An Unexpected Pregnancy, A Race-Tuned Yamaha RD400, A Broken Heart And Some Reliable Transportation

In our last episode, we left your hapless Nit Wit here minus his shiny 1983 Honda CBX 550, one fashion model girlfriend, meaningful employment and struggling under a pile of debt. There were some vague musings about a Honda XL 185 and a trip to America at the end of the yarn, so I thought maybe it might be best to fill in some details, as I’m sure most of you haven’t slept waiting for the sequel to last month’s epic English tragedy. Now for those sensitive souls for whom drug taking is verboten, I should make it clear that I only took drugs once. It’s just lasted three and a half years. And, living now in a world of self-examination, self-help and self-improvement, it’s clear I had a serious drug problem in those days- there was never enough.

But I digress.

What I failed to mention in my last dispatch from Bayly Towers was at the time of the CBX incident I was also the not-so-proud owner of a blown-up 1978 Moto Guzzi 850 Le Mans Mk 1. Where Dickie was an absolute whizz on legal work, banks and financing, his mechanical skills, like mine, were a little lacking. And, in hindsight, having him help me install the 950cc big bore kit while smoking lots of the only substance we knew about that came from Afghanistan was probably not so smart. Suffice to say now I was the owner of two wrecked motorcycles. Thankfully, Dickie’s parents owned an old storage area in my hometown and there, out of the relentless English rain, sat the remnants of my once glamorous life. A quiet place I could sit and reflect on my stupidity undisturbed as I contemplated my next move.

As luck would have it, in fairly short order the ray of light I was looking for in the dark day of my life appeared in the shape of a phone call. My Landlord at the time, Desperate Dave, was together enough to have a phone in the house. “Nealesy,” this slightly high-pitched voice on the other end of the Dog and Bone (phone in English) fired at me, “Fiona’s pregnant again and I’ve got to sell me RD quick to pay rent.” On the other end of the phone was Jimmy “Vertical” Flynn. (Vertical for all the talk of wheelies that was known locally as “Jimmy Flynology”, stories that were somewhere between myth and reality.)

What he had was a nice Yamaha RD400.

“It’s tasty, Nealesy,” he quipped, as he went into full salesmen mode. “It’s got a race seat, Boysen reeds, expansion chambers, gearing, skimmed heads and more.” He then went on to try and tell me it would be good for pulling birds (asking young ladies to go out on a date in English), all great things for someone not in trouble with the law for dangerous driving, who had a job and some money. I told Jimmy I was tapped out when I suddenly remembered I had actually stashed one credit card in my drawer for emergencies. And, even though this wasn’t my emergency it seemed like it was for Jimmy. “Sorry mate,” I replied, “all I’ve got left is a card with a two-hundred quid limit.”

He said he really needed more out of it but seeing as he was in such a bad spot he’d take it and a day later with the deal done, I found myself riding across town on a raucous, feral two-stroke twin that seemed like the fastest way to lose one’s driving license, or some not-so-luxury accommodation care of Her Majesty (jail in English). With the tuned motor, lowered gearing and motocross bars, the RD400 wheelied through the first three gears, and immediately began jacking adrenaline through a system going through intense motorcycle withdrawal at an alarming rate. Thankfully, the RD quickly ran onto reserve (the method used before fuel lights) and I flicked the petrol switch and carefully burbled back to the storage area to hide it while attempting to come down off the high. Wow! If you’ve never twisted the Go Handle of a tuned up two-stroke twin on a narrow English street, I would advise going straight out and giving it a go. It’s shocking!

A British magazine ad for the 1978 Yamaha RD400.

The good news was there was no money to put any more petrol, or two-stroke oil, in the beast, which led me to the notion it might actually be for the best. It just seemed nothing good could come out of owning such a machine. So over the next few days I would walk, or hitch, the six miles to the storage space where I stripped, super cleaned and detailed the RD. Some touch up paint, chrome cleaner and liberal application of Dickie’s various wonder products had the Yamaha looking as good as new.

I just needed to sell it before I found some money for fuel.

Lady luck has found a strange way of smiling on this wayward Nit Wit over the years, but I could never have predicted the effects a broken heart was about to have on my life. Walking home I ran into a mate of mine, Furry Balls (Lee Furnival to his parents) who was riding towards town on a shiny, red Honda XL 185. He pulled over to offer me a lift and in conversation told me his long-term girlfriend had just broken up with him. Clearly looking down in the mouth I realized opportunity was about to shine as I had the perfect tool to put a little pep back in his emotional step less than a mile away: A race tuned Yamaha RD400.

As I sat back next to my two broken motorcycles, alone in the quiet storage area, I heard Furry getting on the gas down High Street as he raked the RD through the first few gears. I just hoped there would be enough petrol to get him back. Now it doesn’t take much imagination to work out what it must have felt like jumping off a pedestrian, modest 185cc single-cylinder four stroke onto a fire spitting two-stroke, smoking merrily through its racing expansion pipes, as he gave it the beans on a narrow English street. Accompanied by the sound bouncing off the walls, and old ladies diving for the pavement (sidewalk in American) I’m certain it was the most fun he’d had with his clothes on in a while.

A photo we recently found of the year and model, with the red rims mine had.

Returning minutes later, the shit-eating grin bursting from his full-face helmet indicated, as we all know, a sharp hit of adrenaline is all that’s needed to cure a broken heart. Furry had apparently come across the XL for a song, so when I suggested trading it and a couple of hundred quid for the RD he didn’t hesitate. He also kindly took me home and we agreed on the trade the following day.

A couple of days later, the shiny, red Honda XL185 was all mine. The last credit card was paid off and hidden again and wouldn’t get used again until it got me out of the Sandanista/Contra war in Nicaragua, but that’s another story. With my reliable transportation, I was now able to show up at my mate Shearsy’s house in the morning, looking for roofing work. His parents always fed us breakfast so it was always worth the trip, and most days we could earn a tenner (ten pounds in English) laboring on building sites humping roofing materials up ladders. On the days I didn’t get work, I was able to drive small deals of hash around to the Doleys (unemployed people) who didn’t have transport and stay stoned, while making a few quid as a positive side benefit.

With the frugal XL giving around 80 miles per Imperial gallon it was super cheap to run and I was soon getting my debts under control. The Guzzi and the CBX got sold as project bikes to some local lads to help lower the debt. By staying home, working whenever possible and living like a monk, everything was eventually paid back to all the various banks and credit institutions as I set my sights on America, vowing to never be in debt again. Of course the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Well, it is if you paid any attention to Mrs B (my mother) and there is another important loan in my future before I headed west. But we are out of space for this column so it feels like I’ll have to continue next month.

Neale