Feedback
FEEDBACK
Readers, as well as those involved in the motorcycle industry, are invited to have their say about motorcycles they own or have owned. Anything is fair game: performance, handling, reliability, service, parts availability, lovability, you name it. Suggestions: be objective, be fair, no wildly emotional but ill-founded invectives; include useful facts like mileage on odometer, time owned, model year, special equipment and accessories bought, etc.
CLOSET STREET RACER
The Feedback section is always the first thing I read in your magazine, perhaps because it approaches the kind of “back porch” discussion that I recall from those days when the owner of your local motorcycle shop would set down his tools, wander outside, sit for a while in the warm springtime sun and let us kids prod him out of a few mechanical secrets or some preposterous story.
There was Burt Ives’ shop in Willimantic, Conn., where I spent the better part of a winter trying to breathe life back into a Harley KM. I had a little corner in the back all to myself, and now and then Burt would make his way through the “usable” parts scattered over the oil-soaked wood floor, to my spot for a progress check and some advice. But he gave me much more than advice: he gave me mysterious names, he told me of mechanical heroes. Of an epic showdown drag, right past his shop, between an Ariel Square Four and a Vincent Black Shadow, in which the Vincent caught the “Squariel” at about a hundred miles per hour.
What sort of man rode those bikes; who were they? They are seldom remembered. However, the names of the storytellers remain with memories from my mechanically-minded side of the past. I remember John Long, although I’ve forgotten most of a fanciful story behind his acquisition of the first real live Vincent I ever met. It sat out front of the shop, leaned over a bunch of curious little new Jap bikes called “Dreams” and I wanted it so bad. I might have traded my right arm for the necessary five hundred dollars if I didn’t need it to ride with. Maybe it didn’t even run, for all 1 knew or cared, but it was a mythical hero to me.
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Perhaps this is heresy, but I remember George Moody in Kokomo in much the same way as I do Homer, Dante or Chaucer. When I tired of fussing out back with a hopeless Atlas or an old Red Hunter, I’d look for George out front in his lawn chair. George’s last Vincent (speaking of Vincents) had a little plaque on the rear fender with the word “Indisputable” printed on it. He said he would run down the road alongside a Harley or Indian, just stay alongside until the other machine was wound out as fast as it would go. Then he would slowly and deliberately shift from third into fourth and accelerate away.
Incidentally, I finally did acquire a Vincent. It was a bright red forty dollar Rapide that someone had driven into a canal in Ft. Lauderdale. Took it to college with me and we shared a room in the dorm with another motorcyclist; an understanding sort, he possessed an untitleable BSA. Unfortunately Rapide never became more than just a conversation piece for me, and I ended up trading the parts, plus a 600cc Norton Twin, for an Edsel. Marriage had become my first consideration, and if this nice Jewish family was going to give up its only daughter for a slob Goy like me, the least I could do was acquire some sort of badge of respectability.
Didn’t work though. Did you know that some Edsels had 430 cubic inches? For a cowboy like me that proved too much, so I drifted back into twowheelers. College and the service brought me a series of Norton Twins, from 500 to 750cc, with a BMW R27 thrown in as an attempt at class. Loved every one of those early, oily Nortons, but the BMW was a mistake. Smoothness and reliability yes, but handling was squirrelly, and on the highway I rode in constant fear, at 50 mph, of being run over.
One day I rode over to a friend’s house to see his new bike, a ’72 Yamaha DS7. Black and gold, flat black cases, polished aluminum, 250cc. Pretty little toy, I thought, and asked to ride it. “Careful on the brakes and keep it over five,” he said as I left, knowing my BM. My God, here I was jazzing up hills at 85, falling into curves without thinking on a machine so sensitive that my hands induced a constant wobble. In five minutes I was sold on the minibike.
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Matter of fact, it was mine upon return, for on the way back I tried to pass a VW just as it turned left into a dirt road, and my Evel Knievel bit over it bent the forks....
That was my first ring-ding; since then I’ve had another 250 and two 350s. Not that I go through Yamahas so fast, I just deal around a little. Matter of fact, there has been a ’73 RD350 around here since it was almost new, and at 10,000 miles I see no reason for anything else. Most everybody knows about the handling and acceleration; I enjoy this, of course, but I use the bike a lot for long rides, too.
Like to Daytona once a year, for instance, ghosting this giant-killer up behind BMWs, Triumphs, Harleys. Most big bike owners are still unfamiliar, it seems, with this flashy minibike, and easily intimidated at my presence. Of course, my aggressive riding style may have something to do with it. Invariably, these newfound riding companions will boost the cruising speed a bit when I zing out and alongside on the Interstate. And then boost it again when I refuse to fall behind, and in a little while I’ll be flying along behind, say, a Guzzi or an R90S at 90 or 100. Shortly afterward I’m usually made to stop and answer questions about the Yamaha. It feels good to ride a winner.
Gas mileage from the 350 is excellent, from a sporty 30 mpg to about 50 at a steady 60 mph. Throttle position, not rpm, relates directly to gas mileage. A foray into a national forest, never over third gear, surprised me with 125 miles to a tankful of gas, compared to my usual 90 miles before going on reserve. Speaking of rpm, 5000 is a minimum for barely adequate plug life: that’s 200 to 1500 miles, depending on the riding style. Since the plugs are the only things that break, a couple of spares in the toolkit is a small sacrifice to make for the pleasure of owning an almost racing bike, I say.
And this pleasure seems to be very important to me, that’s why I always failed in my several attempts to give up riding. Pleasure is what it’s about, no matter who you are, only in different strokes, as they say. Some fellas and girls enjoy taking a little ride now and then. Some like it so much that they compete on weekends. The current crop of professional racers are admirable in that they live for something that they enjoy.
Lastly, there are those Dr. Jekylls like me who call themselves “enthusiasts,” but go a little crazy on the street at times. But we are all the same inside. Out on the road, smelling the bite of a
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cool morning. . .1 don’t have to describe it for you, do I? You’ve experienced it, I’m sure, and felt yourself a part of your machine. There’s no fear of the consequences, only a supreme overconfidence and a need for this flesh-and-metal being to flex its symbiotic muscles, transformed and flying down the road, a work of functional art for art’s sake. You are high, approaching one kind of perfection. If you know what I mean, I salute you, brother/sister.
John L. Siegal Decatur, Ga.
ISSUING A CHALLENGE
I would like a chance to point out the other side of Mr. Cleavenger’s “Commuter Special” in your Nov. ’75 “Feedback” column.
I bought a brand-new 1974 TS400 Suzuki in April of ’75, and out of the five bikes I’ve owned in the last four years, it is the worst purchase I ever made.
It isn’t bad on its chain or spark plugs, but it consumes oil at a fantastic rate. Without changing both sprockets it runs out of gas on the main tank at around 60 miles. Hopefully you are within 12 miles of a town or gas pump when this happens (that’s all the farther you’re going to get on the reserve tank). Maybe the oil filter on a four-stroke Twin isn’t the most convenient to clean, but the TS has an air filter that is a pain to get out (and in), i don’t think I ever had a smooth stop on my 400; as you turn down the throttle it will sort of bounce to a stop.
Three months after I bought the Suzuki, I bought a slightly used ’74 Yamaha RD350 with a Windjammer. Not only did I get twice the bike, but I paid $100 less. I ride it all the time, rain or shine. The vibration is less than half that of the 400, and instead of a top speed of 80, I can hit 11 0. Driving at 60 to 65 mph, I get around 45 miles per gallon. After driving the 400 miles across the state from home to school on both bikes, I’ll never take that Suzuki 400 ever again. My little two-cycle Twin takes corners a lot faster, has all the snap I want out of a bike, and I don’t have any problem adjusting two carburetors.
I’ll ride my squat road-hog street Twin against Mr. Cleavenger (the ballet dancer) around corners, up and down hills, short trips to town or across the state any day. (Just stay off the trails). I have yet to see a better medium-sized road bike than the RD350.
Diana Hartqig Pullman, Wash.
