At some time in their lives everyone gets the Harley bug. God knows why but the charisma of the American twin seeps deep into the consciousness, a mix of raw machinery, beautiful babes on the pillion and all those road movies. Most hard-core readers of the UMG dismiss such devices as entirely impractical for UK roads; this ain't Route 66, boy, etc. But to hear, see and feel (surely, the very ground trembles!) a Harley in the flesh for the first time is such a visceral experience that there's no stopping the insane enthusiasm.
Enough said, I had to have one. I didn't really have that clear a picture of the range. For sure, I could differentiate between an 883/1200 Sporster and the 1340, which was usually dressed up in an excess of cruising clothes. I could even recognise the pre-Evolution warhorses, though I wasn't mad enough to want to indulge in that particular bad trip.
So when I saw the advert for a 1200 Sportster I had a vague idea of what I was getting into. The vendor, an outlaw with so much facial hair I could barely make out his piggy eyes, revealed that it was actually an 883 that had been converted to 1200 spec, with lots of chassis mods to suit his lifestyle. Long forks, minimal seat, straight-thru exhaust, high bars and huge, open-mouthed carb that threatened to suck in passing ped's.
I wasn't overjoyed at these mods, something shown in my crestfallen face, but was relieved when he said he had all the stock stuff in his house (the front room was reserved for the bike!) and he'd turn it back to standard if I was willing to come up with the asking price (£3750). The reason for the sale was a massive Harley chopper than was longer than most cars and so lowly slung it would be in a fight with any errant manhole covers. He nearly hit me when I suggested it was unrideable!
Anyway, the motor sounded good and righteous, so the deal was done and the next day I turned up with the cash for the machine, now resplendent in stock clothes. That's more like it, I exclaimed, whilst he counted the used twenties (he'd warned me not to bring any fifties). A couple of his outlaw mates were there, filing away at their teeth, with vicious looking knives. I was a bit disturbed by his parting comment, that the bike was sold as seen and I'd better not bother coming back to complain if anything went wrong.
This was the first Harley I'd ever ridden, so I didn't quite know what to make of the finger numbing, foot shaking vibes that poured out of the machine as I tried to wind the venerable vee up. The clutch lever had tried to break my left hand and my poor old foot had got into a right old fighting match with the gear lever. I was relieved to get her into fourth and let the torque take over, only there wasn't the kind of eyeball popping urge I'd been led to expect by all the glossy road tests.
A little way down the road I found out that the pneumatic drill had no brakes. Luckily, she made such a racket that the cagers were well aware of the impending doom and let us float through the junction like an irate rhino. The front disc would work, I found out, if I tried for a grip that would bend a steel bar. Even then the retardation was frighteningly slow.
Back home I almost burst into tears. The shiny, relatively quiet motor I'd bought an hour earlier was now seeping oil from every joint and knocked away like all the bearings were shot. A fug of smoke hung over the machine from the slash pipes, one of which had loosened, gone all askew.
Then the motor started clanking away to itself, actually trying to leap out of the frame, so viciously that I thought I was surely hallucinating. It locked up solid, flipped off the sidestand and bounced on the driveway. If I hadn't leapt out of the way it would've broken me in half. Vicious bastard.
I was all for putting a match in the petrol tank. The only thing that stopped me was the thought that I'd just spent every penny I had in the world on the beast. Sad, or what? I was so pissed I left it where it had fallen for an hour, pissing oil, petrol and battery acid. Nearly broke my back lugging the overweight heap back to the vertical. The motor was seized solid and the petrol tank dented. At about that moment of despair a couple of replica mounted mates turned up and had a good laugh at my expense.
There was nothing for it but to whip the motor out and have a look at how far gone the thing was. The mileage was indeterminate as the clocks weren't standard. Could've gone round the clock a few times in its five years of existence. What I think had happened, judging by the extent of the damage, was that the outlaw had stripped the motor down and used every mashed engine component in his possession, rebuilt the mill in a hurry and used sludge-like oil to keep the noises in check. Anyway, except for the external cases it was a goner.
No, I wasn't brave enough to go back and give the bro's a piece of my mind but I did get my mate in the police on their case. Couldn't do anything about the bike but they got them on illegal firearms and drugs, so the bastard's serving a nice long prison sentence and had all his possessions impounded by the cops. He who laughs last, etc.
Back to the Harley. Harley parts are not cheap in the UK. I managed to scrounge worn bits out of the hands of mad headcases, get the crankshaft rebuilt, bodged the gearbox, used barrels and pistons just about on their last legs, and rebuilt the cylinder heads all by myself. Harleys are not easy to work out, a bit of a pig-ear's of an engine with about two million shims to get right! I'm not the world's best amateur mechanic but eventually it was sussed and running again.
In the meantime I'd had a couple of rides on Sportsters, found that the vibration was normal and therefore wasn't that surprised when my rebuilt machine did a passing imitation of a pile-driver. Thumping torque was an all too literal description of the Harley's performance. Braking, handling and general competence weren't in abundance. It needed muscle and bravery to ride at speeds that would see off a restricted 125!
And of its famed laid back, coolness? Well, the bike just didn't fit me, I could never find a comfortable perch. Indeed, had some back trouble from straining against the bars. It did attract women, of a sort - old slags who'd drop their knickers for just about anyone and were mired in all kinds of strains of incurable diseases. I had to fight them off, flee the scene, as I was only twenty and not into women as old as me mum!
I didn't give up easily, though, as I spent so much money, time and effort to get into the Harley game. There had to be more to it than the vicious vibes, dangerous handling and sheer lack of zip. At times the engine shrugged and strained so heavily that I thought I was in the midst of a minor earthquake or volcanic eruption! There was never any fluidity to the thing, however hard I looked or compromised the way I wanted to ride (which meant keeping to wide A-roads, as it was too wicked in the tight stuff and too slow on the motorway).
When I started pushing the Harley a little harder I kept being spat off, thanks to the total lack of ground clearance. Top speed was about the ton but in reality vibes kept me down to around 70mph, although the motor never really settled down to a vibration free speed. When it wasn't vibrating harshly it seemed to be grumbling away to itself, sending tremors through the frame, hopping across the tarmac if left ticking over on the stand.
I tried for all of six months and 3000 miles to get to grips with the beast but it was all too obscure for me. And too bloody dangerous. New ones are rumoured to have brakes that work and lights that illuminate, and suspension that soaks up the bumps without throwing the bike all over the shop, but the old stuff, unless it's expensively modded (and I'd run right out of money, I'd never been so poor as when running the Harley) doesn't offer much of a motorcycling experience.
At least the myth meant that financially it wasn't a total disaster, as I sold the bike for £3950, despite the motor sounding and running like there was serious expense on the horizon. I was unlucky in my initial experience but generally it's possible to buy a Harley, have a taste of the mythology and then sell it on if you don't like it without losing too much money. You may get lucky and find a sweet one, the fanatics keep insisting I'd bought a rotten apple. But I wouldn't chance it again, once was enough.
I was still enamoured by the cruising experience, all that Easy Rider stuff, so when an 800 Intruder turned up at the local dealer with the offer of a test ride, I thought why not, nothing to lose. At this point all the Harley fanatics are going to tear the UMG into shreds - the Suzuki was f..king brilliant after the Sportster!
The motor was much smoother, it went where I pointed it without a fist fight, the brakes were powerful and predictable, and it throbbed up to 90mph without a murmur of discontent. And it felt just as relaxed as a rolling armchair. After swapping insults with the dealer it was mine for £3500 - a bargain as it was eighteen months old with a mere 6000 miles on the clock, in absolutely perfect nick - I forgot to mention the way the Harley's chrome fell off when it rained!
Harley riders will be muttering about true character and having a love affair with their machine, but sod all that, it's just an excuse for piss poor engineering as far as I can see. The Intruder's easily the best looking Jap cruiser and if it doesn't quite match the sheer rawness of the Harley then, so what - you're supposed to ride the damn thing not sit looking at it all day long!
And ride the Suzuki is exactly what I did. 19000 miles in ten months. Don't get me wrong, perfect it was not. Like the Harley, it had some severe ground clearance problems and could go all wobbly in rough corners but unlike the American Iron, I felt in control for most of the time. Just having a front brake that would burn off the rubber when the going got desperate gave me a vastly improved feeling of confidence.
But it was the engine, more than anything else, that really inspired. Intruder motors have a reputation for toughness and longevity that's way beyond anything that Harley owners' can dream of, and that toughness's reflected in the way it runs. Relentless and bulletproof come to mind as barely adequate descriptions.
Power and torque are also neatly combined with a miraculously slick gearbox and light clutch. It grumbles a bit right at the lower end of the rev range but once past 2000rpm gives a nice kick in all of the gears and throbs up to about 7000 revs when the power is all but played out. I say throb not in any way to demean the motor by accusing it of vibrating, more as a description of the way the combustion process is communicated to the rider. Obviously, pushed to the limit in first it does indeed vibrate but what big twin wouldn't?
Top speed was about 110mph - but rather silly given the riding position - and fuel went from 50 to 60mpg, depending on cruising speed. The engine needed oil changes every 2500 miles to stop the gearbox going off but other than that didn't get any attention from me and ran just as fine as ever. I know one guy who's run an 800 Intruder up to 60,000 miles under the same regime of neglect and have no doubt mine would've done the same...
Had not some low life, bastard, son of a bitch nicked the still pristine machine from outside my mate's house when I was on a visit. I thought I must've been looking in the wrong place when I came out and found only the usual pack of cages littering the street. Looked up and down the road until it suddenly dawned on me that the Intruder wasn't there any more. An anguished howl let loose from my throat, startling my friend who later tried to comfort me by saying it was only a motorcycle. Only A Motorcycle, I screamed at him, barely restraining myself from throttling him.
The bike was never seen again and I had to move on to something else. Another Intruder would have been fine but they were suddenly scarce and I ended up with a grey import from the States, an immaculate Honda 600 Shadow, which looked more like a Harley than most Harleys. Basically, it's the same engine as the Revere and VT500, but detuned for more grunt, although I soon found that 4th was a touch too tall for accelerating hard when motorway cruising, having to knock down to 3rd and scream the engine a bit.
In this it was definitely inferior to the Intruder, whose larger capacity allowed it to get away with much more relaxed riding. However, the Honda could be blasted through town with unerring ease, its chain drive giving it an easier time at ultra low revs. However, the riding position was one of the most uncomfortable I'd ever come across. Not that the saddle was lacking in padding, as such, but that the whole of my mass was concentrated on my bum. Half an hour in town had me squirming but an hour on the open road left me feeling like I'd been butt-f..ked by half the cabinet.
Though steering was a touch heavy, the suspension did a pretty good job of absorbing the bumps and keeping the near 500lbs of mass on line. With its 63 inch wheelbase and a lot of the mass kept low, not to mention its kicked out forks, it was very stable in a straight line, not even taking out a small dog with the front wheel caused it to go wild. This was probably the bike's most impressive aspect but it wasn't so good that I could ignore its failings in other areas, most notably its lack of comfort.
Fuel never really bettered 50mpg but it usually didn't go much below that either. The usual two carb's needed setting up every 5000 miles, which was when I did the oil as it never seemed to go off. Three valves per cylinder but they were always within limits. Because I had to thrash the engine much more than on the Intruder, I never felt happy about entirely neglecting maintenance, though god knows the bike has an excellent pedigree in the VT500 and Revere, both of which withstood the massive thrashing of crazed DR's.
One thing that spoilt the otherwise sophisticated Honda was starting on cold winter mornings. The bike was evidently set up for Texan weather rather than merry old England. Basically, if it was below freezing the bike didn't want to know, grumbled away to itself for a good fifteen minutes, refusing to run in the taller gears and cutting out just as the cages were going to cut me up. Riding a cruiser in winter? Silly boy, I know, but the Shadow was my only means of transport.
Also, even when fully warmed up and running properly, the throttle was a bit on the sharp side, sending a grunt of torque into the back wheel, which on icy roads would tend to try to spin off into oblivion. Not nice, that, especially in the morning when I'd barely woken up.
As soon as the spring came in I sold the Honda. Not a bad machine - I did 8000 miles in seven months - but more of a pose tool than a practical set of wheels. For those who really yearn after Harleys but can't take them the Shadow's a viable alternative and has proven itself the most popular custom except for Harleys (of course!) in the States.
Me? Well. I went out and bought a one year old 1400 Intruder at a bargain price. One big mutha, without the nice balance of the 800, but with much of the grunt of the bigger Harleys and none of their nastiness. I know, people in the UK laugh at Japanese customs, but I really like my latest bike and that's what it's all about. Right?
David Kelbright
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The Yam XV535 felt good. Real good. Hard to believe, maybe, but then I'd just blagged a Harley 1200 Sportster for a 400 mile blast. God, talk about vibration. All my extremities felt like they'd been pounded half to death by Iranian torturers. Luckily, I'd pulled up outside the Lewis residence - a remote farmhouse in South Wales - and rolled into the living room where I'd curled up in a fetal ball for a while. No-one to hear the terrifying screams, see.
Okay, I'd flogged the Harley into the red for most of the time. The only alternative was to be run down by crazed cagers, streaming along the M4 at 100mph. Harleys and speed don't mix at all well, as I found out to my cost. The next day I was more or less in one piece. More than could be said for the Harley, which had left a big puddle of oil over my front garden. The environmental fascists in the local council would've had a fit, but capping meant they could not run to helicopters, about the only way they'd track down my residence.
After the panic subsided - you know how retributive these Hog owners can turn - I realised that the cause of the slick was nothing more than a loose rear cylinder head. Brute force had the old girl running nicely again. I thought the Harley would suit the local lanes well - heavily policed so speed would be pointless, although that ain't a point of view shared by some GSXR boyo's who delight in 150mph sorties past the cop shop. Quite right, too.
Unfortunately, narrow roads with lots of bends, even at speeds that had learners sniffing my exhausts (straight-thru, natch), proved only that American customs should stay in the USA...the HD was heavy, slow turning and liable to run straight across bends unless I paid the kind of attention I only ever manage when some young nubile gives me the go ahead to get into her knickers (and, no, not that way, we'll leave the transvestite terrors to the glossies, thank you very much).
I struggled away until I hit Merthyr Tydfil. If I'd had any breath left after that work out I would've had it taken away by the excess of mini-skirted bints, black stockings and all, who were overwhelmed with lust for the Harley. I basked in their attentions for a while, practising my Welsh accent to avoid being beaten to death by the male half (quarter, more like...) of the population. It was pretty obvious why Harleys sell so well in this country but as a serious motorcycle? Pass the sick bucket, please.
Anyhow, I got the Harley back to its owner in one piece, though there was a slight knocking noise from the bottom end and a bit of clutch lurch. I told him, any problems, send the bill to the UMG, which he found quite impressive, not realising the total implausibility of getting any money from that source. Something to do with all the 'profits' going on plane trips to the Far East (Who me? Some mistake, surely - Ed).
I'd arranged for this mate to pick me up on his XV535 and take me home. This simple bit of planning went awry when he insisted that I take the machine off his hands for a song. He was in a blind panic. Got some young lady pregnant, who was threatening to take him to the cleaners via the Child Support Agency unless he coughed up some cash for the abortion and inconvenience. Shit, that's what you get with playing around with girls half your age, I told him, just before making a ridiculous offer for the Yam.
So, the XV felt real good after the damnable Harley. I was a bit too close to the ground for comfort and 25000 miles of abuse (if such a thing's possible on a custom) had turned the suspension to mush, but directional controllability and the general feel of security at 90mph were way ahead of the HD. I was riding between Newport and Cardiff on the coast road; infamously employed by no less a delinquent than the editor for speed testing, which probably explains the loitering cop cars who might even be responsible for the mysterious patches of gravel that occur in the middle of the hairpin bends - this road really is like something out of a zany Scalectric set (I prefer the Cotswolds, these days - Ed).
I know the curves well enough to avoid ditching it, and the straights are long enough to hit 160mph on an FZR1000, as long as you keep a watchful eye out for Farmer Fred chasing sheep in his tractor. I was feeling almost contented with my lot in life as the XV whirred away reassuringly, my only hassle trying to stop my helmet strap from doing a high speed Sweney Todd on my throat. Then, of course, all hell broke lose as the wheels hit a patch of gravel and the whole ship did the kind of wobble that threw me out of the seat and tried to tear the bars out of my hands. This in a straight line at 95mph
One possible advantage that these kind of customs possess is the stability afforded by a low centre of gravity - god knows, they ain't got much ground clearance. With the rider and engine both mounted low there's much less mass high up to get out of hand. That's my theory anyway - for what it's worth - and perhaps explains why the sudden, traumatic wobble died down as soon as the tyres hit firm ground again.
Then the wailing of a cop car drowned out all other thought. I cursed the XV, then, because I just knew that if I tried to outrun them all I'd do was end up in a ditch. The usual stupid lecture about riding like I didn't know what I was doing. I just kept quiet and looked like I was going to shit myself, not that hard after the previous wobble. I got off in the end - god knows how many people had been mugged and robbed whilst they were pissing around with their power games - with a document check. Which reminded me about the insurance...
After that little incident I headed for the motorway, sat there at 75mph for an hour, waving to the cops sat in cars on the bridges overhead. The XV made a strange churning noise in the gearbox area, probably the universal joint in the shaft drive on the way out, thought I in a despondent mood.
The Yam was almost competent in the tight Welsh curves, much better than a Harley but put firmly in its place by a raddled old codger on a re-engineered CB400 Superdream. We all told him he was a sucker to pay out serious money for such an old horror but it had just enough power and handling competence to frighten the shit out of much bigger bikes - the pilot was old enough not to be worried about dying!
I kept the XV for almost a month before selling it (within three hours of the advert appearing) at a handsome profit. The churning shaft didn't get any noisier, although the gearbox always reacted to a clumsy foot with a false neutral - at least there was an excess of torque that made playing like a drugged sixteen year old on the gearbox largely redundant. The engine had some of the rawness of the Harley, although to someone brought up on sophisticated four cylinder Japs, it'd probably be written off as a vibratory old heap.
Comfort was reasonable at sane speeds, disconcerting when keeping up with the traffic flow on the open road and disturbing in town as it was low enough to allow me to gawp at women's legs in their cages. The combination of vee-twin power pulses and shaft drive transmission, plus old age, had the thing lurching around at low speeds in a tall gear. Belt drive would doubtless be better - even new Sportsters have them!
Running costs were good - 60mpg, no maintenance chores (there are plenty to do but it didn't seem to need them) and it doesn't go through consumables rapidly. No oil used in 900 miles. Many were sold in the UK and they seem tough enough for the first 30,000 miles. Had the engine been employed in a proper frame I might've been able to take it seriously.
After a decent interval, when the worst traumas were forgotten, I fell for another vee-twin. A mighty 800 Intruder. More extreme than the XV, up there with the Harley for wanton styling. I was drunk at the time. Whilst my mates were eyeing up the sheep, I fell for the Suzuki, all glossed up in a car park full of race replicas and ancient rats; a reflection of the way British society was going - the rich getting richer and the poor more desperate. At least the sheep were still free!
I think part of my lust was because I'd been bikeless for a whole week (my rat Honda Benley's in too disgusting a state to make it as a motorcycle, these days, though when the desperation sets in it gets me to the nearest piece of civilisation).
Anyway, the next day I was woken from my drunken slumbers by a thunderous roar. I thought for a moment that Plaid Cymru had set fire to the cottage. But, no, it was the Intruder owner. I thought about letting the dogs loose on him but then recalled that I didn't have any and my cat had trouble with the mice. This chap reckoned I'd agreed to buy the Intruder the previous night and as he was much bigger than me there didn't seem anything to do but hand over the cash.
That's when things turned seriously weird. I had to pilot the plot into town with this 200lb hero on the tiny pillion pad. Weird? It was f..king frightening. These customs are set up so that the rider, bare headed naturally, ends up embraced by some well endowed biking mama. Two men on a custom's rather like...well, this is a family magazine so we won't go into that here. The Intruder reacted to this abuse by waltzing all over the shop, overheating its brakes and refusing to budge out of third gear.
The erstwhile owner skipped off before I had a chance to complain, leaving me contemplating a radiator off which great clouds of smoke escaped. I eyed the 19000 miles on the clock with suspicion but once the watercooled vee-twin motor was left to cool for an hour all was well again. There are some exceedingly steep hills in these Welsh valleys.
The Intruder has a very compact mill that just screams out to be installed in a road chassis (Suzuki made a half-hearted attempt in the VX800), vibration ain't intrusive though I always knew that two bloody big pistons were working away and, well, it just feels so right in much the same way that, on a good day (when I'm in the right mood), Harleys do. The engine turned out to be the best of these three...
Ecstasy, right? Wrong. Oh, so wrong. I just couldn't find any joy in the way the Suzuki handled or braked. The latter was just a case of remoteness, and when really pushed a lack of power from the front end, though I could skid the back wheel so fiercely that the whole bike would swing right around. A dastardly act that made it feel hinged in the middle.
Which was also how it handled. Not at slow speeds, when it felt okay. Not on motorways, at least not up to 90mph - which was the most my poor body could take with the sit up and break your spine riding position. But when the going got curvy I felt a little weak kneed with the way the back wheel shuffled around, fighting the combination of 60 horses, 450lbs of metal and a fairly direct shaft drive that could turn wild if I didn't pay attention to the throttle and gear level, especially on down changes.
Yes, I know, I should've just laid back and enjoyed the scenery, the beat of the vee-twin's exhaust was, after all, pretty relaxing, but boredom hovered with a death-wish and the engine did have an enticing mix of torque and power that I found more fulfilling than the Harley's and far more fluid than the XV535's. I am strongly tempted to conclude that, just like 500cc is the optimum size for a vertical twin, 750 to 800cc's the optimum for a vee twin.
It's all Harley's fault, of course, having defined the vee twin as a custom motor that can only be doled out in excessive sizes - the only way they can make their antique designs churn out the torque. It's a pity more note wasn't taken of the Vincent vee-twin, although I suppose the amateur efforts of Guzzi and Ducati have forever ruined the vee-twin engine as the centre of a sports machine.
After about a week of near death experiences on the Intruder, having ended up looking a bit ragged and grey from all the weaves and wobbles, I did, indeed, back off a bit and consoled myself with a remarkable improvement in fuel economy that resulted from riding in the 70 to 80mph range rather than 85 to 95mph. The 'economy' went from 30 to 60mpg! The Harley was doing 40 to 45mpg and XV535 around 60mpg, although the latter was more a result of riding slowly due to the chassis than any sign of advanced design in an engine that had its top end inspiration in the SR500 (or should that be XT500, as I think that one came first).
I thought the Intruder was the neatest looking of the three. This wasn't an opinion shared by the female population - all I received for my pains was the odd snigger and giggle. I suppose that a company that produced such horrors as the GN250 can't be taken too seriously. As the whole bike was painted in a rather naff shade of red, I think a few cans of matt black paint might have improved my chances with the frails.
Overall impression of the VS was of a good motor looking for a proper frame (which is something that could be said about most custom vee-twins)...a couple of brief blasts on a VX800, whose owner was thinking about buying an Intruder (and was put off by my example), convinced me that a decent chassis was the way to go.
That's not to say that the VX was an excellent motorcycle. It was long and heavy (480lbs), with a riding position that whilst sporty wasn't too comfortable - doubtless, extended exposure would allow me to adapt to its reach and the odd shape of the handlebars. Stability and suspension were much better than on the Intruder, giving me relative confidence in bopping along at 90 to 100mph, though the engines were similar, the VX was harder charging between 5000 and 8000 revs with no deficit in torque at lower revs.
The bike would be transformed by the combination of a 100lbs less mass, a radically shortened wheelbase and belt drive instead of shaft (because the twists in the drive-train are very inefficient in terms of both power delivery and frugality - it doesn't matter so much in customs as they usually aren't ridden fast).
To be honest, the VX conjured up more admiration than both the XV and VS, which together with its better chassis dynamics, makes it a much more sensible buy for anyone interested in both posing and riding. The owner was impressed with the finish (unblemished after two years) and total engine reliability. Around two grand buys a very nice one.
Back on the Intruder, my discontent was almost total. I even started pulling wheelies! Its geometry was all against such nonsense but the torque and somewhat vicious clutch made anything possible. After about a week there was a knocking noise from the gearbox area, so I bunged in some thick oil and traded in at the local dealers.
The only bike they had that wasn't wrecked or extortionately priced was a grey import Honda 650 Nighthawk. This is a mild custom but one easily sorted out with a tauter pair of shocks, flat bars and decent set of Avons. Being able to cruise at 90 to 110mph without feeling sick from the handling or physically wrecked from the riding position, was a sheer joy. Had me high every time, though it's really a bit of a dog compared with a CBR600, and the like. I've grown tired with it already but have a buyer lined up - I should survive these three bikes with a small profit at the end of the day, so I ain't going to complain too loudly!
In retrospect, the only custom that makes any sense is an 883 Harley with belt drive (and all the minor mods to lights, carb, exhaust, brakes, etc, that makes them that much more usable) as it's smoother than the 1200 but still draws the frails like the pop star of the moment. Can't think of any other reason to buy a custom except if they turn up at a bargain price!
Dick Lewis
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