Kermit
and Jaws
It's funny what gets people inspired to write. Last issue's "Travels"
theme on bike names seems to have got a few folk going.
One of them was Jo Buttner, who had the following to offer. "I'm not sure
how it started (suffice to say it was all Mum's fault), but my bike became Bernie,
the GPX250...when people rang to ask where I was, Mum's favourite response was,
'Out with Bernie!'" It sounds like a major hurdle for any potential love
life, Jo.
She continues, "I took the bike to be serviced and Mum rang the dealer,
to pay the bill I suppose (Will she adopt me? –– GA). She identified
the bike as Bernie. I suffered, but lived.
"By then I knew a guy with a Yellow Triumph Daytona called Big Bird.
"My next partner had a Yamaha Seca II, and I promptly christened her Bernadette.
To this day it has stuck.
"I bought a ZX-6R which, because of its greenish hue, became Kermit...now
I am thinking of a KR-1s and, yes, I have a name all picked out ––
Skeeter, as in Kermit's little nephew.
Brian Cox chimed in with, "There never was a more aptly named bike than
the ill-tempered, malevolent-eyed, Jaws. It was an all-white YZ125D Yamaha motocrosser
of late '70s vintage. Without a doubt she had an inhuman desire to destroy all
who climbed aboard her. Shredded cartilages, ripped to pieces cruciat ligaments,
broken bones, bruises and near-death experiences were all part of Saturday playtime
for this minuscule miscreant.
"George, a very good friend of mine and riding mate for many years, had
resisted all temptation to ride Jaws...there came a Saturday though, one of
those beautiful Autumn days when even Jaws must be in a good mood, and George
decided the time was right to try his hand –– and possibly the rest
of his body –– at controlling the narrow power-banded and ill-handling
Yamaha.
"George started out carefully –– very carefully around the local
motocross track...lap followed lap and he became a little more confident and
began twisting the quick-action throttle a little harder, and even ventured
into that ever-so-narrow power band.
"Just before the main straight was quite a high berm, preceded 20 or 30
metres by a smallish jump. Convinced he was in complete control, George launched
himself off the jump in God only knows what gear, and arrived at the berm considerably
earlier than his brain.
"Now completely out of control and transfixed with horror, he flew over
the back of the berm like a wayward Exocet missile. Actually, from a bystander's
point of view, it looked quite good.
"Unfortunately, while doing this great impression of Evel Knievel, George
had his handlebar clip an old telegraph pole about five metres up. Everyone
swears the pole had never been there before.
"George and Jaws crashed to the rock-hard ground. First on the scene was
my wife of the time, who began to gently remove George's almost new full-face
helmet. Second on the scene were George's two very young sons who saw the helmet
at an odd angle to the remainder of their father's body. As fast as they could,
riding their MR50s, they raced back to their Mum –– who fortunately
hadn't witnessed the episode –– and announced for all to hear that
George was dead.
"Naturally George's wife Marion freaked and ran to the scene to find her
husband quite alive but nursing a broken collarbone. She immediately yelled
at the kids, asking why they'd said their dad was dead. The eldest replied,
'He looked dead. His head was on back to front.'
"Soon after Jaws was castrated by replacing the YZ motor with a more user-friendly
DT175 engine."
Since we're on the subject of feedback, I must include the following from Greg
Black, who was responding to a recent column on workshop manuals. "It reminded
me of a time 25 years ago when I was having trouble getting the front seats
out of one of my cars, a current model Renault.
"I spent several hours with a couple of mates crawling under and over those
seats, trying to find the hidden bolts or whatever it was that held them in
place. Eventually we gave up and ordered a factory workshop manual from the
local dealer in Darwin –– aftermarket manuals for Renaults were not
a big-selling item in Oz in the early seventies.
"It took weeks to arrive, costing an arm and a couple of legs. I eagerly
poured over every page of it, slightly slowed because my French was a bit rusty
and eventually located every reference to the front seats. In total, translated
into English, the only reference was, 'Remove the front seats'.
"I've lost my faith in workshop manuals since then."
Having been a Renault victim myself, Greg, you have my complete sympathies.
Guy "Guido" Allen
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