Copyright (c) 2008 GoodMotorcycles.com
I have been having an affair with this fiery Italian lady for about three years now. My number one woman, a trusty old Yamaha TR1 definitely suspects something's going on. But what can she do? How can she possibly compete?
To own a Laverda is an experience that nothing could have adequately prepared me for. Sure, I've owned a whole series of much admired large oriental missiles in my time. Some went faster, some handled better, some even looked better than the Jota. But - and this is a big but - none of them were as much fun! In fact, in the fun department, the Jota just walked all over them and at the end of the day isn't that what biking's all about?
This particular character is a 1979 Jota, with the original 180 degree crankshaft, featuring a very subtle paint job, a sort of a bloodcurdling orange. Bloody gorgeous! This is the model that everybody tells you to avoid in favour of its later, more refined, more reliable, more civilised, more boring stablemate. This is the original undiluted bad 'un and proud of it. This is motorcycling's very own V-sign to the world, and all that's good and right and wholesome. To ride this bike through the middle of town is akin to having a large neon sign strapped to your back saying, I don't give a shit.
Yes, this bike is very anti-social, no two ways about it. Tootling through town doing an impression of a Honda C70 is not this bike's favourite activity. At anything less than 40mph she mumbles, grumbles, stutters and splutters in displeasure. If this doesn't suitably convey the message that she wants out to a good A-road, then five minutes worth of juggling the clutch, gears and throttle soon will. You need the forearms of Popeye to pull the clutch lever in and nifty throttle control at zebra crossings as the Jota will not tick over in anything resembling a civilised manner.
Once out of town and on to open roads, however, you are transported from hell to heaven. This is where the Jota is happiest. Open the throttle wide and the petulant grumbling of the 1000cc DOHC triple turns into a delighted and delightful howl! Pure music to the ears. Well, I think so anyway. Whether the grannies in their Metros or the old farts in flat caps driving Nissan Sunnys would agree as the Jota and I go screaming past, about six inches or less (if I'm feeling mean) from their hearing aids I don't know. To be honest, I don't care either.
And, that's another thing, this bike, goddamnit, can transform the most benign Reginald Molehusband into a two wheeled kamikaze pilot who breaks every traffic law in the book. On each outing. And that's before you even leave your own street! The Jota does invite you to ride it very quickly, that can't be denied. At slower speeds the bike is at best a bad tempered bitch. Wind her up, however, and she behaves almost impeccably, and if she is in a really good mood, at about 70mph the alternator will actually kick in and power the lights for you! Seriously, though, daylight headlights are not recommended as the charging system is completely inadequate, although I understand that later models overcame this with uprated electrics. Still, all part of the fun.
I've owned a ZX-10 which accelerated very quickly, quicker in fact than the Jota. But the way in which a Jota accelerates at full throttle makes it far more exciting and more fun (there's that word again) than any ZX-10 could ever be. How? Well, there's the noise for a start. It sounds as though it's about to launch itself into orbit, and it warns all other unwary road users, from about half a mile back, that it's coming through and if you don't get out of the way, then it sure as hell will go straight through you.
Also, the power comes in great big gulps, it reaches the redline in a couple of arm wrenching seconds and just when you think it's going to ease off, it enters warp factor 9! At the redline! Contrary to other bikes, where redlines mean danger, on the Jota it just means now we're getting serious. In contrast, the ZX-10 is a little predictable, a little too civilised and a lot less (yeah, you guessed it) fun.
In the heady days of the mid/late seventies when the Jota had just been born, the pundits positively went overboard about its superb Italian handling....well, does it? It couldn't seriously compare to todays plastic replicas but it's not too bad. When you get used to the top heavy feel and adjust to the rock hard suspension, you'll soon be flinging it around like any old Z1300 or Gold Wing! Well, okay, it's not quite that bad.
Approaching fast bends you do have to chose your line carefully but once committed it will go around surefootedly. The brakes I have always found more than adequate, twin discs out front and a single rear. The fact that the rear brake lever is on the left has led to some frantic moments as I've approached silly buggers who get in the way at a rapid rate. Your first reaction, of course, is to slam down your right foot. All this does is propel you down to a lower gear, without clutch, and depending on your speed and weather may result in a locked rear wheel - definitely no fun!
How fast does she go? The once world's fastest bike! Well, my only honest answer to this question would be, bloody fast enough thank you very much. Just before you hit the redline things get decidedly frantic. The vibes are almost all consuming, not to mention the noise. The clocks become a blur, lights blow their filaments and your eyeballs almost shake themselves out of their sockets. You feel as if you're about to go through the sound barrier. You steal the courage to glance down at the speedo, and shit....is that all? 120mph! Well,. it sure as hell feels faster. And then I lose my bottle. It will go faster, a lot faster, I suspect, it was certainly pulling strongly when I gave up. But it will take a braver man than me to exploit it to its limit. This bike is definitely not for the weak hearted.
Maintenance is kept to a minimum, mainly because being a fair weather biker (okay, I admit it I've got a company car), the mileage is kept low. An oil change every 1000 miles is a must, the drive chain stretches like an old whores you know what and needs regular adjustment, not to mention plenty of lubrication. The oil filter is tucked thoughtfully away behind one of the down pipes, and the pipe needs to be removed to get at it. Although it can be used again, just needing a soak in Gunk. Valves and carbs stay in tune for long periods.
Front tyres wear well but the rear is down to the carcass in a few thousand miles. When I first bought the bike it had a Motad 3-1 but the engine spluttered badly at high revs; no amount of adjustment or rejetting would cure it. Fortunately, I also had the original exhausts, which were thrown in as part of the deal when I bought the machine. Thank goodness, the old system was fitted and, voila, she ran smoothly right up the rev range. I have yet to come across an aftermarket system that works all through the rev range. Long runs, 100 miles plus, will result in things shaking loose - I've already lost two footrests, an exhaust bracket and assorted nuts and bolts. So all bits need to be checked with a spanner, immediately on return. But, of course, this is all part of the fun.
To conclude. A Laverda Jota is not just a motorcycle, it's an event. Owning one is pure joy and not a bad investment to boot. Your relationshop with this, your Italian mistress, will be tempestuous to say the least. But never boring. Treat her gently and she'll take you to places you've never been before. Abuse her in any way and she'll no doubt make you regret the day you ever set eyes on her. She can be bad tempered, she can be stubborn, she can be loudmouthed, she can be unpredictable, she can be downright dangerous, but boy oh boy.......she's FUN!
Simon Nicholls
Ever since I read about the antics of various journalists aboard Laverda Jotas in the late seventies I have been consumed by the need to own one. Every inch of one bedroom wall is plastered with pictures of these fiery triple cylinder, 1000cc machines. I used to go to sleep with visions of roaring down the road on a bright orange example, chanting to myself - I will own a Laverda Jota - time and time again.
It took more years than I care to admit until I finally got my hands on one. It was a 1978 model, 33000 miles under its belt and a fistful of past owners. The first crack in the dream came when I tried to clamber on board. The seat is very high off the ground, I felt I should summon someone to give me a leg up as if I was mounting a horse. The owner looked on with a sickly smile as I precariously held the beast upright on tiptoes.
The starter rumbled and growled for about 30 seconds until it got the better of the three high compression pistons and six valves controlled by double overhead cams. The bike shuddered as the rev counter flipped up to 2500 revs and I hurriedly searched for the choke in vain. Into first gear with an agricultural clunk only for the brutal take up of the clutch to make me stall it. By then I was perched on the one toe and the sharp lurch forward unbalanced me. I was only saved the embarrassment of splattering the Jota on the tarmac by the owner rushing forward to stop the machine on its descent.
I was given the choice of handing over £2500 or pissing off, there was no way he was going to let me have a test ride after that incident. Naturally, I handed over the money. My second attempt achieved forward motion and the thought that the journos never reported the vicious vibes at low revs. The Laverda just didn't want to run cleanly below 50mph in top gear, it was as if the machine was telling me to get a move on and stop fooling around.
The growl from the almost straight through exhaust system, reflected off the shop windows, turned the heads of startled pedestrians and caused one young kid to cover her ears with her hands shortly before bursting into tears. It seemed to run best at low speeds in second gear but stopping for a pedestrian crossing without engaging neutral revealed that the clutch dragged evilly. The motor soon stalled, again causing me to lose my precarious balance and dump a boot on a conveniently placed car bumper. This did not amuse the driver of the Volvo 740 who shook his fist at me.
He had the last laugh, though, because the motor refused to start again. I had to leap off, use all my muscle to stop it toppling over and then push near on 600lbs to the side of the road. I gave various car drivers the vee sign when they started using their horns and nearly had a fight with an irate taxi driver. Having finally got the machine on the sidestand I was able to collapse on a nearby bench. By the time I returned to the machine, it naturally fired up first touch of the button.
The blast down the A roads to my country mansion (sick joke) put me in a better mood. The power delivery on the Jota is something else and all than I ever dreamed it would be. The first time I opened the throttle in third gear I almost had a heart attack. By the time it reached the redline and I'd foolishly assumed there was nothing left, the bike suddenly picked up power again and blasted off down the road like a turbo charger had just kicked in or someone had opened up the nitro bottle.
By the time I'd managed to stop the huge grin from splitting my head in half, I realised the beast was entering a corner 30mph faster that was physically possible. Ramming on the immensely powerful front discs and jumping on the right-hand brake pedal produced enough stopping power to catapult the unwary over the bars and a terrible noise from the gearbox.....in my panic I had forgotten that the Wops used to put the brake and gear levers on the wrong side.
The Jota is long, top heavy and overweight, it will stick to a well set up line like glue, but if you enter a bend with all the suspension wound up from frantic braking it gets thrown about all over the tarmac. I have ridden many a big Jap multi that is much worse but something like a new CBR600 kills the old Laverda in the bends....but then there would be something seriously wrong if the best of the modern bikes couldn't handle better than this quaint old Italian dinosaur.
Later, I was to find that maximum speed was an indicated 140mph, although the speedo needle would waver 20mph to each side at times, so the true top speed is anyone's guess. It's easily fast enough to lose your licence. The engine feels best between 3500 and 6500 where vibes are not too noticeable. Between 6500 and 7500rpm the vibes are bone rattling but come eight grand the motor suddenly settles down and smooths out before going berserk again. Very weird indeed.
It will cruise all day at 90 to 100mph along motorways with the most delightful growl from the exhaust and tolerable levels of vibration - it needs this kind of speed to make some sense of the riding position, even with the adjustable bars in their least sporting position there's still a lot of weight on the wrists and all the controls are very heavy, making the bike quite tiring to ride long distances.
Stability is surprisingly good up to about 110mph, thereafter the back end waltzes about, as it does if you back off in fast sweepers. Its suspension, even now, is on the harsh side and this probably contributes to the occasional white knuckle speed wobble that happens if you hit a bump when accelerating past 120mph. I've found if you keep accelerating, by the time you're past 125mph it gradually dies out.
The first time it happened I was petrified that when I slowed down it would come back and had a vision of myself spending the rest of the day careering along at 130mph until the fuel ran out. Fortunately, it doesn't speed wobble when you slow down from greater speeds. Fuel consumption varies between 30 and 50mpg, usually somewhere around 40mpg. Oil consumption is heavy, a litre every 400 miles and the gearbox becomes very agricultural if you don't change the oil every 800 miles.
Because the growl under heavy acceleration is so addictive, a decent chain only lasts 4000 miles and expensive rear tyres about 2500 miles. I prefer Pirellis myself as they seem safer in the wet when it's extremely easy to lose the back end under the ferocious power delivery.
I'd got the mileage up to 46000 miles when on a particularly bright and sunny day, the kind of day when you just want to ride and ride, I suddenly realised that the bike was being followed by a cloud of white smoke that would have done a 30 year old Jawa proud. 50 miles later, by the time I reached my home, the engine was coughing and spluttering like it was only running on two cylinders. Sure enough, when the local mechanic took the head off an exhaust valve had burnt out.
Everything else appeared fine, so the cause is not known and I've done 15000 miles with no further engine problems. It became a very reluctant starter, a problem eventually traced to the mess of wiring. I had to rewire the whole thing myself and took the opportunity to modify the battery compartment to take a small car battery. It now has a couple of hidden switches that stops anyone from riding off on it and, along with additional rubber mounting of the lights, has not had any more electrical problems. I think the system is basically sound, it just needs a bit of tender loving care to sort it out.
It's that kind of bike. When a bit of rust pokes through the tank or frame paint you think nothing about tearing off the bits and paying out for the best available job to be done. Rather than leave it out in the street, subject to the vagaries of the local louts or winter weather, you risk permanent back injury pushing it up into the hall. Rather than buy a machine with a sensible seat you order a pair of boots with built up heels. Rather than become civilised and sensible by buying a Ford Onion you spent all your spare time and money on the Laverda. If Jota were Italian for Fun I would not be surprised, because it's the most awe inspiring and addictive motorcycle I've ever come across, but certainly not the most practical.
Dick Westcote
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Vertical twins have always been my favourite type of motorcycle. The bigger and more powerful the better. I'd always admired the SF series, but their UK prices were usually silly. You hardly ever see one on the road over here but on the Continent there is still the odd one about. I was admiring one of the first, early seventies SFs, in a Belgian side street, when the owner appeared from nowhere. Language problems aside we soon came to a deal. We both thought we had done well.
This was a few years ago when to import a bike into the UK involved lots of bureaucracy. I overcame the problem by riding it on Belgian plates. This meant I had to pay VAT on a private sale, as the numberplate stays with the owner. The only thing I could find wrong with the Laverda was the mileage on the clock - 79,067! But the big twins are made to a much higher standard than most other bikes.
It's a neat chunk of alloy, with a single overhead cam, twin 30mm carbs and a built up crank running on massive roller bearings. Laverda claimed 60 horses at 7000rpm. Much more modern than the British twins then available, although there were a few throwbacks to antique design - a belt driven dynamo and triplex primary chain.
The first ride was interesting, as I shot off on the wrong side of the road and almost caused a Belgian cager to drive up on the pavement. I had little time to watch what I was doing as I was struggling with the controls. Everything was very heavy, especially the clutch and gearchange, the latter throwing up several false neutrals. The SF weighs in at over 500lbs, which was immediately apparent in the way I had to wrench on the narrow handlebars to avoid collision with the car.
The SF has pistons that move up and down together, like all those legions of British twins, and no form of engine balancing. This was pretty obvious from the way the chassis vibrated at low revs in first through third gears. Mixed in with the vibration were the road shocks. Not even the high mileage had done much to add suppleness to the suspension, which used to come out of the factory rock hard.
Metzeler tyres were fitted, which over the Belgian cobblestones were reluctant to retain their grip, making the Laverda feel even more top heavy than normal. Brief bursts of guttural acceleration through holes in the traffic provided some more pleasurable riding.
Hitting 3000 revs in second or third would transform the nature of the beast. The engine smooths out, the weight rides better over the bumps and the forward thrust strained my wrists. I was surprised by the way the tacho would twitch around to 8000rpm without a moment's hesitation. Those revs were sufficient to cause both clocks to go berserk as they reacted to the next onslaught of vibration.
Graunching up to the next gear brought the engine back into its smooth rev range. There was enough power that a few times I felt the bike trying to get away from me. The only way to control it was to hit the drum brakes. I was a bit dubious about these lumps of alloy - a huge 9 inch TLS front and 8 inch rear. But they turned out rather powerful, if somewhat vicious. There was a point where the front end would swap gradual braking forces for a locked up, screaming tyre. Once or twice, it seemed not to want to free up and I only saved myself by putting both feet down! Decidedly not for the novice 125 graduate. Later bikes had twin discs.
The first couple of weeks I was stuck in Brussels, finding the SF a bit tedious. The clutch would also drag outrageously at traffic lights and had I stopped when gestured at by the Gendarme I would probably have been fined for having a very noisy exhaust..... the silencers looked original and had rusted out their baffles. It was a glorious racket that hid any engine noises.
It wasn't until I headed for the ferry home that the usefulness of the Laverda became more apparent. It was a fast motorway-type road all the way, the SF surpassing itself by cruising at 90 to 100mph with the kind of rock steady stability that only the most recent of Japanese race replicas could hope to emulate. With a four gallon tank and 45 to 50mpg, fuel range was reasonable.
The bloody seat wasn't, though. It may have been okay when new but most of the padding compressed down to leave my backside on the seat pan. It could have been worse, the handlebar to footrest relationship was so near perfect that most of my weight was taken off my spine. The slightest bit of rain meant I had a seat full of water for days afterwards.
A brief empty section of road put 120mph on the clock but the vibes did not encourage me to hold this for very long. Again, I was amazed by the way the SF clung tenaciously on to the road even over a closely spaced series of bumps that would send most bikes into a frenzy of wobbles.
The bike greeted its first sight of Blighty by misfiring. I'd been riding with the lights on which seemed to have drained the battery. I turned them off and the misfiring stopped. Dynamos are notoriously unreliable, so I put that at the top of my list for checking once home. The SF relies on an electric starter than gives the electrical system a thorough workout whenever it's employed. But it always seems to work.
English roads, with their often wild curves, suited the Laverda well once my body had adapted to the amount of bumps getting through. The SF loses its top heavy feel the faster it goes and the harder it's swung through the bends. Handling is amazingly neutral. The throttle can be backed off, the brakes used or the whole thing suddenly wrenched on to a new line with no traumas from the chassis when banked over.
That said, the SF responds even better to a hard dose of acceleration out of corners, holding its line tenaciously, feeding up so much information from the Metz's that I'm always aware of just how far I can take it. The faster I went the better I felt and I often rode my favourite bits of road again and again, testing my own nerve against the abilities of the SF's sublime chassis.
It was just a pity there were so many congested towns in the way. The Laverda grumbled, growled, protested at this misuse of its abilities. Everything was so much hard work that as often as not I would leave the bike at home and hike into town. In the rain it was even worse as the front brake was a real killer at low speeds and when the engine was drenched with water it would misfire below 2500rpm.
In one such tired state, some mere three months into my ownership, I managed to hit the side of a car that sped across a junction. Had I not been so annoyed with the SF's behaviour I would probably have paid more attention to the traffic. It was his fault but he didn't see it that way. The alloy rim on the front wheel was twisted but otherwise it was unscathed, the very large dent in the car having absorbed most of the shock. The cager went on for hours about how I should pay up until it emerged that he had no insurance. I decided it wasn't worth trying to claim off him as my insurers would probably load my premium next time around. I ended up paying for a rebuilt wheel.
If the Laverda was a pain in town it turned out as a useful long distance tourer. Before my first blitz of Europe could take place I had the generator rebuilt, put in a new battery (so big a car item sufficed instead of the expensive Bosch original) and had a new set of tyres fitted. Tyres worked out at 7-10,000 miles, although the chain was surprising at 12-15000 miles. My only worry was oil consumption at 250mpp.
Well, the bike did about 4000 miles in three weeks, mostly in the South of France. The battery still wasn't charging properly, fine as long as the lights weren't used.......which meant not riding at night for more than 25 miles! Another problem was a couple of rear spokes breaking up - I had a mass of camping gear and a portly pillion. The handling was a little loose with this mass and became a bit violent when the back wheel started breaking up. It was safe enough up to 50mph, sufficient to get us home where the spokes could be replaced.
A spate of breaking cables began to show up the bike's age as 90,000 miles clicked up. The finish was still good on the paint, and the alloy polished up well but needed a weekly dose of elbow grease to keep the white rash at bay. I was enamoured enough with the Laverda to expend that kind of effort without a moment's thought. I also did the valves, carbs and oil every 1000 miles.
I had a basic commuter for doing the trek to work but this usually balked at English winters, sulking in the garage. The SF would thunder into life with no sign of reluctance. After a year I was used to the muscle needed in town, had even mastered the nasty five speed gearbox (the triplex primary chain had a bit more slack than it should, which did not help the smoothness of the transmission), so the bike was slightly less troublesome through town. A new set of clutch plates eliminated most of the clutch drag, almost made the brute civilized in traffic.
Into the spring of my second year I had my second crash. Some moronic trucker had laid down a few gallons of diesel at a busy junction. Not even the Metz's could overcome that physical reality. The skid ripped off the magneto's drive and half the skin on my leg. Bloody motorcycles.
It took about three months to find the bits to repair the drive, but with a full battery charge the bike could be ridden for fifty miles at a time. Sufficient for the daily commuting chores but not much fun when the sun is shining and the empty road beckons. I did find the source of the poor charging, the voltage regulator was cutting in at 10 volts.
There's very little chrome on the SF (the guards are stainless steel) so it was perhaps typical that the largest concentration, in the silencers, should show up the whole machine by rusting through. I bought an unused pair from a private advert, still in their oily wrappers. The down-pipes were also rusty but showed no signs of leaking.
The bike sounded extremely quiet and responded much better below 3500 revs. The engine felt more reluctant to breach the ton, but this might just have been the mileage breaking through the 95000 mark. I don't know how much work had previously been done to the engine but it still responded well even at that great mileage.
For the next year I was seduced by a FZR600. Fast and furious fun, but after 25000 miles the discs were in a terrible state, I'd gone through six sets of tyres, too many chains and the clutch was so knackered I had to buy a whole unit. I was quite glad to see the back of it.
I'd used the SF occasionally, just to keep it in running order, but back in its seat for the long haul it took some getting used to it......my muscles had softened up and I kept trying to rev the engine through the 10,000rpm mark. I soon adapted to the SF's ways.
A couple of months ago I finally put the mileage into the six figure bracket. I celebrated by powder coating the frame bright red and having the brakes relined with a slightly softer grade to reduce some of the grabbing at lower speeds. The fork seals don't seem to last much more than 6000 miles, so I added a pair of gaiters.
I see Laverda have a new 650 twin out, based on the less durable 500 engine and in race replica mould. It doesn't appeal to me. I like the classic lines, sound and power delivery of my 750 so much that I will quite willingly do a rebuild when it becomes necessary. Laverda lore reckons the crankshafts never go, that the camchain, tensioner and valves are the first to give serious problems. My feeling is that it'd be the primary drive and gearbox that are the first to need refurbishment. Still, it'll be interesting to see how much longer the old girl will keep going - I'll keep you posted.
M.N.
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My sojourn with the Laverda Mirage began to turn sour after three weeks. A machine gun like rattle from the top end accompanied by white exhaust smoke. 50 miles from home in the depths of the country. Carried on with just two cylinders working. The vibration indicative of just how hard the motor was running. I knew if the engine ever stopped it wouldn’t run again. 8 miles from home it did just that. Judging by the oil leaking from the blown gaskets it was close to melting down.
Stripping the motor revealed a broken valve spring and some mangled piston rings. The 43000 mile old bores were so deeply scored that they were beyond help. Used spares proved impossible to obtain. New barrels, pistons and valve springs were fitted. The massive crankshaft was unscathed as were the camshafts. A tensioner and camchain had, according to the previous owner, been fitted at 35000 miles.
It seemed strange to have to run in a ten year old machine. The big triple wasn't very happy at low revs. A mixture of poor carburation and pulsating vibration. The gearbox was stiff and slack at the same time unless used under acceleration. The drive chain chattered as if it was about to leap off the sprockets.
The only way to do it was a 1000 mile weekend run out in the country. The tall fifth gear allowed 70mph trawling without straining the engine. At 525lbs the Mirage felt very top heavy at such slow speeds. The suspension moved not a lot over minor irregularities. The twitchiness of the wheels over small road imperfections was vexing. Coming home, I felt massive elation at using some real speed. The whole character of the 1200 was transformed.
The Mirage was the poor cousin to the Jota but had 90 horses and a similar brutish power delivery. All Laverda triples feel better when subjected to acceleration rather than cruising. A bit of throttle work tightens up the chassis and makes the exhaust snarl beautifully. Of all the motorcycle types, a big triple on the cam sounds the best. With the rebuilt engine the old bugger could be persuaded to do 135mph. A personal best.
The Mirage gave a massive amount of feedback off the tarmac. I always knew what the tyres were doing at the price of never having an entirely relaxed ride. In its day the Laverda was one of the best handling superbikes. It didn't have much competition. A strong frame and stiff suspension was the Italian solution, backed up by catering to a country full of curving, bumpy roads and macho, mad riders. It had to be good to survive their depreciations.
These days, things like FZR600s can run rings around me. The mass is the worst thing about the Mirage's handling, a lot of that carried high up where it amplifies any imperfections in the chassis. I found that it could quickly turn a small wobble into a large stagger. I had no qualms about riding at speeds up to 95mph. Higher velocities could throw up all kinds of oscillations. They become baleful when there's a pillion or excess of mass on the back.
Similar coarseness turned up when running through fast bends. It demanded that the correct line be set up well in advance. Trying to suddenly change it needed both maximum muscle and a strong heart. It often took on a mind of its own, with an unnerving tendency to suddenly want to run wide. It would often twitch in protest when I applied some corrective action.
I misjudged the entry speed of some bends, going into the corner hard on the brakes had the front wheel trying to stand up. Despite all this we invariably wobbled our way around the corner in one piece. Sometimes so close was our trajectory that the front wheel skimmed the gravel at the edge of the road. By then the bike was coming up to the vertical, so the slight slide was controllable.
The point and squirt technique was a viable alternative to lining everything up well in advance. The back wheel would often slide out six inches as the power was viciously applied. It was hard work on the shoulder muscles to throw the Mirage around like this but great fun for short periods.
Such intense acceleration focused the bike but did terrible things to the fuel economy. I usually achieved around 40mpg but exaggerated throttle abuse would turn in as little as 25mpg. Such a powerful, heavy motorcycle also tore through the consumables. Tyres, be they Avons, Metz’s or Pirellis, were useless after 4000 miles; Avons lasting slightly longer but gripping slightly less well than the others. Chains and pads needed replacing every 7 to 8000 miles. One cheap chain lasted only 2500 miles before it snapped!
That occurred halfway up a hill, which I was truculently trying to attain in top gear at low revs. Great shudders ran through the chassis until the chain finally went. Trying to turn around, there was no way it could be pushed upwards, the top heaviness combined with the tall seat height to let the bike topple over. The bloody thing rolled over me and then twirled several times down the hill until it spun off the road into a hedge.
I was nearly run over by a car that had to swerve off the road. I had a coupe of bruised ribs but was able to stagger upright. The Laverda proved a tough bitch as we pulled it out of the destroyed hedgerow. Dented and bent in several places, it still started on the button after a few minutes. The car driver was in remarkably good spirits despite his off-road excursion ruining the paint job. He agreed to drive me into town and back for a chain. My body shook a little with the shock and every bump sent a silver of pain through my frame. I didn't collapse from the jolt until I'd ridden the Mirage back home some six miles.
The Laverda wasn't, then, the kind of motorcycle on which corners could be cut. Ridden on too worn tyres it would shake its head and wag its tail like some early seventies Japanese superbike. The brakes became ambiguous when the pads wore down and the fluid went off. They were never as sensitive as I would've liked and always needed outrageous brawn. If maintenance was neglected braking varied between nothing much happening and the front wheel screaming as it suddenly locked up. Caliper rot, though, only happened the once in three years of all weather riding.
I suspected that winter rains would wreck the electrics, but despite having now done 72000 miles, apart from the left-hand switch cluster they are still original and working. The cluster started seeping up the water at about 50,000 miles. I didn't want to fit any Jap crap so ordered a new Laverda unit. Spares are a bit dodgy but phoning around a couple of old Laverda dealers turns up most stuff.
Laverda triples were built to a much higher quality than other Italian iron of that era. A quality still evident in the burnished engine castings, good paint and chrome that has yet to fall off. Ducatis of a similar age would be total wrecks by now unless they were continuously renovated. The exhaust looks a bit dodgy and the odd bit of frame and swinging arm has needed touching up. I haven't yet had to replace wheel, steering head or swinging arm bearings!
Maintenance is a bit of a pain. Every 1000 miles, carbs, valves and oil need doing (and the vibes do loosen some bolts). I'm sure neglect of maintenance was the cause of the valve demise. It's very hard to use all the power all the time, so it's a rare bike that has been thrashed relentlessly; usually it's neglect that causes top end problems. The bottom end of the motor is rock solid, apart from the clutch which won't suffer the wheelie merchants. The clutch lever used to be hellishly heavy but I'm now used to it.
Few 1200s are left on the road. They were never too popular to begin with and their motors are not quite so robust as the 1000cc triples. I've seen one advertised at £5000 but £1000 to £2000 seems more normal for a nice runner with good cosmetics. I paid £1400 for mine and have spent about half that again to put the motor back into good shape. If someone offered me £2500 I might be tempted to part with it, but I would miss its brutal ways and alluring looks.
Harry Templeton
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I smelt the fire before I saw the flames. I looked around in the hope that the smell of burning plastic was coming from some external source. I rolled the throttle back, the chassis gently shaking as speed quickly decreased from 120mph to 50mph. Engine braking from the DOHC triple was as fierce and evocative as the grumble out of the exhaust on the overrun.
By the time I'd hit the brakes, discs all round, with the well practised gorilla grip, flames were licking out from under the saddle. Hard shoulder, leap off the bike and run away. Well, I had TPFT and didn't fancy dying just then. Five minutes later the flames flickered out and I could tear off the melted panels and seat.
Spaghetti wiring turned into a singular coalesced glob. The wiring was non-standard, bodged by myself after a series of electrical components had blown up. One cop accused me of working for a terrorist organisation after the battery melted, spraying acid over the bike and his trousers. It was only when I took the full-face off to reveal a very worn sixty year old visage that he regained his sanity.
Running 30 amp fuses, to keep the bike from expiring, meant that the wiring burnt out rather than the fuse. The AA took me home, the driver, in one of those coincidences all too common in my life, owned one of the first Jota's, reckoned that it was the generator on the way out. An exchange generator and new wiring loom cost over a 100 notes; these old triples are so rare that they are heavy on the expenses when something goes wrong.
The fire occurred about three months into my four year reign of terror. It'd taken me that long to sort out a lot of minor problems, resultant from a hard used and somewhat neglected bike. Nothing mechanically terminal despite the 59000 miles of abuse, but lots of chassis and electrical nasties. By far the worst was a rear hub with some cracks running through it. The breaker wanted to weld it but having lived so long already I was reluctant to take up such a suicidal offer. A Jap wheel went in with relative ease and after spraying both wheels matt grey a casual glance didn't reveal the disparity of their origin.
After sorting the generator and wiring, the Laverda was all bliss for a while. If you don't want to get involved with such a Wop wonder wear ear-plugs when one's in the vicinity. With a conveniently rotted through exhaust, it really does bellow with joy, an echo of an enraged bull charging and you'd better get out of the way - or else! It turns even a sane pensioner into a highway hoodlum.
There's also the two stroke-like power input. One moment the engine's grumbling away incoherently, the next it's wham, bam, thank you mam. I often felt that my eyeballs were going to pop out the back of my head. Can't tell you this in terms of revs as the tacho never worked but the engine was so evocative that I always knew how it was running. Besides, under heavy acceleration there was no time to take my eyes off the fast approaching road traffic.
The speed and acceleration could easily catch out the chassis, although the powerful if primitive brakes kept me from an early grave. The RGA's a heavy old brute, a lot of its 530lbs concentrated high. I'm not long in the leg, had problems getting both feet on the ground at the same time. That combined with its top heavy feel and lack of steering lock made low speed manoeuvres, such as U-turns, a quick way to experience wrestling with a hot, heavy Italian mama! Having survived so long, I tended to take the long way round rather than risk pain and ridicule by doing short, sharp manoeuvres.
The riding position's horrible for town work but for speed it's brilliant. The seat hump holds me in position, the bars and pegs are wonderfully relaxed at 90mph and the half fairing sends all the wind over my head. And it all gets even better as the speed increases until about 130mph when the fairing starts shaking away, the old girl telling me to back off.
In reality, with 150mph on the clock the triple smoothed out again, the exhaust bellow was lost to the wind and I seemed to enter a whole new world where my reflexes had trouble keeping up. The chassis didn't approve of such excesses, wallowing in our lane of the motorway and throwing a wobbly if we hit a large bump. I never held such speeds for long, my still clean licence and survival instincts had me backing off to 110 or 120mph - I only rode really fast early in the morning, before dawn, using the excellent twin headlamps to sear a path through the eerie darkness. Hitting 150mph as the sun rose over the horizon was a mystical experience befitting my 60 years of survival.
Cruising at 90 to 120mph wasn't a problem; good stability, smooth motor and excellent comfort. You need a fat wallet, though, such excesses going through the fuel at 30mpg, the oil at 150mpp, tyres at 3000 miles and rear chains at 5000 miles. Brake pads lasted a long time as the engine braking was fierce and, once used to the bike's limitations, I knew when to back off gently.
Below 90mph the mill complained with roughness, the suspension was too harsh, the controls went leaden and the riding position turned downright painful. In town the engine became incredibly hot, the clutch dragged and the steering was so heavy that I felt my arms were being wrenched out of their sockets. If I was younger I might've been tempted to go wild on the throttle but I've learnt to grin and bear things I can't change - in the long run it hurts a hell of a lot less!
I'm always suspicious about states of bliss; wasn't that surprised when the top end started rattling. The engine had done 78000 miles, so it wasn't that bad. Shot camchain, valve regrind and a newish exhaust camshaft. Pistons and bores looked new despite being original. I didn't do the work myself for the simple reason that the engine was too heavy to lift out of the frame! A local mechanic had some experience with Laverdas and was old enough not to rush things.
All my mates are pensioners, their frail states meaning slipped discs if not broken limbs would've resulted from their aid. It's quite wonderful to turn up at events full of ancients and watch them gasp as I reveal my identity beneath the lid! They soon went off the idea when I revealed that I was spending more than half my income keeping the bike running.
One thing that almost made me change my mind was having the chain snap. My own fault as it should've been replaced a few miles before. However, the chain wrapped itself around the back wheel, causing a massive 50mph skid. Says a lot for the chassis that I wasn't thrown off. It mashed the wheel but that was okay as I'd already bought an OE replacement. I just had to get the bike back home - a cager turned up with a mobile phone, the AA summoned again.
The Jota's the best bike I've ever owned. Period. I usually avoid heavy traffic as I don't have to commute, but most mornings I'm up with the birds and thrashing through the countryside. The bike's now done 93000 miles and I'm looking forward to breaking through the 100,000 mark. Ride on!
G.K.R.
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Here comes trouble, thought I. The noise was something else. Could be heard for miles away. The deep bass rumble of an open two into one exhaust. The offbeat nuance of the Lav's firing pulses from pistons that moved up and down alternatively. As the bike turned into my street, the ground trembled and the windows shook. I went out to greet the rider, only to find most of my neighbours rushing around in a blind panic. Their faces were not a pretty picture when they saw the cause of the commotion.
My new motorcycle, propped proudly on its stand in my drive. I had to shout at the erstwhile owner who seemed unable to keep still. Eyes out on stalks, hands shaking and a weird gait. Well, the bike did have rear-sets and clip-ons. Did my back in on the previous day's test ride but I'd soon sort it out with some flat bars.
The Montuic clicked away, the metal cooling down, and dropped a bit of oil on the drive. The chassis was comprehensively refurbished and looked almost as good as new. The bead-blasted alloy shone with an unlikely fervour. Only the matt black exhaust let the side down with almost as much rust as paint. But I had a chrome universal mega ready to replace the unlikely end can. Cash and doc's changed hands.
A few days later the bike emerged from my garage with flat bars and new silencer. The latter much to the relief of the neighbours who were truly appalled to find they had a born-again Hell's Angel suddenly in their midst. Actually, a couple of the old chaps owned up to having bikes in their youth, with a gleam in their eyes suggesting I might yet subvert the whole street!
The Laverda merely rumbled rather than bellowed. The new riding position allowed me to get out of the street without becoming a stretcher case. Those with memories that go back to the late seventies will recall the Montuic as the racer version of the rather plain Alpina. Its 60hp 500cc twin cylinder engine being hot stuff and its styling grabbing the mind of anyone with a bit of blood left in their veins.
Mine sported nonstandard suspension, brakes and swinging arm. I had asked if it'd been crashed. This was denied, the reason for the mods being that old, worn stuff made the bike hinged in the middle. So I was expecting a taut handler that would whip through the bends and ride inside all this modern Jap stuff.
Now I don't know what it was like when new, though I do recall some testers complaining about weak swinging arm bearings. But I do know that my bike was a bit naff. It may've been the nonstandard forks messing up the steering geometry. My first few tries at high speed cornering revealed the 400lb bike as a bit of a pig. It shuffled around all over the place on the edge of its tyres. At one point it tried to lurch right down to the tarmac until I reacted with a violence I didn't know I had in me!
My old Bonnie was bad but this was another trip altogether, unless my mind was playing tricks on me and I'd forgotten how to ride. By high speed I mean anything over 60mph, at lower velocities it was dead easy to control. It didn't like accelerating into or out of bends, preferred to be set up on line and guided through on a neutral throttle. Not much fun, that!
The engine was a bit of a character. Again, a new one with stock carbs and exhaust might be a very different bag of tricks, so don't harass me if yours is perfection personified. Below 5000 revs it whirred away, stuttered, churned and vibrated, but didn't really produce the goods. Then there was a 1500rpm flat spot, before the power suddenly bellowed in. In first through to third gear this was enough to lighten the front end, make the bars go twitch-twitch. It always brought a smile to my face when it came on cam. Lovely. But hell for the rest of the time.
As someone who was fifty quite a long time ago, it was rather undignified to have to hustle everywhere like a drunken young whippersnapper. The bike didn't really feel safe in a straight line at 80mph, though there was enough power to put 120mph on the clock. I think so anyway, because the speedo tried to vibrate out of its housing, making everything look a bit blurred.
Yes, this was a bit of a vibrator in the great tradition of big British twins. Hold on to your false teeth, and all that. A daily wielding of the spanners was needed to stop things falling off. Long distance trips were limited to about a 100 miles before I felt seriously ill. Needed a good fifteen minute rest to get over all the violence and brutality.
Not to mention the scary brakes. Again, not standard stuff. A vicious concoction of twin front discs that judging by their very powerfulness were probably liberated from some 1000cc mammoth. It wasn't so much a matter of doing a stoppie as avoiding being thrown over the bars just using one finger pressure on the lever!
In the wet I dared not touch that lever. Incredibly dangerous stuff. Engine braking was also fierce enough to lock up the back wheel if the throttle was slammed shut. Like an on/off switch. The back brake, luckily, was both mild and sensitive. It was amazing that I never came off the bike during the autumn rains.
As winter approached I was happy enough for the excuse to use the wife's car for work. The Lav also became rather difficult to start as the cold weather fell across the country. Took a good five minutes of backfiring before the thing bellowed into happy life at about 7000 revs. The bike had been rewired and ran nonstandard (Jap) switches, so the electrics were generally reliable and competent.
Or so I thought. One day I came out to find everything dead. Check the battery was my first thought. Well, it wasn't, but you don't want to hear about my swearing fit and wondering if I should do for it with the hammer, do you? So I found the battery, which had split and dropped most of its acid on the surrounding chassis. Nice scars, too! My old Triumph used to run with a dead battery but the Montuic refused to start (the electronic ignition pack wasn't standard, either).
One new battery, insulated with some old inner-tubing, later I was back in business. I wasn't convinced that it was worth all the effort. I'd been instantly enamoured of its shape and thrown into ecstasy by its juvenile noise. Anything that looked and sounded so meaty had to be good, didn't it? Yeah, well, we all do silly things sometimes.
I used it less and less as the winter deepened and wasn't really that keen on getting to grips with the bike when March came around. No, it'd have to go and I'd have to find something else to relive my youth on. All was not lost, I made a £500 profit on the sale. Its replacement? A 1967 Triumph 650 Bonnie, in fairly original but not immaculate condition. It needs a bit of love and care to keep in shape but it's loads more fun on the road than the Lav. Okay, maybe a low mileage stocker would have been a different trip, but I sincerely believe that in this instance British is best. I won't be buying a Laverda again.
Clive Jones
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Ever since the mid seventies I've always wanted a big Laverda twin. I also lusted after the Jotas but they were a bit too much to take really seriously. Trouble was, the twins were always expensive beasts, reflecting their tough engineering and unusual longevity. Only three years ago did my income match up to the prevailing cost of acquiring one of these most rare big vertical twins.
Okay, so most are high milers but at least there was cheap classic insurance and the sheer credibility of owning such a beautiful device. Three grand secured a 1974 SF that had done a genuine 49000 miles in the hands of two devoted owners. Rewired, upgraded electrics and a new set of carbs. Otherwise stock if highly polished and completely oil tight. Looked well purposeful.
The engine fired up straight off with a fiery bellow that drowned out the surrounding traffic and made damn sure that the cagers knew I was coming. The clutch induced immediate wrist-ache, and the throttle would snap back if I didn't get assertive with my right hand. I had a nasty time with the controls as all the switches were worn loose.
The next big surprise was how much effort was needed on the bars to get it to go where I wanted. The mythology surrounding the bike's that of a thoroughbred Italian stallion, but it has an unerring need to carry straight on unless an excessive amount of muscle's applied to the narrow, flat bars (non-standard, I think). This frightened the stuffing out of my back end several times as I thought the steering lock had jammed on or something!
There wasn't anything really wrong with the bike it was just that it was designed in a period when good stability came from conservative steering geometry. I was used to modern bikes, where you only have to breathe a bit too hard to make the chassis veer off in the required direction. The Lav needs effort and persistence, the first few weeks even minor rides left all my muscles aching. After a couple of months, though, it had all become second nature - so much so that when I had a go on a CBR600 I wobbled violently all over the place as it seemed like a moped in comparison.
The other big difference was vibration. Don't get me wrong, the SF wasn't falling apart under me or anything. Much of its 500lbs of mass is concentrated in the sheer, excessive build quality of the engine (though it could have done without the chain primary drive, the OHC was most welcome in comparison to pushrod Brit twins). What you got wasn't so much vibration (at least below 6000 revs) as a reflection of the thumping torque created by the combustion process. You damn well knew that each ounce of power extracted was the result of a brutal, tortuous process; the kind of engine that if produced by a Jap designer would immediately be fitted with half a dozen balancers and an exhaust the size of a dustbin. It was evocative and fun but quite bewildering until I'd gotten used to the bike.
One friend, who owes a 600 Bandit, had a go, came back all shook up, demanding to know how I could justify paying so much money for such an agricultural, brutish monster that was best left in a museum. And the noise? He could barely hear my excuses even though I was angry enough at these insults to shout them at him. He went around slagging the bike off something rotten. Okay, they take some getting used to but some people have totally closed minds and should be given a good kicking between the legs.
The SF ran such tall gearing that it needed a bit of clutch slip to make spirited escapes from the traffic lights. Both the bellowing exhaust and thrumming engine meant it was a good idea to get into top gear as soon as possible, but it didn't like to run in that ratio below 40mph, preferably 50mph. It began to get into its stride at 90mph, settled down to a comfortable 100mph cruising gait with good acceleration to 120mph (I'd guess, the vibes made the speedo a bit vague at such velocities), with yet more in hand from the 65hp motor.
It was certainly on the pace in its day but now hopelessly outclassed by anything vaguely modern - a GPZ500S, for instance. High speed handling still needed effort but it offered both precision and stability even though the relative lack of suspension travel meant bumpy roads turned the ride a bit choppy. It was a bit too out of it for the tighter country lanes but the faster B roads and snaking A roads allowed the best of the bike's character to emerge. It was the kind of motorcycle that made you want to search out roads that were best suited to it.
On the other hand, serious travelling was also possible. The seat was nicely padded, the bars and pegs well coordinated and the motor easily able to hold up to 90-100mph abuse. Once used to the bike's ways, I did many a long weekend's tour, thousands of miles of pure pleasure.
Such was the bike's nature that a decent pace resulted in better economy than when trying to ride through town (50 against 40mpg). The latter causing the clutch to turn quite horrible and the motor even cutting out at low revs when it needed a good five minutes before it'd bellow into life again. Equally, it would do a couple of thousand miles over a weekend without needing a service, but 500 miles, or less, of town trawling had the carbs out of balance and the oil all gummed up. The SF was definitely trying to dictate the way it was used!
Laverda prided themselves on the quality of their engineering back in the seventies, but our wonderful acid rain over the winter managed to blitz the alloy and chrome (especially the silencers) with corrosion. It soon became evident that the concerned SF owner (and there isn't any other type - it's that kind of bike) needs a second machine for winter riding.
Something confirmed by a wicked rear wheel slide on the partly worn Pirelli on a merely damp day. I thought I was a goner but reflexes and muscles that I frankly didn't know I had saved the day. Neither were the Brembo calipers much cop in wet weather, though generally the brakes could melt the rubber when applied with some excessive muscle. The bike felt fine at speed in the wet, but slow speed work made it feel too edgy. Don't know why.
So I didn't ride the Laverda through the worst of the winter but for the rest of the year I did serious mileage, fell for the machine in a big way. After eighteen months 78000 miles were under its wheels - save for servicing, no major engine work was undertaken (as far as I know). They are tough old brutes, going around the clock relatively common.
I did feel it was getting a bit long in the tooth and maybe ready for a more leisurely lifestyle. I couldn't face the blandness of a Jap four after the rough and ready twin, ended up with a slightly used Triumph 900 Trident. Same kind of quality, but much easier going and even more fun. Don't dismiss the SF, though, they are serious meat that need a bit of time and effort to appreciate.
W.I.J.