Suzuki TS185

In 1982 Lynda and I were using her Suzuki GSX250.  You may have just read the story [See my WordPress post 29 April 2020] but in essence her bike was as new as our relationship and I had no wheels to call my own.

Enter stage left my brother Mark.  Once again you may have read about his first bike, a Gilera 50 Touring moped [See my WordPress post 6 February 2018] which I had commandeered on regular occasions to get my inaugural fix of two wheeled action before graduating onto some actual motorbikes.  These actual bikes had since gone the way of my job and were nowt but memories, plus photos of some of course.

Mark now had a job and more interestingly a new two wheeled powered toy.

It wasn’t Mark’s first off roader.  His first foray into trail style riding was a few years earlier but that had ended in a wheelie attempt on rough terrain and a broken ankle.  I can’t recall the bike he had because he owned so many vehicles and he hasn’t documented his motorised transport life story so fastidiously as I, so let’s just say it was a 125cc Japanese single cylinder trail bike.  Probably in white.

A compilation of shots of Mark, Vince and Lynda riding the Suzuki off road

Now he owned a slightly bigger, blue one, specifically a Suzuki TS185.  And one day he invited Lynda and I to have a go on it on a bit of rough in the Lordshill area of Southampton.  Now I am not one to turn down having a go on a bit of rough from the Lordshill area of Southampton so we agreed to join him one sunny day to play about on his Suzuki.

It was an R reg model, making its birth day somewhere between August 1976 and July 1977 and it featured off road style knobblies, a raised front mudguard, a light blue colour scheme with stripes and an optional front headlamp guard.  And it was terrific fun.

We rode singly, two up, sat on the seat, stood up on the pegs, revved the thing across some fields, balanced carefully at the top of hill descents and generally went a good deal of places we couldn’t possibly countenance on our, sorry, Lynda’s GSX.  Ingrained memories from that afternoon would stay with us in spirit and on film stock for years afterwards.

Move on a couple of years from that day mucking about on the rough and Lynda and I had moved into our first owned property.  The Suzuki had been changed for carpets and a little later the empty bike space had been filled by a stunning Kawasaki GPz750R.  Again, I have already written and published the story of this monster on this web site [See my WordPress post 4 May 2018] but as I was now working and more importantly earning we had a bit of spare spondoolies so were able to entertain expanding our garage portfolio.  It seemed a natural thought to recreate the fun we had in Lordshill, only this time we could do it all over again and again and not rely on a once more generous brother/in-law.

Just the right mixture of road and off road wheels to chose from

So we bought our own Suzuki TS185 and it looked great parked next to our big sports bike.

It was a slightly newer bike than my brother had, having been assembled around the time we had been originally riding Mark’s one.  But it was chosen partly because it had the earlier styling of a lowered front mudguard.  You may already know that I favour this style and if you didn’t you haven’t read the road test of my Yamaha DT175 [See my WordPress post 9 January 2018] .

We could have picked a Yam DT again but I am not fond of repeating my choices when choosing vehicles as variety is more interesting so we went for the Suzi.  Kawasaki also offered a similar bike called the KE175 and Honda the four stroke XL range but the former was considered less reliable at age and the latter too heavy.

We planned some lovely off road trips on our brand new, second hand bike.  It was styled for fun, not showroom new so we could feel comfortable taking it places where damage could ensue and it was light weight enough to manoeuvre around some awkward routes.

Trips were planned and maps poured over.  It appeared we could travel anywhere, even on roads marked as RUPP which stood for ‘roads used for public purposes’.  An Act from 1949 allowed use of powered vehicles along such marked routes and my Ordnance Survey map was consulted to pick some great local routes.

Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman we were not.  More like a pair of Charlies but in our minds such road trips represented a new found way of enjoying our bikes.  And every ride seemed to feel like a long way round because, as is often the case, reality doesn’t always match the ideal of dreams.

Firstly, if we wanted to go a-travelling off road we had to go together on one bike and it wasn’t great at getting us both to the dusty/muddy bit.  Its power was no better than the Yamaha I had when I was seventeen.  Apparently, six years of development had not added to the basic physics of the machines.  Again the ride could only be described as poor when riding alone and positively dire when two up.  The passenger still bounced around on footpegs attached to the swing arm so comfort on even medium journeys was cramped when setting off together.  The electrics were poor as well making even fairly local jaunts seem like a trial, even before we got to the actual trail.

Then there was the ability to actually go off road.  The bike could manage something of this ilk but it seemed there was nowhere really suitable.  We live a half hour from the most wondrous place in the UK to enjoy a spot of rough riding with excellent terrain amid perfect views.  It’s called The New Forest.  And they hate anyone using it.  Despite the size no trail routes are allowed for motorised vehicles and mini moats are carved into the grassy bit on every side of every road way to yell at motorists and bikers to stay away.

Of course any decent trial bike or 4×4 could surmount such obstacles but one just knows that such action would immediately summon a resident, a rambler, a horser or by-law ready to shout at you.  So we looked beyond such a natural playground for other routes and set off looking for some alternative dirty fun.

A scouting trip to the Portsdown Hills, probably mainly to get a good photo

The first was a route down the side of some farmer’s fields but farmers don’t really like you doing this, even on the edge of their selfishly, massive plots, so they build in difficult obstacles to negotiate.  Such as turnstiles, deep ditches and one tonne, unnecessarily testy bulls.  We got stuck too many times and didn’t really enjoy the route.  So planned an alternative the following week.

I found another RUPP in the area.  We would ride up to Farley Mount, a popular tourist destination on one of the highest hills in Hampshire.  Both Lynda and I had been there several times as kids with our respective families and parking was allowed in those days all over the place.  The only limitation being the trust you had in your vehicle’s handbrake and ability to hill climb the car back to the roads.  However our modern world determined that cars stick to the roads and wait in the soulless, gravel car parks.

Craftily, my map reading skills determined I would not just be able to get to the car park where most cars go but be able to continue on across more of the hillock on one of the rough surface RUPPs back to terra tarmac on the other side.

It was a beautiful sunny day and the usual crowds on The Mount seemed to be joined by another set of crowds making the place, how shall I put it, crowded.  Cars had filled the top car park and on either side of the single track road leading to the views.  On two wheels we sailed by, up to the top and across the car park headed for the marked dusty lane.

A big wooden horizontal pole stopped all the cars from going further up the hill but was easy to circumscribe by a little lightweight bike.  In fact I could have probably done a ‘Dougie’ and crawled over it.  I chose to push the bike through the pedestrian side option, Lynda remounted my pillion and we set off up the track.  I was particularly careful due to the huge number of people also walking along, armed with children and dogs.  I was going barely more than their walking pace, threading myself in between the groups but carefully not speeding or revving my motor to avoid any nuisance.

Although progress was slow on this bit I did not loose patience and ticked over slowly behind each walker until they saw I was there and politely moved aside.  That is until we came across a two family group taking up much of the path.  There was a small gap between them and I rode toward this in the same careful way.  Then suddenly, at his own risk, one of the fathers, without looking, deliberately side stepped into my path.  As I was not going fast I was able to stop easily.  Then he turned around.

He stepped forward, legs each side of my front wheel and started up a tirade on why we shouldn’t exist in the universe, that I had been tearing up the trail like MeatLoaf in a scene from Bat Out Of Hell and that I had one thing on my mind which was to to reduce his precious children into a sticky strawberry jam like mess all over the path.  Lynda dismantled as he noisily fumed but I was unable to go anywhere due to his positioning.

Things got more heated in his tiny, biased mind as he edged closer toward me, whilst I carefully and calmly explained my interpretation of a RUPP.

The situation was getting more tense and I knew I was in a position that had no good outcome for me.  It looked like he was about to get physical, or explode and the thought of dropping the bike to defend myself, or preferably running the bugger over would not look good on a future police report.  The headlines in papers the next day would almost certainly read ‘mad biker cuts up family during peaceful sunny day out’, no matter what the reality of the circumstances were.

By now Lynda had moved around the back of him and his mate who was also getting closer, buoyed by his fat friend’s positive action and my non fighty, calm response.

The rotund geyser, upon getting no irrational argument from me, decided to up the stakes and give me a good shove, using both arms, into my chest.  This caused two things.  Firstly I continued to not respond in kind.  He wasn’t going to trick me into an aggressive situation.  The other thing done was that Lynda grabbed his mate from behind in an attempt to even up the fight, as she figured two against one was just not cricket.

This caused a bit of a Mexican stand off.  The Chubby bully didn’t understand why his pathetic shove hadn’t goaded me into being an aggressor and the skinny one trapped in the clutches of my beloved started whimpering about how he wouldn’t hit a lady.  She of course carefully explained to the shivering specimen that she held no such concerns and was more than happy to kick him black and blue at a moments notice.  That’s it, go girl power.

I had to properly diffuse the state of affairs so switched off my motor, carefully walked it backward out from between the legs of Hardy whilst Lynda finally let go of Laurel.

Thankfully the fathers stayed put, allowing us to make a tactical retreat back to the car park from whence we came, no longer in the mood to argue the laws regarding RUPPs.

We were back at the car park discussing our options when we saw the pair coming back down the track to the car park.  We stayed put but they hadn’t seen us and veered straight off to their cars.  Presumably only to check they were OK as they looked but took nothing from them.  Mind you we had now seen what they arrived in and duly let their tyres down as soon as they resumed their walk back up The Mount.  Our day had been spoiled for no reason other than selfishness so it was the least we could do and besides we were very angry.

Our anger continued as we went back home, with our day wrecked we stewed on this.  Angry that our day had been ruined.  Anger that we seemed unable to use our off road bike anywhere, anymore.  Angry that I had to accept an unrequested shove which wasn’t returned in any way other than vocal reasoning and a spot of tyre air letting.

We decided to go back.  I voiced my concerns about still being labelled the big bad biker in the ensuing newspaper article so we took my car.

It was later in the evening so getting to the car park proved easier but when we got there their cars were gone.  They obviously had Formula One tyre changing skills.  However, we spotted one of the cars leaving in the queue so set out in hot pursuit.

They must have seen us behind them.  After all it is difficult to not notice a speeding saloon in your rear view mirror overtaking every car down a dusty lane which was only one car wide.  By the time we got to the bottom of The Mount we were directly behind our prey.  He moved over to let us by but I stopped short, just looking at him.  He eventually pulled out, his estate laden with family.

I continued to follow him, always keeping a distance.  He knew we were there but would have no reason to understand why.  Just this mad driver overtaking anything that got between us but driving at a great stopping distance when directly behind.  So far back he could barely have been able to read my number plate.  He started to weave around various roads, clearly trying to see if we would follow, which we did.

By the time we got to Southampton we were still on his tail and his contorted route had not lost us.  So he decanted his family at the side of the road and sped off.  We followed, again down various roads until we eventually started to get bored.  After all we had no real reason to catch him.  Causing him distress seemed to be so much more fun.  But he never went down a no through road, presumably reasoning that he didn’t want to be trapped by a scary car full of unknown beasts.

Eventually we gave up and dropped right back.  However, he then foolishly drove into a close just as we rounded the previous corner.  I noticed his diversion and stopped across the junction of the close and looked down only to see him parking up in front of his house, chatting to his re-found family.  I revved the motor, he glanced round, looked as scared as a rabbit in the headlamps and we shot off.  Never to return.

He must have pissed himself for weeks afterwards.  Even now I presume he can never watch the film Duel without feeling some sort of angst and whilst I rarely hold grudges I hope he still has nightmares to this day.

Unable to find somewhere to go the bike is ridden off into the sunset [read text for actual reality]

There were never any repercussions from our antics.  Over the next few days I half expected a visit from the local constabulary but then again I had not actually done anything wrong in my car.  And unless the half wit is reading this now and finally making sense there was no apparent link to the earlier biking episode.  Where again I had done no wrong.

Actually there were repercussions.  Lynda and I decided that off road trail riding was just too much of a trial.  Nowhere to go in our local area and too uncomfortable a ride to get to other parts of the country or world.  After all we already had a super bike on our driveway which was much more fun and adventurous.  Plus a car.  The summer days turned to autumn then winter as Lynda started using the little blue bike as a commuting tool until it finally gave up.

In many ways the Suzuki was much like my earlier Yamaha DT.  Fun but flawed and I would love to have it parked ready in a garage for use whenever I wanted it.  Which in truth wouldn’t be many times a year.  But unlike the DT it wasn’t my first so ultimately doesn’t hold such emotion.  Just that great pub story.

Author: Vince Poynter

First published in the Bikes section of the vinceunlimited.co.uk web site on 28 Apr 2020
The first photograph, or rather collection of six photographs, show scenes from the day out on Mark’s Suzuki TS185 trials motorbike in Lordshill, Southampton.  The riders are Mark, Vince and Lynda
The second photograph shows the author’s two bikes owned in 1985, a Kawasaki GPZ750R and Suzuki TS185 trials bike, parked on his driveway in Eastleigh, Hampshire
The third photograph shows Vince sat on his Suzuki TS185 trials bike parked on Portsdown Hill, overlooking Portsmouth
The final photograph shows Vince riding the Suzuki TS185 on Portsdown Hill
All photos were taken by the people named in this article on Lynda’s Canon AE-1 Program 35mm SLR camera fitted with a fixed FD 50mm 1:1.8 lens.  On Mark’s Suzuki in 1982 and on our one in 1985
Full disclosure we had another trip out with Mark into the New Forest to do the same sort of thing again but the lack of much photographic evidence and the spoiling of a good narrative implied we only went on Mark’s bike on one day.  But this was still once more than the number of times he went out on ours.  Why did we never return the favour?  Probably the lack of a third seat
Knobblies is a term to describe off road style tyres
A RUPP [Road Used as a Public Path] was defined in the National Parks and Access to the Countryside Act 1949 and were generally used as footpaths or bridleways but could be accessed by motorised transport.  The Countryside Act 1968 required councils to redefine all RUPPs as public footpaths, bridleways or a BOAT [Byway Open to All Traffic, except ironically boats].  I recall the RUPP marks on my Ordnance Survey maps but not BOATs.  So I presume the 1980s maps I had were unmodified from before the late sixties, therefore I blame the OS for the whole situation
A ‘Dougie’ is reference to the skills of Douglas Lampkin, a professional, multi World Championship motorcycle trials rider.  Only it isn’t as I invented the term just for effect in this article.  Only it will be now
The references to Hardy to Laurel are descriptive of a comic duo called Laurel and Hardy, who were big when TV was in black and white.  Stan Laurel was a slight, slender guy teamed with the larger, fatter Oliver Hardy.  If you haven’t heard of them then you are a millennial and you should educate yourself
The 1971 film Duel was written by Richard Matheson, based on his own previous short story and was about a lone driver which overtakes a huge Peterbuilt truck which annoyed then appears to hound him across many miles in a mad, murderous way.   It was the directorial debut of Steven Spielberg

Suzuki GSX250

Lynda’s Suzuki GSX250 so new it’s still proudly displaying its L plate.  Her now superseded Renault Fuego now skulking in the garage behind

The Suzuki GSX250 came into my life at the same time as my wife, for it was her bike so the story must start with her.

Lynda always hankered after a motorcycle but left it until her late twenties in the early eighties before taking the plunge.  An inexperienced rider who had owned new cars for ten years took her disinterested father to the local bike showrooms to choose a steed.  She wanted the fantastic new six-cylinder Honda CBX1000 but laws restricted learners to a maximum of 250cc.  Unfortunately she discovered the Honda CB250N Super Dream was more difficult to get on the centre stand than the big six.

Honda didn’t produce a two stroke 250cc road bike but other manufacturers did as this was a popular option at the time, offering high performance, light weight and easy maintenance for these ‘starter’ machines often purchased by those on a tight budget.  Kawasaki offered the manic, thirsty but ageing, triple cylinder KH250, Suzuki the super light, super fast GT250 X7 and Yamaha the stunningly engineered, water-cooled RD250LC.

Four stroke options other than the Super Dream included Honda’s own slim CB250RS, the similarly square and unremarkable Kawasaki Z250A, Suzuki’s ageing GS250, newer GSX250 and Yamaha’s twin-cylinder XS250 or custom style, single cylinder SR250.

There were also some alternative options to the Japanese big four but none were widely sold.  Benelli 254 anybody?

Given these choices my heart would have hankered after the Kwacker triple but my wallet would note the high fuel costs and suggest the ultra smooth, modern, beautiful, water cooled LC.

But I wasn’t around and Lynda’s dad advised her to avoid the two strokes, purely on engineering grounds.  It was also this thinking that considered the high level of sophistication of the Suzuki’s DOHC motor.  It’s a pity that they didn’t stand back and look at the damn ugliness of it compared to its contemporaries.

Lynda’s brother Kevin sitting on the Suzuki.  Unfortunately for the viewer he is stationary so has his leg down, revealing the horrendous side panel

Looking at it now you may wonder why I disliked the look so much.  Yes, it has a slightly dated 1980s vibe, but it was the 1980s so that can be forgiven.  The overall styling is fairly neutral and the twin megaphone, slightly upswept exhausts look OK.  I preferred the circular cam covers of other Suzuki four cylinder bikes over the newer more befitting square ones on this model but this alone shouldn’t relegate the thing into the ugly bin.  What did this was mainly the slender, tall styling exaggerated by the crappy side panels with their multiple parallel indents.  Furthermore, the upswept optional rear rack and engine mounted crash bars didn’t help.

The NVH was also irritating and shouldn’t have been so.  It was designed to be able to willingly rev to a maximum power at 10,000 rpm but didn’t have the banshee lightness through the power train of a two stroke, meaning a chainsaw motor but no pay off in top end speed.  Buzzy but strangled.  It lacked the lazy, comforting thump of other four stroke motors and allowed the motor’s vibes to be easily felt through the handlebars and hard, narrow seat, which inexplicably rose over the tank.

But it was brand new, a nice red and Lynda liked it.  Slightly less than the physically bigger, more accommodating Super Dream which she admits she should have had.

However before I entered the picture Lynda had to set about becoming a motorcyclist.  Enter brand new bike matching leather jacket, trousers, gloves and moto-cross style boots.  On her head a matching, quality full face helmet, around her a fluorescent body sash and in case of rain a full one piece Belstaff all in one waterproof suit.  She was quite literally the example set to others on her motorcycle training course.  In fairness the other young lads there hadn’t just sold their less than year old new Renault Fuego to their dad to fund their steeds.

A shining example of how all new motor bikeists should present themselves.  All the gear and riding in a carefully controlled, professional manner

It didn’t take long for Lyn to get her riding skills up to speed.  She passed her gold star training easily, utilising the benefit of a decade of driving and set about joining a local club to meet new friends in her newfound hobby.  Which is where I joined the story.

I was a reasonably experienced biker by then and a member of the same local club.  I was without a ride due to self imposed poverty and had virtually only the clothes I stood in.  But I did have my jacket and helmet which became useful when I persuaded this naive, new biker to give me a lift back to my place.  We became close friends and have spent the rest of our lives together.

Her dad wasn’t impressed.  Nor her mother.  They never liked the idea of Lyn taking up two wheeling and thought it dangerous and dirty.  My lust for life and adventure and unwashed jeans only served to confirm their suspicions and it took me some time to win them over.  And one episode in those early days didn’t help.

I never minded being on the pillion seat whilst Lynda was riding, other than the narrow, hard seat.  Many men feel this placement is incorrect and wouldn’t countenance the idea of sitting at the back.  But it was her bike after all and it was very snuggly holding onto my new girlfriend, knees tightly gripping her bum and indicating directions by friendly taps on her thighs.

However she also liked me riding her bike.  When tired at night it’s nice to just sit there holding your partner whist they do all the riding and concentrating stuff.  Plus I had to show her how to really ride.  All the stuff that the new riders course didn’t go into.  Such as how a bike could perform, why full revs don’t harm the thing, how it could really lean in corners to the point of foot peg grinding, how you can overtake any car you chose to, the safest way to brake sharply in full control and most importantly be ultra defensive when needed to survive.

But an early incident could have derailed all this.  I was riding, Lynda on pillion and we were leaning through a series of tight corners when I hit a huge pothole with the front tyre.  It destabilised the bike which slid away leaving us sat on the tarmac.  The corner was so tight that there was virtually no speed and we were properly dressed so there was no human hurt.  But Lyn’s shiny new GSX had picked up some battle scars.  Still, it was her first lesson from me on how to crash.

I made sure she was alright, retrieved the bike, jumped back on and we shot off to my parents house for a quick fix.  Within moments Dad had helped me remove the handlebars and crash bars, straighten them back into position, reverse the clutch and brake levers so the damage didn’t show, tugged the loose rubber snags from the grips and forced the left foot peg back into shape ready to get back on our way after a nice cup of tea from Mum.  Lynda was astonished by the speed and efficiency of repair and her own parents never found out about the incident until we told them several decades later.

The Suzuki attending a Motorcycle Action Group [MAG] rally in Southsea, Hampshire.  We were also there, me riding helmet less with many of the other attendees in protest about compulsory helmet wearing laws.  Which we actually agreed with.  Still, anything to have fun when a biker

We had many more adventures on the thing.  Pottering around two up all the time, going places, touring, learning together improving our riding, avoiding any new crashing etc.  But I never really enjoyed the bike itself.  It wasn’t something special to ride or to arrive on.  It never excelled at anything or even disappointed in any aspect to give itself some sense of character.  It was just there.  Well engineered but ultimately soulless.

It should be noted that Lynda doesn’t share the same negative feelings as I do.  But consider it was her first steed and on it she was introduced to a wild new world and friend in me so must be influenced by this.  But unlike my feelings for Lynda the bike never really grew on me.  She should have had the Yamaha ‘Elsie’ or the Honda Super Dream, both of which still have legions of fans nowadays.  I could have taught her how to get the awkward Honda on the stand in no time.

Author: Vince Poynter

First published in the Bikes section of the vinceunlimited.co.uk web site on 29 Nov 2019
The first image is of Lynda Clare sat on her brand new Suzuki GSX250 outside her parents home in 1981.  Photograph taken by Lynda’s brother Kevin Clare on her Canon SLR digital camera
The second image is of Kevin Clare sat on Lynda Clare’s brand new Suzuki GSX250 outside their parents home in 1981.  Photograph taken by Lynda on her Canon SLR digital camera
The third image is of Lynda Clare riding her brand new Suzuki GSX250 outside her parents home in 1981.  Photograph taken by Lynda’s brother Kevin Clare on her Canon SLR digital camera
The final image is of Lynda Clare’s Suzuki GSX250 parked in Southsea, Hampshire in 1982 at a Motorcycle Action Group [MAG] Rally.  The helmet and gloves on the seat are Lynda’s and the one strapped to the rack is the author’s.  Photograph taken by Lynda on her Canon SLR digital camera

A Dream Come True

A short story by Vince, written 1982

The heat from the ground rose defiantly, shimmering above the winding road, the distortions playing havoc with the clear cut edge of the tarmac strip.

A feint roar could be heard from the distant horizon.  The noise grew louder and louder, now heard well above the relentless chanting of the birds and insects.  A glint of light was caught in the distance and as the rumble drew closer it could be observed that a motorcyclist, resplendent in his white leather jacket, was riding his mount rapidly towards the ancient monument half a mile away.

As the rider rode faster into the foreground it could be observed that this was no ordinary day tripper.  The open megaphone type exhausts echoed a note reminiscent of track racers, the rapid acceleration shattered only by the tortuously hard braking for his next corner belayed an experienced street racer.  Each gear change was just a flick from his right boot just a fraction of momentum lost.  At every corner the hot black rubber of the tyres scrabbled for grip, the footrests causing sparks to be flown from the tarmac.  Then again the rider pulled upright rapidly towards the next bend in an ecstasy of speed and tormented delight.

This frantic moment of riding soon came to a close.  The rider having pulled out of a sweeping right hander screwed open the throttle, laid on the tank and watched the long straight unfurl in front of him.  The speedometer needle indicated seventy, eighty, …ninety passed as his right foot forced the next gear into operation.  The black chromed exhausts bleated out in beautiful harmony as one-hundred and ten showed.  Ton-twenty and the motor screamed for more, the airstream battling with the rider for control of the machine.

The needle peaked at one-hundred and twenty-five as the next bend loomed into the distance. Within a split second the rider’s right hand was gripping the brake lever.  The motion abruptly spoiled as the black calipers grabbed the shining twin front discs.  The front end dropped as the weight fell on the front wheel, the forks diving in pain as ninety, seventy, fifty passed.  Then a quick gear change and the bike cruised gently round the next bend.

Now that the riding was more sedate the details of man and machine could be seen.  The rider wearing his black crash helmet, bearing the mark of a Greek God painted delicately in gold, faded blue jeans and studded leather boots was haunched over a mainly black bike.

The heart of the bike, a mighty V-twin motor, thumped it’s power through a huge chain and was converted to power by a massive oversize rear tyre.  The front end, braced by two powerful looking forks, boasted a huge tyre, twin discs and rather unsubstantial but neat looking mudguard.  Above, the double headlights were gripped in a small nose fairing suggesting night racing but were taped over as it was a sunny afternoon.

Above the unburstable black motor lay a shiny, glimmering petrol tank.  As with the rest of the machine it was gloss black and only the golden letters broke the monotony.  The name reminiscent of by-gone days where the engine once ruled the roads, now emblazoned on the most beautiful bike in the world, read…VINCENT.

The Vincent motorcycle concept I envisaged for this story in the early eighties.  The café racer is influenced by the Vincent Black Shadow, the Moto-Martin CBX and Ogri

Vince was proud of his bike.  Very proud.  He had read how customers spend hundreds of pounds and thousands of hours churning out visually appealing machines, only to be torn to pieces and then re-built in time for the next custom show.  Also, like it as not, they don’t run, or can’t because they have sixty-nine carat gold plate on the rear sprocket or something.

But Vince’s bike ran, and it ran well.  He remembered how his old CX500 used to bounce and weave along this, his favourite stretch of road.  Even the Suzuki GS750 seemed to wallow above eighty on these curves.  But his Vincent, that he was riding now, seemed to eat potholes and white lines as though it were stood still on a bowling green.  Most bikes seemed like a roller-coaster on speed compared to this machine.

And what a machine it was.  A speed machine, an accelerating machine, an enthusiast’s machine, a reliable machine…?  Vince pondered on this for a while as the shining black beauty purred slowly into town, the passers-by admiring the immaculate lines and enviously noticing the smug look of it’s pleased rider.  The reliability, he thought, was probably the machine’s weakest point, although this would probably be complimenting it’s other features.  The speed was electrifying, the finish superb, the handling perfect.  Even the fuel consumption was favourable compared to the modern multis.

In reality, Vince thought, nothing should go wrong with his bike.  After all he had built the engine and bike from scratch, so he knew it inside out.  He remembered how his grandfather had nearly thrown out the old engine.  Now neatly restored, painted black and brightly polished it looked like it had been brought just yesterday.  It’s one-thousand cc’s of sheer muscle seemed to ooze character as it fired it’s cylinders in turn after every second lamppost on the pavement.  Beautiful, Vince thought.

Up ahead were traffic lights.  They were about forty yards away by now and Vince knew that if he opened the throttle the black sensation would roar easily through before the red, even if the amber showed up now, but he was in no hurry.  Vince used to scream along at fifty or sixty in town on the Suzuki thinking he was a king, but on this machine he knew he was and therefore had no need to prove it.  He casually glanced down at the large Smiths speedo and read twenty-seven miles an hour.

Sure enough the lights turned red and Vince pulled up resting his front wheel just short of the white line.  The traffic system was a slow one so Vince knew he would be able to look around, revelling in the fame this bike seemed to bring him.  When he stopped in the street it was almost as if every male over the age of fifty had owned one when they were young.  So strange that there was only one other Vincent in the country now.

He noticed his reflection in the mirrored glass of a shop front, the bike’s weight resting gently on his left boot.  Vince placed his right foot down and raised his left, seeing his reflection as though he were riding.  He crouched low over the tank and smiled as he imagined Brands Hatch wind around in front of him, the chequered flag waving as he passed the finishing line well ahead of the competition.

Today however, the only competition was the buzzing RD250 that had pulled up right next to him.

The Yamaha was the usual two-fifty seen around suburban streets.  Vince himself had owned something similar when he had started motorcycling just a few years ago.  This model, being about two years old now, and obviously thrashed, was naturally tatty.  The scratches, twisted footrests and bent handlebar levers seemed to compliment the Vincent perfectly.

The rider too was the standard eighteen-year old Vince had been three years back, with his painted polycarbonate hat and Foster-Grants.  A wry smile told the message Vince was expecting.  The rider rocked backwards and forwards revving his engine and grinning widely.  This guy wanted a race.

Vince casually clicked the gear-lever into first and gave a quick blat of the motor to show the competition that he meant business.  The revolutions died down to it’s normal thumping tick-over as he held in the clutch and watched the ominous red light.

The Yam owner was now sweating.  He loved racing cars and bikes away from the lights and considered himself good at the ‘sport’.  After all he had only been beaten once and that was because he had missed a gear.  A criminal act in the unwritten law of street racing.  And today he was challenging no ordinary Escort.  This black monster next to him seemed to ooze power, even stood still.  His eyes locked onto the lights, only blinking to remove the sweat gathering on his eyelids.

Suddenly the red light was joined by the amber.  The Yamaha owner dropped his clutch holding five-thousand revs.  The front wheel pawed the air, nearly sending the rider off the back.  Seven-thousand on the clock and the rider plucked his next gear from the box, the front wheel again falling to the ground.  Another seven-thousand was showing and again the front tyre was losing traction with the tarmac as the rider flicked a higher ratio into operation in a frantic dash for victory.

The red and amber had now dissolved and had been replaced by green and Vince knew he could now start.  He had not been tempted to jump the lights with his opponent, after all he did have the capacity advantage over the Yamaha.  He noticed that the other rider was across the other side of the junction and was only about fifty yards away from the narrowing gap, caused by the parked cars, which they were racing for.

The huge motor only showed two-and-a-half thousand on the tachometer when he slipped the light clutch away from the left handlebar.  He knew that he had over seventy miles an hour in this gear so it was now down to his right hand.  Vince preferred to release clutches gently and let the motor do the work rather than lose valuable forward motion trying to control senseless wheelies.

The tachometer was showing four thousand now and the scorching black rubber of the rear tyre was acting like a clutch as a plume of white smoke emitted from the back.  Vince leaned forward onto his forearms to prevent the aerobatics of the front end and watched as the little Yamaha appeared to be coming back towards him.

It was now only twenty yards to that gap and the Yam had the best line, with the rider obviously happy as he seemed well ahead.  Having jumped the lights and gained that extra twenty or thirty yards he was confident that it would take something pretty special to beat him past that red Cortina parked ahead.  The juggernaut approaching the other way prevented any alternative route and as his front wheel was way ahead of any competition, which was the only thing that mattered, he guessed that the other rider was braking fiercely.

The competition, however, was something pretty special and Vince wasn’t going to loose easily.  The gap may have been only fifteen yards away and they may have been travelling well above fifty by now but Vince knew that his bike only needed a gap of about nine feet to get through and saw that his front wheel was in line with the Yamaha’s rear and he was accelerating like he had never experienced before.

With the throttle against the stop and the motor now screaming in delight he was being physically stretched by the power.  His arms seemed to be pulling from their sockets and his eyes watered with the pain at the tremendous G-force, pushing him against the moulded seat hump.

The bikes were level now and the red Cortina seemed all too near.  With his acceleration Vince knew that if he were to back off now he would have no time to stop or swerve.  It was now or never.  His right hand forced the throttle harder against it’s stop causing the rubber to twist painfully, as the bikes edged closer together, the gap drawing nearer.  Now even the Vincent’s front end lifted as the two battled for first place.

Luckily for Vince his front wheel was now ahead, but the Cortina was very close, however, rules are rules and he decided to swerve towards the gap, just missing the car by a few inches.  The Yamaha rider sensed this and threw his right fist forward, shutting off the throttle and grabbing the brake lever.  The tiny black caliper clutched it’s shining disc and sent a thin black run of rubber down the tarmac.

Vince had won, but only just.

Further on down the road the mighty Vincent pulled up at another set of traffic lights.  It burbled away on tick-over as it’s last competitor silently drew up next to it.

Vince looked at the Yamaha’s owner and smiled confidently.  The rider gave a return nod.

“Nice Motor.”

“Thanks.”  Replied Vince.

“Quick…”  he continued “…isn’t it?”

“Quick enough.”  Confirmed Vince.

“What is it?”  Asked the Yam owner, as the lights turned to green.

“A dream come true.” Vince replied, dumping the clutch.  The mighty motor again responded and he roared off into the distance…

Author: Vince Poynter
From the Fiction section of the vinceunlimited.co.uk website dated 17 Aug 2018
Written in the early eighties but first published in Mar 2010
The first half written in 1982 for an article in Southampton and District Motorcycle Club magazine under the title The Ultimate Ride with the remaining penned to fit the requirements of Bike magazine, but sadly never published meaning the writer had to get a proper job
At the time of writing the Southampton and District Motorcycle Club was based in Woodside Avenue in Eastleigh.  It can now be found via sdmcc.net
The header photograph shows the author squatting next to an immaculate Vincent Rapide motorcycle.  The Rapide was produced between 1936 and 1955 and remains a collectable bike.  The more famous, faster Black Shadow model had black enamelled engine casings.  The photo was taken by the author’s wife in Skegness in April 1996
The sketch was drawn by the author to demonstrate the bike envisaged in the story.  It was influenced by the Vincent Black Shadow motorcycle’s V-twin motor sat in a frame similar to the eighties Moto-Martin CBX1000.  Also there is just a bit of Ogri in it.  Orgi was a cartoon character drawn by Paul Sample for Bike Magazine between 1972 and 2009.  Ogri actually rode a Norvin, a Vincent engined Norton café racer.  Actually he didn’t as he was just an ink drawn character.  Ogri continued in motorcycle magazine Back Street Heroes until 2012

Kawasaki GPz750R

Top Bike

By Vince, Written Sep 2005

Top Gun style. Sat on my brand new red and black Kawasaki GPz750R

The Kawasaki GPz750R is a better known bike than many may at first think because it had a part in a top grossing Hollywood film.  The bike was Tom Cruise’s mount in the 1986 blockbuster Top Gun.  But I had mine first.

The year was 1985 and I had recently met my wife.  We shared a passion for bikes and as she was prepared to share her greenbacks with me we had the chance to trade up to a decent steed.  Frankly I was fed up at the time with her ugly Suzuki GSX250.  It’s narrow seat and uninspiring performance wasn’t suited to the two-up riding we did and I hankered after a big sportsbike.

My Honda CX500 was now a distant memory and I wanted the misses to appreciate the benefits of big bike riding.  We considered a litre-sized machine as we felt the need, the need for speed and looked around for an interesting bike.  There was only one, the Kawasaki GPz900R.  It was the spiritual successor to the legendary Z900 series using a new water-cooled version of the firm’s famous four cylinder motor.  It eventually grew a big reputation for speed and handling and for a time looked to take the legendary title from the Zed.

We looked at getting the 900 version but the 750 was really big enough, looked identical, had cheaper insurance and came in a gorgeous piano black and red finish that looked so much better than the dull 900 options, which is probably why Tom had one as well.

B328 WOW was one of the new generation of sportsbikes that came complete with full fairing.  This, along with the heavy water-cooled motor in a frame set-up that preceded 500cc Race-rep styling meant for a long wheelbase and top-heavy tendencies.  Combine this with a large turning circle and small diameter front wheel and the result was a bike that preferred speeds of three figures to three-mph and it was this characteristic that explains the first anecdote.

The bike was brand new when collected and had been prepped by the dealer.  Because of the danger of theft by leaving the tax disc stuck to the inside of the screen the dealer had helpfully put it in a plastic holder but using a decision that could only be made by a blind grease-monkey connected it to one of the fairing screws slap bang in the middle of our shiny new black and red fairing.  It was an eyesore that the misses and I vowed to eradicate just as soon as we got home to our screwdriver set, which as usual was waiting patiently in the shed ready for more screwing action.  No I’m not going down that route!

Such a beautiful bike, spoilt only by a naff plastic tax disc mount in the middle of the fairing

Anyway, before we got home we had to visit various family and friends and show them what fantastic people we were by showing off our shiny new bike and one of the first was my wife’s auntie.  We did the visit and were rewarded as expected with a nice cup of tea then set off on our merry way to the next (dis)interested family member.  As we were leaving the auntie’s the trouble and strife decided to take the helm and I obediently climbed on the pillion seat.  We pottered off and headed for the main road, a sharp left turn two hundred yards from auntie’s.  The misses carefully pulled up to the junction and waited for a clear moment to join the traffic.  A gap soon appeared, she let out the clutch then the water-cooled engine spluttered and stalled.  She had hardly commenced the turn so was in mid lean with no power.  We had dropped below the hard-deck and there was no choice but to let the damn thing fall over.  Personally, I stepped off the back.

We were distraught.  Our shiny new bike laying at 45 degrees, resting in the pavement, dribbling fuel.  One day old and a new fairing seemed to be needed.  We lifted her up [the bike, not the wife] and inspected the damage.  One broken plastic tax disc holder – but that seemed to take the entire brunt.  That blind grease monkey had inadvertently saved us 700 quid!

The story might imply that the love of my life is an incompetent buffoon on a bike and I must have been one Tomcat short of a carrier for letting her anywhere near the front seat but that cannot be further from the truth.  After mastering the idiosyncrasies of the bike she went on to pass her Advanced Motorcycle Test on the beast, raising major praise in the bargain and could turn tight consecutive figure of eights on it at slow speed.  In the same way I was mimicking Maverick at speed she was proving an equal exponent in the guise of Ice-Man.  We later realised that the keeling over incident was caused by fuel starvation that occurred when leaving the bike for an hour or two after riding which resulted in fuel evaporation in the feed pipes to the carbs, well that and the top-heavy balance.  Well at least that was the reason when I dropped the thing outside the in-laws a few hours later.  Luckily I held it before it actually grounded this time as there wasn’t a tax disc holder on the right.

The GPz750R always was kept in quite spectacular condition, receiving almost as much cleaning as riding and stayed in pristine original condition.  In fact it was so clean that when Ice entered it into a concours competition it won first place.  Admittedly it was only a smallish local car-group competition but the judges did consider age and it was only one year old.  Our friend with the 15-year old Beemer was not amused and claimed unfair play but the judges couldn’t fault our bike no matter how hard they looked.  I told my mate with the BM that he should have at least washed it!

I too, took my Advanced Motorcycling Test on the bike and passed.  I don’t recall much about the test apart from the poor weather and the tea at the Little Chef afterwards.  In fact I recall many a Little Chef visit on the bike as it took us on adventures all over the country.  It was a great bike to buzz the tower with.  Cars were eaten alive with its rapid acceleration and our riding got quicker and quicker.  It was built in the days before tyres became fatter than Pavrotti so it’s skill was in fast open road riding rather than track-day scratching although I did ground out the pegs on roundabouts sometimes.

The dials go up to 160 so that must be it’s top speed [said every pimple-nosed boy]

In fact it was the incredible speed that eventually killed off our relationship – the Kwaker and me, not the misses.  The buzz was getting too intense and risks were getting more and more hairy.  I recall one of the last rides, destination unknown.  It wasn’t hard to overtake cars on single carriageway roads, in fact it was easy to blip past two without dropping a gear such was the power.  However, when dropping a peg or two in the gearbox acceleration was phenomenal.

Car drivers have no idea how different a big bike can be to a car when accelerating.  Most car drivers haven’t experienced supercar acceleration which smash through sixty in fewer than six seconds.  Bikes are twice this fast and the power is there from any speed.  Enough to quite literally take your breath away.  For anyone with fuel in his or her veins experiencing this is a must.  And I used this force on many an occasion.  Drop two gears and even if the road is short you can sail past cars, one, two, three at a time.  When the road opens up, and providing there are no turns, getting past four or five at a time becomes possible and it’s addictive as hell.

Even modern busy roads help the motorcyclist in a strange way.  Because there are so few chances for an average sub-1400cc tin-box to get past another car drivers tend to drive in a monotonous mode, not ready to pounce when the road does open up.  They think that even if they wanted to pass by almost certainly there will be someone coming the other way.  So they drive on the bumper of the car in front, not looking any further ahead than the bootlid of their predecessor.  I sometimes think that you could cause multiple suicide just by driving slowly then off a cliff as every car in the queue behind will follow.  For a keen biker all these cars are collectively known as mobile chicanes.  And one day I came across one of these target rich environments, a slowly moving train of cars and decided to overtake two or three of them.

Said cars were all pootling along in a queue at about 45mph, with me following.  I rounded a corner, knowing that the road would probably open up and I might get past a couple, so I dropped a couple of cogs.  Before the corner had unwound I saw the straight and had passed my first victim, this gear took me past the second as well and the third now looked a likely sure-fire bet.  By now I was probably travelling about 70mph so passing the others was quick but at this stage a keen car driver may have started to spot the overtaking opportunity and I was on the highway in the danger zone.

Idle drivers never check their mirrors so the good rider is keeping a keen eye on all the tell-tale signs of overtaking, and none of them usually include actually indicating or looking.  The signs are in an exhaust puff of smoke, a twitch of the front tyres, possible re-positioning, putting a second hand on the steering wheel, all that sort of thing.  In short second sight.  Luckily for me car three was so close to car four that I assumed the towrope was invisible so I treated cars three and four as one.  By now the revs had reached the point where the dial turns from black to red but I wasn’t looking anywhere but the road and cars ahead.  The slight tail off in power gave me the incentive to snick up a gear and I snicked away.

Passing car four I was probably travelling near to 90mph but now a lorry had trundled into the distance.  I read this as a good sign.  The lorry wasn’t travelling fast so I now knew how much space I really had, after all an empty road could mean a potential fast car, one blocked by a moving lorry is a calculable, albeit reducing, gap.  Add to this the presence of oncoming vehicles usually dissuades cars from overtaking.  I had an open road, the best view, a line of cars who weren’t about to overtake, a gap to aim for and a powerful bike that was singing tunes only racers usually experience.  I flew past cars five and six like they were stationary and in all fairness comparing my speed to theirs this wasn’t far short of the truth.  In fact it now looked like I could actually get past them all.

It is a strange fact that for some reason we all secretly believe that if only we could pass one more car or lorry then we might actually be at the front of the queue with no more traffic ahead, ever.  On the kind of road only seen in car adverts.  Common sense trashes this theory but common sense didn’t make me pass six cars at these speeds.  That was caused by adrenalin and I had it in bucketfuls at this moment.  One more vehicle lay ahead, the box van heading this little queue.

Naturally I made the narrowing gap, I’d been through the fire and came out the other side glowing – but only just.  You probably wouldn’t be reading this now if I hadn’t.  I glanced at the speedo after I swept through the gap and it was coming back down, through 125mph.  I had just passed seven vehicles in one twist of the throttle in a space where no car could get by, exceeding the limit by a factor of more than two.  And it was raining.

I was Maverick, I didn’t want to be Goose.  I told the misses and we sold the bike.  I’ve never owned another sportsbike since then.

Although on those hot summer nights when I feel like playing with the boys I get that loving feeling…

The soundtrack to this webpage is available on Columbia Records

Footnotes and Feedback

Looking back on my time with the bike, it was one hell of a ride

Note originally added December 2006

Since delivering this fine piece of writing I have received word from sources abroad that Mr Cruise’s bike was probably a nine-hundred.

According to my source’s knowledge the seven-fifty wasn’t marketed in the land that used to be passed from Red Indian father to son.

This fact was delivered by a Kawasaki nutter [Niek’s words, not mine] from the Netherlands so it may be double-dutch.

Are you reading this Stateside?  If so pop into your local dealer and quiz him mercilessly until he squeals out the truth.  Then let me know.

Or are you in the movie industry and know the truth?  In which case stop arseing around reading this and sign me up to write your next blockbuster.

Or are you Tom Cruise, in which case stop arseing around and send me Nicole’s number.

More note originally added March 2011

A lull in my schedule allowed me some time to net-hop and I typed in Honda CX500 to see how far up the Google chain [my bikes] webpage was.

During my search I came across a link to the Internet Movie Cars Database.  Here I hastened to the Kawasaki GPz750R and 900 links and discovered that it seems Niek seems indisputably correct.

The bike that TC rode in TG was a 9 but as suspected was mistaken for a 7-5 because it was a special in 750 colours for the movie.

imcdb gives some info on the matter but the full convoluted and strange story is told by Mik Anderson who seems to be an obsessive fan.  And without these types the net would be rubbish.

Author: Vince Poynter
From the Bikes section of the vinceunlimited.co.uk website dated 3 May 2018
First Published: Version 2.02 in Sep 2005
The four images show my red and black Kawasaki GPz750R motorcycle shortly after being purchased brand new, stood on the crest of Toot Hill, Romsey, with me posing by it’s side.  All photographs taken by my wife around the beginning of Aug 1984
The movie Top Gun had a US release in May 1986 but wasn’t released into the UK until Oct 1986
The soundtrack to Top Gun was released by Columbia Records in 1986
The Internet Movie Cars Database resides under the URL of imcdb.com
Mik Anderson’s article about the GPz900R featured in Top Gun can be found at http://mikandersen.dk/index.php/top-gun-motorcykel/top-gun-bike-english-version 2018

Honda CB200

Not a dream machine.

My brand new, second-hand, nearly stock red Honda CB200

With age comes experience.

The trouble was that when I purchased my second motorcycle I had neither.

I had just turned eighteen and had already cut my teeth on motorbikes (along with other parts of my body as well) and was ready to move on.

The Yamaha trail bike I was selling just couldn’t handle the way my biking days were developing and I needed a new steed.

More of my friends had graduated from their mopeds and I didn’t want to be left behind with all the high-powered horses that were amassing around me.

I say, high powered, all were under 250cc as this was the usual starting point for teenagers in those days.  Something to do with the fact that 251cc was deemed too powerful by men in grey suits for new riders.

Plus the Yamaha trail bike just wasn’t designed for two and my loins were calling out for company.

My loins were calling out for company.  However, taking two spare helmets but having no spare seating is the definition of optimism

I set about searching for my next bike and considered all the two-fifty options available.

It was 1979 and Honda had just launched the SuperDream in 250 and 400cc flavours.  The SuperDream, or CB250N if you prefer, was a fantastically new variant on the old and bulbous Dream 250.  The trouble was it was brand new and very expensive for a new kid on the block.

Yamaha had the RD250 but Yams were always too race orientated.

Suzuki tried the same game with their GT250 but didn’t even have Kenny Roberts on their side.

But the most desirable to me was the Kawasaki KH250 triple.  It oozed sex appeal with its multi-exhaust layout, screaming two-stroke noise and links to the fantastic K900.  The twenty miles to the gallon was pitiful and the reliability suspect but the triple hit all the right notes.

I wanted to go with my instinct.

The problem with instinct is that old chestnut – practicality.

I wasn’t affluent enough to make passionate decisions and had to rely on my family to help finance the deal.  This help came with the inevitable ‘advice’ and that came in the form of ‘strong suggestions’ that I ought to buy a Honda and it shouldn’t be as powerful as 250cc.

I didn’t want a smaller engine than my 175cc Yamaha so there was only one choice.

Honda’s Dream machines had a sibling, the CB200.

It was an ugly mutt of a bike designed primarily for commuting and generally unloved, even by its owners.

It had good reliability from its basic, tried and tested, twin 200cc power plant but that’s like saying Nora Batty is good at washing up.  So what?

And its power was poor.

The only plus sides were it had a four-stroke engine and was red.  Despite my earlier love of the Kawasaki triple I have to admit that four-stroke power is much better unless your only desire is top speed or acceleration.  And Kwacker green is putrid.

The Cee-Bee’s most admirable quality was its comfort, particularly in comparison with the unforgiving seat of my previous trail bike.

In fact, I now wonder whether the ease of riding distances coupled to the (let’s be generous) gentle power helped form my love of touring mindlessly around.

Mind you at 18 to 19 a man has to look cool and the nondescript Honda did nothing for that.

It needed improvement and I started exploring the black art of customisation.

Not in the sense of chromed engine bolts, lowered track or power enhancements. Just a replacement exhaust and new headlamp.

A Cibie headlamp, an upswept exhaust, no crash bars.  Much cooler.  Still not cool

The original exhausts were low uninspiring pipes running at low level parallel to the ground with unsightly oversize mufflers.  My replacement exhaust was a potent two-into-one upswept stainless steel pipe terminating in a stubby megaphone – loud and stylish.  Not many CB200s had them so it made it distinctly different.

The headlamp conversion was a Cibie unit, from the famous French manufacturer who were making a name for themselves producing large concave, efficient, bright headlamps.  Again this added to the style.  And let me see in the dark.

But despite these lavish and expensive enhancements the Honda was still as ugly as a Yak.  Only the Yak now had bigger horns.

The bike did fulfill some requirements though.

It’s rear seat was shared a few times and I put a few miles on the clock but I struggle to recall those miles with any detail.

I cannot even recall crashing the thing.  The only ‘off’ that I remembered is when I tried to charge down one of my ‘friends’ who had been terrorising my sister’s boyfriend’s party.

My colleague Chris had been idly throwing a knife into the kitchen wall due to a lack of ability to entertain himself properly at a party and I chivalrously intervened.

The result was that after a few more beers and being ejected Chris turned his attention to me.

I suppose trying to run down a threatening, drunken yob stood just outside the gateway, with a Bowie Knife recently in his possession, is a silly move but, despite warnings, he refused to move out of the way.

I gave it full throttle and dumped the clutch at which point he twisted deftly to one side and kicked out at the Honda.

His foot caught the rear of the front wheel and sent me and bike in different directions.  He then proceeded to kick a man when he was down – How cheap.

I would love to tell you that I leapt to my feet and battered the drunkard black and blue but anyone who knows me would write in and get this website closed down due to fraud.

Instead I writhed around wondering why it didn’t hurt.

Now, I know it was down to his soft trainers reigning hail on my thick jacket and helmet.

If I had kicked back he would have suffered worse – I had steel toecap motocross boots.

However, frustration took its course and Chris changed tack and decided to lay into the Honda instead.  It suffered worse.

Two weeks later, and after the intervention of parents, Chris had been forced to pay for the damage repairs and we were all mates again.  Kids eh?

So a few months later the Honda was sold to a new keen owner, ‘provided I removed that awful loud exhaust and huge headlamp’.

Thankfully this pre-dated eBay by several years so I still had the original parts.

It seemed the buyer wanted an original Yak.

So, as a conclusion – I should have brought the Kwacker.

I wouldn’t have needed to change a thing and would now probably be telling you a story about how I was innocently playing with my own knife when some do-gooder squealed to the host and got me kicked out of a party.  Then tried to run me down.

So in retribution I bravely kicked the living daylights out of him.

And then did the same to his naff Honda.

Author: Vince Poynter

From the Bikes section of the vinceunlimited.co.uk website dated 28 Feb 2018 but first published in the website in Mar 2005.  All photos added in 2018
The first image is the author’s stock Honda CB200 as originally purchased at the end of 1979.  The crash bars and rear rack were non-standard fitments by the original owner
The second image shows the author sat astride his fully loaded Honda CB200 and was taken around Summer 1980
The third image, dated around late 1980 shows the author’s modified Honda CB200, showcasing the Cibie headlight unit and featuring the two-into-one upswept exhaust

My 2005 Top Ten Vehicles

21st Century Travelling

Maybe you were transported here by a strange new time machine, or even from another computer.  Any how you came you are welcome to read why I have chosen the next ten vehicles as my favourite of all time.

It is an eclectic mix of transport that I have either used or lusted after with envy.

Cyclists will note that I have not included a bicycle in the list.  After all cycle technology is now futuristic and sexy so I could forgive a lack of motorised power.  However I refuse to forgive saddle technology until I can actually ride a bicycle further than ten metres.

Of course, when compiling a list like this the rejected ones are nearly as interesting.

For instance you may wonder how I could have a list like this and not include a Ferrari.  Easy really, there’s none there.  A few may qualify on the grounds of looking fantastic but underneath is just a lightweight Fiat.  I’m not fooled, nor are many of the owners.  Check out the Owner’s Documents on any used Ferrari and you will be surprised to see so many names.  The hype doesn’t live up to the reality.  Great red though but this isn’t a favourite list of colours.

Keeping on the subject of cars, in the past I’ve swooned over the fantastically brutish Aston Martin Vantage and may still get one yet but how could I include a car that if a generous benefactor offered me a swap for any Aston from any time I’d really have no second thoughts about choosing the brand new, phenomally quick and beautiful DB9.

Some of the DB9’s details are cheaper than a crate of canaries although I’ve never been one to turn down a beauty because of a few small imperfections.  Mole on Demi Moore?  So what.

Another plus would be: “Blonde, James Blonde”. What a great introduction.

As you will be able to tell generally I’m not into classic vehicles.  I’d rather own a modern Bentley Arnarge than a 4½ litre supercharged model from the 1920s.  Unless I can sell it of course.  Plus, impressive that the 4½ litre Bentley behemoth is the most attractive classic car has to be the Jaguar SS100.  But still not as good as a couple of dozen modern vehicles.

I love bikes, it’s in my genes, whether I currently have a bike or not.  It’s all to do with the lack of a cycle when I was young and the freedom that my first moped rides brought me.  So I need to include bikes in this ultimate vehicles list and the Ducati 900 Monster was one of the first that I thought of. The reason why this strange naked retro was considered is that it re-vitalised my interest in bikes in the nineteen nineties.

I hadn’t had a bike for a while and the squared-off eighties styling never persuaded me to renew my interest.  The Monster 900 was a breath of fresh air.  It seemed so stylish and raw with an exposed engine and trellis frame it made me want two wheels again.  Thinking back, I can’t think why I brought a Yamaha Diversion 900 instead.

Oh yes. Italian electrics, Ducati clutches and a saving of about two grand.  And when you are able to make a choice based on such trivial reasons the original option doesn’t really deserve to be in a top ten.

And second best is why I cannot include a First Class dining experience aboard a ferry.  As you can tell from other entries I do like being spoilt.  So many cannot handle an obsequious waiter or fawning Maitre-d but I’m willing to be waited on hand and foot.  It’s not a case of being better than those who serve but the fact that it makes a pleasant change.  I’ll happily have a beer with the waiter afterwards.

A First Class dining experience on board a ferry, such as the cross channel version is a thoroughly pleasant way of passing the time.  But two reasons keep it off the top ten.  Firstly, the QE2 is infinitely better and secondly the QE2 doesn’t end up in France!

My final rejection is an oxymoron.  No, not the Ford 2-litre Oxymoron, but a genuine oxymoron from an age where such a beast could exist.  A cute war-plane.

Nowadays war planes are stunning, agile weapons of mass destruction but back in the 1920s at the dawn of flight the planes were not overly effective.  However, one stands out above the others, including the Red Baron’s exciting Fokker Tri-plane.

The Sopwith Camel first came into my life as a child.  If you were born a male in the late fifties or early sixties you would be familiar with Airfix kits.  Plastic self-build models that filled many a wet weekday after school.  They are still available but this tactile hobby, along with most other hands-on experiences, have become side-lined by the ubiquitous electronic games.  This is a shame as building a model is a very satisfying skill and I still fondly remember the first one I built – a Sopwith Camel.

This little bi-plane had all the ingredients of a favoured vehicle.  The styling was right with the curved leading edge to the wings, dual forward gun synchronised with the propeller and rounded tail plane.  A cute war plane, such an oxymoron.

So, onto the actual vehicles making my top-ten.

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1969 Cooper F1 car

My toy racing car.  The wing on this model was set too high in this version, based on a late season entry.  So it now looks rubbish

Formula 1 racing has always held a certain appeal.  The fast cars, obscene money and glamorous locations keep the sport in my mind even if the last few years Schmedious results have kept it off my TV.  So it is natural that I should include a car from this pinnacle of motor sports.

I suppose it is a symptom of age that despite the obvious appeal of modern cars there is an era of racing that seems more glorious and it dates around the time I first got an interest in the sport.  I have chosen the Cooper F1 from the 1969 season as it was this car that, to me, epitomises open wheel racing.

The rear tyres look properly wide, the engine is exposed and the newly added wings were just right.  I like the front spoiler jutting from the actual nose and the rear spoiler was better looking mounted low on the engine.

I’ve never driven one, nor am I likely to as the price of classic F1 racers nearly match their modern counterparts but I can dream.

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Aerial Atom

An Ariel Atom with my Jaguar XJ8 in the background.  I might need to take a moment

My next choice is not so far away from the car above and is probably chosen because of the similarities.  But instead of a having to be Ray Parlour’s wife to afford a classic F1 motor this blatant facsimile costs a more reasonable £30-40k.  Still a lot of money for a weekend car with no panels but well comparable with its natural opposition.

I love the Atom’s Meccano build and raw energy and can personally testify to its ability to deliver the goods that the look promises.  Short on comfort but very long on desire, the Atom deserves its place in this illustrious crowd.

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Bentley Arnarge

Nearly as quick as the Aston but with seats like a Business Class jet and the torque to match.  I have never experienced power like the Bentley Arnarge delivers and in back to back tests with its bigger brother the Continental it wins on every count, including saving £100k.  The Continental may have the classic looks but I’m sure I can find an Arnarge to beat it.

The best car in the world.  Full stop.

Note that a full appraisal of my time with a Bentley Arnage will eventually be posted on this website

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Concorde

My first aeronautical choice is probably in the list of everyone who has ever seen the Concorde.  Breathtakingly beautiful, stunningly quick and well out of the reach of the hoi-poli.  Marvellous.

The only problems are it’s cramped interior and that it has disappeared from our skies.

Worth every bit of pollution.

In the top ten? No doubt at all.

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Dakota

A Douglas DC-3 hanging in the Smithsonian Museum

The second most beautiful plane in the world [see above] hails from the time just before the second world war but its lines are just so perfect.  I love the fat fuselage, strong wing arrangements, classic twin prop design and sturdy tail.

Still operating in many places around the world today the McDonnell Douglas DC-3, known as a Dakota in the UK, is living proof that if it looks right then it probably is right.

I’ve yet to catch a flight in one of these beauties but guess that the reality doesn’t quite live up to the glamour.  Particularly as I’ll probably be in South America when I get a go in one.

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Eurostar Best Class

I’m not much of a train buff.  For many years I rarely travelled on one thinking they were too expensive and inconvenient.  Also, with 8 miles between my home and the nearest station, thanks to Beecham’s cuts in the 60s, I never had cause to use them.

Not that I had no contact, my wife spent most of her career with a railway company and we took advantage of the odd subsidised trip.

Things have changed recently though as I now work mainly in London and the train is the only viable option.  I estimate that I have travelled over one hundred and fifty thousand miles sat on a train.  This experience, in all its sordid glory is why a trip on the Eurostar in the best carriages is such a delight.

I have travelled three times in First Class and on every occasion I have thought it most pleasant.  The large seats, at seat service and quiet comfort is reminiscent of travel tales of old.

Just don’t think that the modern version of First Class is the same.  For some peculiar reason, probably to do with the French translation, Business Class is the new premier travelling style and ‘mere’ First Class is a poor relation.

Now, how do I say ‘contravenes the Trade’s Description Act’ in French?

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Honda CBX Moto Martin

A Moto Martin CBX.  In brown.  Brilliant

The first bike in my top ten list is a hybrid vehicle and I’m not talking dual fuel.

In the late seventies Honda produced the stunning CBX with its fantastic transverse six cylinder engine.  Wider than a Cockney car salesman with a penchant for iced buns this behemoth was a dream machine.

Except two problems.  One, was the name.  Now Honda is a make to be respected for its engineering excellence and reliability but much like my Miele washing machine I don’t exactly look at the product with love.  The other problem with the CBX was the handling – the stock Japanese flexi-frames could never harness the engine outputs at the time.

Moto Martin, a small French custom builder came to the rescue by taking the engine and putting it in a stylish trick frame mounted with swoopy body parts with twin-headlamps.  All par for the course today but 30 years ago this was enough to make me tear out the advert and hang it on my wall.  Praise indeed.

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Jaguar XJ

I own one.

Need I say more?

Note that a full appraisal of my Jaguar XJ8 4.0 will eventually be posted on this website

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QE2

Who wouldn’t be impressed with one of the traditional Queens of the sea?

I have travelled the Atlantic on the QE2 and can confirm it is all that you would expect, then more.  One trip and I’m a confirmed cruise fan.  A tall order for the QM2 replacement to beat.

For more details about my experience on this most magnificent of vehicles see my separate story.  And be prepared to be jealous.

Note that a full appraisal of my time onboard the QE2 has already been posted on this website [8 Dec 2017]

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Vincent Black Shadow

The two Vincents.  Vince and a Vincent Rapide.  The rarer Black Shadow was similar but faster with a black enamelled engine casing

Last, but not least, this list would be incomplete without the vehicle I was actually named after.  My father told me this, whilst saying I should have been grateful that he didn’t like Francis Barnetts.

Although this bike now looks a little quirky I am actually quite proud to be named after such a phenomenal bike from the nineteen fiftes, with a great reputation amongst those that know such things.

If only I could afford one now.  Think multiple grands.  And then some.

Fantastic name though.

Author: Vince Poynter
From the petrolhead section of the vinceunlimited.co.uk website dated 23 Jan 2018
First Published: Version 1.03 in Feb 2005 and reproduced here in full, unedited
The images all taken by the author, except the one he is in.  Obvs

Yamaha DT175

Road Test Note: It is my intention to break the mould of classic bike road test reports.  Instead of copying other testers and attempting to fit all the technical specifications and performance figures into a readable report I plan to tell stories about my rides describing how I interacted with them, what they meant to me, how I survived the crashes and how they made me feel at the time

Yamaha DT175

An Initial Trial

We all remember our first.

Our first girlfriend, first kiss, first single and first time stealing from the dairy.  Or was that just me?

Anyway, our vehicles are no exception and my little Yamaha DT175 trail bike was the first vehicle that I owned.

Mind you at the time it didn’t seem so little and in many ways it wasn’t the first.  But much like girlfriends you can’t include a quick shuftie with your neighbour as a prima facie conquest.  So the Yam formally remains my first.

My parents had purchased a new Gilera moped for my older brother when he turned sixteen.  They gave me the option of a new ‘ped at the same age or a second-hand motorbike at seventeen.

As I was able to use my brother’s wheels I chose the motorbike option and given the stringent restrictions on size (“not a 250 son, too big”) and considering cost, I chose the Yamaha.

The year was around 1978 and the bike had a P registration plate, it was only a few years old.  That’s a P at the end by the way.

Trail bikes back then were much different from today.  The styling still had suggestions of a fifties mount with it’s front mudguard set close to the wheel, although trail bikes were soon shipped with higher mudguards shortly afterwards.

The tyres were ‘knobblies’ so gave me a chance to use it on and off the blacktop.

Top speed was a quite miserable 65mph or so.  This meant that it never kept up with my mate Jeff’s Honda CB125.  Then again, nothing else could either.

The best bit of my new toy was the colour.

Although the bike was in sound mechanical condition with no damage to the bodywork, the bike had been repainted.  I can’t recall the probably implausible excuse the seller gave for the re-spray but I didn’t care.  It was a cream colour with brown stripes.

For some peculiar reason known only to myself, as a teenager my favourite colour was brown, plus at the time Kenny Roberts was putting Yamaha on the racing map and the distinctive blocky stripes were aped on my fuel tank.

Not mine. The bike, the photo nor the girl. In the absence of photo evidence of my own DT175 I found and used for years this scan of a similar model from an old Bike magazine featuring despatch rider Sue Fiddian. By old Bike, I mean the magazine not the girl. Sorry Sue. Credit: Bike Magazine

It was a unique bike at the time so if you recognise this pattern and now know the bike get in touch.  I would love to see it again.  Mind you it would be well past its sell by date by now and I guess pretty ropey.  So I’ll only give you a few quid for it, all right.

Another useful feature was the off-roading abilities.

Not so much the serious mudplugging but the ability to climb easily up the pavement kerb at the local disco.

Of the few times I ventured off the tarmac my inexperience kept me from performing fantastic tricks and my leg length prevented me from stopping.  In fact, I can’t recall ever pulling a proper, wheel in the air for more than a half-second type, wheelie.  And I call myself a biker!

Plus, in those days, stoppies were only carried out by riders with no control and grabby brakes.  The drums on the Yamaha certainly never grabbed anything to my knowledge.

However, I did find the thing ace at driving round town with its light weight and responsive two-stroke motor.

The wide bars, although sometimes a pain through dense traffic, enabled surefooted slow riding skills and great manoeuvrability.  This was coupled to a high vantage point from that seat that didn’t suit my legs, although it was comfy enough for one bum.

Add a second bum, whose owner had to make do with swing-arm mounted rear footpegs, and it didn’t do so well.  But for one up hooligan riding round town it was perfect.

I even considered fitting road tyres rather than the standard fitment off-road rubber.  I recall that despite my efforts I couldn’t match a front and rear so didn’t proceed with this mod.  If I had I would have beaten the modern super-motards to the idea by several years.  Despite not heralding this modern change I travelled many a happy mile.

Nevertheless, it was the unhappy mile that it will be best remembered for.

I recall a frustrating crawl up the outside lane of a dual carriageway, at it’s 65mph maximum.  Jeff, on his CeeBee had passed the car and decided on a different route into the New Forest.  He swung into a left-hand turn and disappeared.

I was still in hot [read: warm] pursuit and trying to pass the car.

Why people insist on travelling at one mile an hour less than my top speed, I’ll never know.

Anyway, I just made it and shot round the bend.  It was set at a right angle and Kenny himself would have been pleased with taking it at this speed.  On his race bike.

Mind you I did have one race bike advantage.  The footpegs on a trail bike are small and high set so don’t dig in when cornering.  A common problem on seventies machinery.  Provided the tyres held out the thing could corner like a demon.  And the road that day was perfectly dry and smooth.

I leaned over, to the point my boots were scraping the deck, but it wasn’t enough.  The corner was too sharp.  So I leaned a bit more and something eventually grounded out.  My handlebar ends!

I slid across the road.

Thankfully, it being the seventies meant that no traffic was on the other side.  Unfortunately, being summer and a carefree teenager meant that I wasn’t dressed properly.  The lightweight jacket I had on rode up my torso, followed by my tee shirt, then in turn, each layer of my skin.  Gravel rash par excellence.

Despite this mishap I enjoyed my time with the Yamaha.

Even now I wish it was sat in my garage so that I could play on it.  The engine may have been noisy and underpowered but the styling was just right.  The high exhaust and low front mudguard may date the thing to a certain period but that’s when I was learning the meaning of freedom and this bike helped me achieve that.  I’ll always remember it fondly.

Like all my other firsts, I guess.

Author: Vince Poynter
From the bikes section of the vinceunlimited.co.uk website dated 9 Jan 18 but first published on the website in Mar 2004
The header image shows the front page of the official UK Yamaha DT175 sales brochure and was added in  Jan 2018.  Credit: Yamaha
The included image shows a photograph scanned from an old ‘Bike’ magazine and was used to illustrate a story about a female despatch rider called Sue Fiddian.  It was first added to my website in Version 3 in Mar 2010.  I liked this as it best represented the ‘look’ of my DT175.  Used and generally remembered in black and white.  Credit: Bike Magazine