I know, another boring bike entry.

I want to share the joy and terror that is my new beast.


I’ve de-badged it since that picture. Took off all the stupid ‘Relentless’ stickers and such. It looked like a boy racer’s Subaru. Seems you heat them with a hair dryer which melts the glue and they peel off, then use GooGone to wipe away the residual glue. Gawd bless the internet.

There is still a problem with tickover. I’ve tracked down and joined a TL owner’s group, TLWorld, and found it’s usually down to to the Throttle Position Sensor (TPS) needing adjustment and the the air mixture in the cylinders need balancing. Something about throttle bodies, I think. The TPS thing is what it says, something that senses where the throttle is and tells the computer to throw petrol at the engine.

It doesn’t look too big a job, but you have to strip all the fairing off. If I’m doing that I may as well service it as well, so I’ve got plugs, oil filter, air filter, and all the gaskets to the exhaust (which is still too loud, I’ve ordered some –second hand- genuine Suzuki TL1000s end cans as a last ditch attempt to quiet it down).

I’ll service it, replace the exhaust gaskets, fit the standard end cans, adjust the tickover, set the TPS and balance the throttle bodies (or whatever that bit is called.)

If it’s still cutting out then I’m taking it to the professionals.

It’s a hazard to shipping at the moment. I was sat between the cars at the lights, revving up a massively loud bike like a boy racer just to keep it from dying, then I let the clutch out and it stalled. In my embarrassment I hit the starter, grabbed a hand full of revs and dumped the clutch, all in one motion. Wheelied away between the traffic. So not good.

Another bracing moment was heading over Kingsway bridge. I shot up behind a car, which then put it’s indicator on and braked towards the pavement. Whatever. I swerved past it, accelerating. Police car in the middle of the road heading straight for me! Oops. Hit the brakes and the back end swung right out. The brakes are fierce! In a split second it slewed so far round I thought I was getting spat off. I lifted and straightened up just before, but my arse gave an almighty twitch, I can tell you.


As I say, I’ve joined TLWorld. It’s the first owner’s group I’ve seen that host a list of “Fallen Members.”

Pretty sure my last Japanese sports machine club, the Micra owner’s group, didn’t have a list of the glorious dead.

I’m going to leave instructions so I can be added should my luck run out.

It is such a beast. With the low speed problem at the moment, especially, she’s just screaming “MORE! MORE! RIDE ME, YOU PUSSY!”  the whole time. It’s a six speed box, easily reaches 70mph in 3rd. You can hit a comfortable 140mph and then change up a gear.

Allegedly. So I’ve read. On the Autobahn.

In unrelated news I also want an unmarked plod detector. I’ve just looked at the system. It works by detecting police radios which apparently beep every 3 seconds to make sure they are connected to network. Without decoding the signal, which would be illegal, it just registers that there is one. Nearly £800, if it can be fitted to a bike (I’ve asked) but the tories have just changed the law so plebs who speed will have to pay up to 1½ times their weekly wage in a fine. The maximum penalty remains £2k, so the rich are alright. Which is a relief.

More than the fine worry, there’s the whole ‘losing my license/job’ thing. While I was looking into it I saw that Cheshire police have started fielding unmarked plod bikes specifically for persecuting bikers. £800 is a lot of cash, but it is potentially peanuts.

Talking of money pit motoring, Wendy has got her provisional license. I’ve added her to my car insurance. I’ve got 9 years no claim’s bonus, we’re in our 50’s, for 6 months they’ve robbed us £504.40! On top of my insurance.

And they’ve made me take off my protected no claims thing.


I had a massive week at work last week. I got the Bank Holiday (double time, and day in lieu) my sixth shift was 12½ hrs long (time and three quarters) plus 36 hours overtime (time and a half).

And just like that it’s disappeared.

Still, at least it’s coming in. To rapidly go out. But better to have it going out than have nothing coming in.

In Cornwall we were so desperately poor I was walking around with a safety pin in my fly because it was bust and we couldn’t afford a new pair. When you can’t afford a pair of jeans, you are poor.

Right, bedtime.