It was, frankly, hate at first sight. I'd lobbed one 750 Turbo up the road, and lacked the finances to put it back on. I needed a "speed" bike to supplement the dispatch CX (Christine), so my mate Tim (more of him later), a seth efrican, semi-dodgy bike trader operating out of leased premises in Elmers End, suggested a GS Thou.

I'd had a GS550 (horrible; really horrible), and a GS750 (not bad at all), so I thought "hey, fuck it; how bad can it be?", and stumped up an admittedly low number of sheets ... the phrase used by Tim at the time, which came back to haunt me in no uncertain fashion in the months to come, was "hey! it's even got aftermarket suspension!" I was, as they say, sold.

Now; said "aftermarket suspension" consisted of 2 Marazocchi shocks; I will describe them, for the benefit of younger viewers. Imagine a factory in Italy; it makes pasta; good pasta, and has since time immemorial. Profits are modest, the receptionists are fit, but it's not enough for some. One day, Luigi (the youngest son) decides the company isn't making enough money, and comes up with a forward thinking and commercially sound plan: "let's a maka da shoka absorbers!

we can use da pasta for da springs, and take it from a dere!", and thus was a suspension company born ...

Folks; these things were life takers: their lack of damping was matched only by their vast, near-solid spring rate. The net effect was a shock that, alone in my experience of bikes, would happily bounce you out of the seat *even when on the throttle out of corners* ... I'd had 2 small offs on it, as the result of hitting a crisp packet, discarded walnut shell or similar roadside furniture, and was getting increasingly pissed off with the entire plot. It made no difference what "settings" (choice of 5!) you set them to ... they were always suicidal.

And so, we set off on that fateful Sunday: as always, StevieB (RG500 proddie racing nutter) led us out of Orpington, then me, then the rest of the pack behind (the fact my pace had been slowed by my current bike was held in full respect by the other members of our little road racing gang; possibly because they had a deep and abiding respect for me as a person, but more likely because, with all the bouncing, it was never clear where the GS was going to lob itself next, and this tends to temper a friend's tendency to try and overtake, especially when they love their bike)

All went reasonably well until we entered a series of our favourite bends; I was frustrated as all hell by the fact the bike would neither do as I asked, nor go where I asked it to, and I finally lost my temper; these days I have a hugely long fuse; in those days I used to go up like a roman candle at the drop of a hat.

And so, an insane plan was hatched: I would overtake StevieB on the RG, or die trying. Leaving aside for one moment the fact the RG handled about 30,000% better than the GS anyway, there was always the fact that StevieB was a *far* faster road racer than I, but hey, let's not let little details like that get in the way of glory, eh? We're young, and we know best, and there's nothing determination can't achieve ...

... apart from getting a GS thou through a corner at 90 when a proddie racing RG pilot has decided 70 is a good as it gets ...

You know the "it went, grass, sky, grass, sky, grass, sky, ambulance" line? Well it does, you know ... I went sailing past Stevie under what we'll loosely term, "braking", he got me back mid corner, and then both ends of the GS conspired to lose traction at one and the same time ... I had a brief vision of a ditch, which I thought I'd rest awhile in, but the GS had other plans; if it was Going Out, then it was Going Out In Style ... we hit the lip of the ditch, took off like Eddie Kidd on acid, and proceeded *through* a substantial hedge, into a farmer's field.

It says much for my dumb-arsed determination of the time that I refused to let go, and thus followed said GS into said field at something in excess of 70 mph, which, let me tell you, is quite fast enough ... then we hit the ruts in the ploughed field, and parted company ...

How I survived I will never know, but I have this vision (one that will stay with me to my dying day, sans eyes, sans teeth, sans everything), of the GS, stood on its nose, picking up on a rut and cartwheeling into destruction, shedding panels, suspension and, ultimately, engine.

My friends took about 30 seconds to stop and return ... they had to negotiate a ditch and squeeze through the (admittedly fairly large) gap in the hedge, to stand, ashen faced and then to find me, cursing and swearing, kicking unholy crap out of what was left of my bike, laughing maniacally and generally whooping it up.

I don't fully recall this myself, but I was told later I was screaming "DIE YOU BASTARD!" at the top of my voice ... *sigh* ... happy days, happy days ...