button. At about the stage when the windings on the starting motor must have been glowing red the bike splutters to life, and I am on it and away as quick as you can say ready, set, go.
I open it up (remembering no second gear) and shoot of down the dual carraigeway. A mile down the road I'm in amongst the bank holiday traffic and I'm trying to weave through the cars. The bike is over-revving and is making a right old bunch of noise. I'm in third gear trying to keep the speed down using the clutch that doesn't fully disengage and trying to avoid stalling. I'm a bit worried about the car wing mirrors at wide handlebar height when some arse pulls out in front of me. I'm thinking "if I have to stop this thing, it will cut out on me right here in the middle of these 20 m.p.h. lines of traffic and I'm going to be Mr "gawp at me" pushing the bike to the hard shoulder and waiting there for Mr Policeman to arrive and read me the Road Traffic Regulations Act 1978." I was not impressed but found that a few seconds later I was greatly relieved when I was able to pass him and issue him a middle finger and a huge barrage of verbal abuse, which seemed to relieve my stress somewhat.
I left the dual carraigeway at the next roundabout and was clear of all major juctions and knew that the next 6 miles home were a single winding road that I'd driven down hundreds of times in the car but never on a bike. I opened up the throttle and started overtaking cars and getting a feel of how the bike feels in bends. The bike was a real handful (I later discovered that the bracing on the swingarm had rotten through, and the forks were leaking oil badly, the tyre pressures were probably way out too.) Three miles down the road and the fuel problem decides to return. I'm fiddling with the fuel tap at about 80 m.p.h. the engine is losing power and the front end is going all over the place as the engine fires up again then cuts out seconds later. I eventually get it to a position that seems to be on, and I decide to take it easy the rest of the way and just keep it running. Before long I'm on my last stretch before home.. straight road for about a mile, I pull the clutch to drop down a gear and ping....like something from a cartoon..the clutch lever goes floppy in my hand and I'm looking at it and realising that I have no clutch and will have to ride in fifth all the way home including the hairpin bend. I remembered the skill I had learnt on my Zed of changing gears smoothly without the clutch and I succesfully changed down to third, wobbled a bit at the hairpin then rode into the car park behind my house to see my daughter running out with a big grin on her face.
The Kat needs work doing, but I'm a man on a mission now, and alas, reading Streetfighter Magazine no longer makes me feel like I'm torturing myself.
Two days ago I purchased a Suzuki GS650 Katana for the pricely sum of ?50 (about a days wages), from a young hooligan who needed the money for drugs. I'd had to get a friend of a friend to give me a lift down there, and I arrived with a can of petrol, my helmet and protection and a large amount of foolish optimism that all was going to go well. For that price I wasn't expecting much but surprisingly the bike started first time, (although it wouldn't idle). I was told "there's no choke, but you don't need it anyway, just rev it up... and you have to fiddle with the fuel tap as you ride along to keep it going". The lads neighbours were kicking up a stink about the noise (the exhaust can was lying on the floor) so I quickly gave him the dosh before sanity struck, suited up, then wazzed off down the road trying to remember not to expect second gear to work because it doesn't. All seemed to be going great. It was a warm sunny day, I was a biker again and there was plenty of power available to satisfy my adrenaline deficiency. After nervously negotiating a few bends I hit a straight and opened up the throttle. There was a fantastic surge of power followed by what seemed like fuel starvation and the engine cut out. Of course, I had failed to pay full attention whilst being trained on the fiddling procedure and had assumed that instructions to put the tap at between four and five o'clock and sometimes at three o'clock were clearly wrong. If "ON" didn't work, "RES" would,... Wrong!! I fiddled, and the Kat started again no probs. Off I went for another mile til it happened again, this time I ran the battery flat trying to start it again.
I had no-one following me in a car to make sure I got it home alright. I had no credit on my phone, but since I had conveniently broken down at a petrol station I just waited for the first biker to drop in, knowing that without a hint of hesitation he would let a fellow biker use his phone to get help. I phoned Lisa who I had told to wait at home "just in case" (even though there was no plan of action for "just in case") and two minutes later the guy who gave me a lift arrives with the guy I bought the bike off and a car full of girls. I'm standing there sweating like a pig with my leather jacket and biker jacket on (with it's zip in winter liner), the exhaust can shoved inside my jacket, a spare helmet half up my arm (?5) and a bike in front of me with a fuel supply problem, mud on the tyres, no silencer, no insurance, no road tax, and no MOT (roadworthyness certificate), serious trouble should the police arrive.
I went and put some more fuel in, after which the guy who I'd bought it off suggested we push it round the forecort to try bump start it. I was reluctant to accept, thinking it would rouse too much attention from the cashier and she would call the police thinking it was a stolen bike or something. I could not refuse however as it was the only option I had. We pushed and jumped and shoved and grunted at the bike to no avail for a considerable amount of time, blocking cars trying to get out at one stage, when I finally decided I needed to stop and think this through a bit. If the truth were known, the adrenaline rush I'd had when riding that bike, the first one for a long time, was just starting to wear off, to be replaced by paranoia that the police were going to arrive any second. I was probably a great source of amusement to the girls in the car playing loud music who unusually, I didn't even notice.
Whilst I was standing there in a state of shock the guy I bought the bike off says "I'm going in to the garage to borrow some jump leads"...he returns with nothing... but is followed shortly by a woman cashier saying "try not to get them dirty so I can put them back in the box". Meanwhile the fuel tap was left turned on and had decided to work. Fuel had pissed out of all the carbs leaving a puddle on the floor. Regardless, and delighted about the jump leads we connect them up and for some bizarre reason I am of the mistaken belief that the bike is actually going to start immediately when I hit the button. At about the stage when the windings on the starting motor must have been glowing red the bike splutters to life, and I am on it and away as quick as you can say ready, set, go.
I open it up (remembering no second gear) and shoot of down the dual carraigeway. A mile down the road I'm in amongst the bank holiday traffic and I'm trying to weave through the cars. The bike is over-revving and is making a right old bunch of noise. I'm in third gear trying to keep the speed down using the clutch that doesn't fully disengage and trying to avoid stalling. I'm a bit worried about the car wing mirrors at wide handlebar height when some arse pulls out in front of me. I'm thinking "if I have to stop this thing, it will cut out on me right here in the middle of these 20 m.p.h. lines of traffic and I'm going to be Mr "gawp at me" pushing the bike to the hard shoulder and waiting there for Mr Policeman to arrive and read me the Road Traffic Regulations Act 1978." I was not impressed but found that a few seconds later I was greatly relieved when I was able to pass him and issue him a middle finger and a huge barrage of verbal abuse, which seemed to relieve my stress somewhat.
I left the dual carraigeway at the next roundabout and was clear of all major juctions and knew that the next 6 miles home were a single winding road that I'd driven down hundreds of times in the car but never on a bike. I opened up the throttle and started overtaking cars and getting a feel of how the bike feels in bends. The bike was a real handful (I later discovered that the bracing on the swingarm had rotten through, and the forks were leaking oil badly, the tyre pressures were probably way out too.) Three miles down the road and the fuel problem decides to return. I'm fiddling with the fuel tap at about 80 m.p.h. the engine is losing power and the front end is going all over the place as the engine fires up again then cuts out seconds later. I eventually get it to a position that seems to be on, and I decide to take it easy the rest of the way and just keep it running. Before long I'm on my last stretch before home.. straight road for about a mile, I pull the clutch to drop down a gear and ping....like something from a cartoon..the clutch lever goes floppy in my hand and I'm looking at it and realising that I have no clutch and will have to ride in fifth all the way home including the hairpin bend. I remembered the skill I had learnt on my Zed of changing gears smoothly without the clutch and I succesfully changed down to third, wobbled a bit at the hairpin then rode into the car park behind my house to see my daughter running out with a big grin on her face.
The Kat needs work doing, but I'm a man on a mission now, and alas, reading Streetfighter Magazine no longer makes me feel like I'm torturing myself.
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