Travels With the Bulldog
TRAVELS WITH THE BULLDOG
Street Bike Turns Blitz Tourer
Tony Swan
During the course of living with our Kawasaki KZ650 long-term test
bike, we've explored almost all the machine’s potential as a first-rate street mount and general barnstorming screamer. We augmented the already nimble handling with a set of S&W rear shocks and rising-rate springs, and the addition of a 4into-1 J&R exhaust system (see our January review of same) honed this already potent hauler into a 12-sec. pocket rocket capable of running heads up with almost anything.
Throughout the early months of our relationship with the Bulldog (it got this nickname for its fighting heart and compact looks, not because it’s ugly and given to drooling at inappropriate moments) we’d been looking for some sort of fairing to agument the bike’s sporting character. Obviously, full fairings were out. but we didn't want to resort to one of the jazzy bikini numbers one sees on some of the hot street setups if we could avoid it. After sifting through several setups that were too this, too that or simply didn't fit. Girdler finally lost patience and decided we should cobble up something on our own. Accordingly, a Krauser fairing designed for the Honda GL1000 was ingeniously adapted— amid much muttering from the rest of the staff to the Bulldog’s honest face.
Some of us had serious aesthetic reservations about this installation. But it had one unifying side effect: We had an excuse to review the Bulldog’s touring potential. How would the Bulldog react to a bundle of baggage bungeed to its hindquarters? How would it like a steady diet of highspeed cruising? How welcome w'ould the Bulldog's quick, sensitive responsiveness be to the rider thinking in terms of hundreds of miles, rather than the next set of bends? Reliability? Comfort? Clearly, there were still a aood many blanks to be filled.
Thus it came to pass that the Bulldog, its aggressive lines cluttered with sleeping bag and baggage, attacked the San Diego Freeway weekend traffic one fine Friday evening, northbound for San Francisco (via Santa Barbara, Paso Robles and the Salinas Valley). I’d hoped to have some company; the prospect of a woofie tucked in amongst the baggage seemed not only appropriate but germane to a touring evaluation. But Cheryl took one look at the itinerary (“San Francisco? And back? In one weekend? Are you kidding?”) and allowed as how she wasn’t having any. As it turned out, this w'as for the best, since a piece of soft luggage and a sleeping bag ate up the passenger’s portion of the saddle. Girdler tried to talk me into using a tank bag, but I don’t like them. However, for anyone contemplating a two-up voyage on a KZ650, either a tank bag or luggage rack or both is in order.
The Bulldog had just returned from a routine servicing, so the only prep that seemed in order was a fresh set of plugs. The old Champion N3s were showing a slight tendency to miss at high revs; a handful of B7ES NGKs cured this. With •the plugs ready to go, the electric starter, which has displayed part-time tendencies for a couple of months thanks to a mysterious short, quit working again. I resorted to the kick lever and the Bulldog fired on the first try—as usual.
Allons. No woofie, no electric start, no tank bag. luggage rack, panniers, etc., and a rather untidy bundle bungeed on behind me, but these deficiencies were offset by a tankful of Union’s finest and the sweet trumpeting of the J&R exhaust to herald my passage.
A run from Newport Beach to Santa Barbara—roughly 150 miles—is a piece of cake, particularly with the challenge of thick traffic for diversion. This has always been an excellent arena for the Bulldog, whose quickness and maneuverability make it a great seam threader and small hole squirter on the freeways. If the luggage was making any inroads into the bike's agility, it wasn’t apparent on the freeway, and the extra weight was negligible. perhaps 25 to 30 lb. in all. so little as to be indiscernible in terms of diminished acceleration. The Kawasaki twitched and darted through the eddies in the iron river like O.J. Simpson running through a field of lame linebackers.
Santa Barbara came and went, a big. warm punctuation mark (with food, wine and friends) in the voyage. 1 didn’t really know much more about the Bulldog’s touring capabilities, but I did know that you should never carry your camera slung bandolier style from your neck. The incessant drag causes whole squadrons of tiny muscles to mutiny, and I knew these mean clamorings were only the first hint of a really serious pain in the neck.
But the most interesting section of my trip lay just beyond Santa Barbara along California 154. a route that cuts the elbow off U.S. 101 between Santa Barbara and Santa Maria, affording some geographic merriment en route, more than enough to take one’s mind off something as mundane as a sore neck. The road marches up out of Santa Barbara in a series of 35and 40mph turns, swoops over San Marcos Pass, then dives down into the dreamy Santa Ynez Valley. Once you're over the crest, the road careens toward the Cachuma Reservoir in long, fast sweepers, many of them blind. There's bound to be something in this assortment to make anyone close his eyes once or tw ice if he keeps it screwed on tight enough, and nighttime traffic is usually light. The Man makes regular sweeps through this stretch, but you won’t see much of him at night.
There are also a couple of watering holes worth investigating en route, both of them dating to stagecoach days. The first is the Cold Spring Tavern, huddled in a fold of the mountainside a little way past the pass (watch for Stagecoach Road). It’s a cool haven on a hot day; 19th century rustic funk decor, excellent food at the restaurant (as well as a big stone fireplace), and usually an interesting mixed bag of bikers on hand. Mattei’s Tavern, down the road a way in Los Olivos, was a high point on the old stage route, offering a genuine hotel to battered wayfarers. Its original appearance has been largely preserved, although its principal enterprise now is a steak-andsalad bar eatery. This is pleasant enough, though, and the bar looks pretty much as it did around the turn of the century. If you're into ersatz, sample the offerings of nearby Solvang, the synthetic Danish town. The rendering is Disneyesque, but there are some good eateries and. natch, plenty of trade goods.
The lesson of the Lake Cachuma cutoff on my voyage was that stock headlights are stock headlights and what the hell happened to our Marchai H4 quartz-halogen lamp? Then 1 remembered that its low' beam had gone out about a week or two earlier, and we’d plugged in the old stock lamp as a stopgap, one of those temporary fixes that usually stay in plaee until they break.
Aside from flying a trifle blind, though. 1 emerged from the fast sweepers in the lake area with my pulse rate only about thrice normal and the Bulldog’s at about 7500 rpm, which translates to 90-plus. This launched me directly into the next phase of our inquiry. Can this motorcycle take the pace of continuous high speed motoring? We all know that when the KZ650 was first introduced Kawasaki took a bunch of hotshoes to Daytona and flew a new bike as fast as they could for 24 hours. But that’s one of those things you read about, right? The model designation is the same, but that thing they’re flogging out there isn’t really the same as your bike, right? That was my gut feeling about that 24-hour KZ650 and our own Bulldog. However, the doubt quickly eroded when the bike hunkered down for about three hours of cruising in the 7500 to 8500 rpm range. This wasn't too tough to accomplish during the wee small hours; the only surprising thing about this stretch w;as how fast my few co-travelers were going out there (none of them on bikes, unfortunately). Although the speedo count flirted with 1 15 here and there on the straight stretches. I>
wasn't reeling the other flyers in as fast as you might think. Interesting world, the 3 a.m. faraway freeway. Most of the highway patrol guys are at home and the rules change pretty dramatically. Certainly dissipates any fog that might be building in your consciousness.
There was only one tense moment a little north of Paso Robles when a set of headlights began to grow rapidly in my mirrors. I backed off a few turns whereupon a Turbo Carrera steamed by at about 125-plus. Fare-thee-well. brother. Sort ’em out for me.
The fairing worked better the faster we flew, creating a small, welcome vacuum area and rest for the arms. I look over it. but the little lip that tops the windshield sends the slipstream up. and it only catches the top of my helmet. We've disconnected the clock, because it blows fuses, and the mirrors flap around somewhat at the ends of the bat wings, but I'm glad the Krauser is pushing the air out of the way for me tonight.
About the only discernible difference between the Bulldog in its ordinary habitat (a combination of coastal streets, boulevards and freeways) and the Bulldog of the Midnight Blitz was in fuel consumption: With the new J&R exhaust setup we usually run close to 50 mpg. Storming along at or near the redline it drops to less than 35.
I also made a promise to my bum that I’d remove the passenger safety strap as soon as I got to San Francisco. How we allowed this totally useless item to survive through 5000 miles is beyond all of us.
San Francisco is a city that seems almost to have been designed for motorcycles, and the Kawaski KZ650 seems almost to have been designed for the design. It's hard to imagine another bike better suited to the combination of uphills, downhills, dense traffic and sparse parking peculiar to The City. The Bulldog is sufficientlycompact. and stoppable and agile to handle anything San Francisco has to offer, with enough power to make all of this fun. A few years ago in a former life I stormed these same hills with a BSA 650. and thought it a useful and versatile tool for this purpose: but the Bulldog shows me that I was riding an antique. (Bv its stubborn silence, the electric starter underscores this point. Electric starts are particularly helpful when you're working your way up to the four-way stop at Divisadero and Broadway and the engine quits two car lengths from the crosswalk. Kick-starting the Kawasaki under these circumstances, even though it’s an easy starter, brought back some not-so-fond memories.)
It seemed prudent to keep the music of the J&R exhaust somewhat below full volume in the city, but there were times w hen it was irresistible. Some of San Francisco’s best echo chambers are the lower deck of the Embarcadero Freeway (heading toward Broadway); the Broadway tunnel; the Stockton Street tunnel; the Treasure Island Tunnel on the Bay Bridge: and almost anywhere in the financial district. Nice reverbs.
I figured to get a leg up on the return voyage by riding as far as Carmel before attacking the cliff-side stretch of California-1 that unwinds from there south to San Simeon. However, dense fog shortened that leg to 90 miles, and I called it a night in Santa Cruz. The Bulldog performs just as well in fog as any motorcycle I know of. w hich is to say perilously.
Plans for an early start the next day went awry when the Bulldog's chain looked a little drv and the chain lube can managed just enough of a hiss to tell me it was kaput. Accordingly, this meant hanging around Santa Cruz until the good folks at Coast Honda opened up. one of the few places around to do so since it was Veteran’s Day. I gave the chain a good dose of lube, topped up the crankcase w ith a little Castrol. and set sail for the Southland, pausing only for a pleasant lunch at the River Inngood burgers! in Big Sur.
Highway 1 is one of the best combinations of challenging road and arresting sea vistas in the state, and working the Bulldog dow n the 60-mile stretch from Big Sur was a treat. I was already accustomed to the weight of the baggage slung out over the stern, and it presented no particular hardships as the Bulldog and I swooped and flopped and dived down the coast. Don't miss this ride if you're ever in the vicinity, and the weather is good (it's miserable in heavy fog).
The dav wore on. and the saddle began to bite into my bum and thighs. This is more a function of my padding than the Bulldog’s; one’s meat grows soft over the years, and needs the toughening of more trips such as this. I found myself standing on the pegs occasionally for a little respite, and wondered what the pilots of other vehicles thought of this little maneuver. Not unlike the campfire scene from “Blazing Saddles.”
From Ventura onward, the traffic on U.S. 101 became progressively thicker, but there were still a few mini-adventures. I passed a couple in a Granada whose rear window shelf was being patrolled by a big. restless green parrot. Then I passed another KZ650. and we gave each other a good rush flying through the traffic up the Conejo Grade en route to Thousand Oaks. That's one of the few' nice things about dense freeway traffic in California; there’s almost always another biker to play with.
The Bulldog was still going strong when we finally rolled up to our shop in New port Beach, but I’d had enough. It wound up being an 1100-mile weekend jaunt. Conclusions: Nothing startling; the Kawasaki KZ650 is a lightweight sports bike, and that’s not a formula that usually lends itself to touring. But in the KZ650's case, the execution of the formula is so good the bike can be employed successfully in other applications. Globe girdling tourers need not apply; but if your idea of touring is the blitz, you could do much worse than the KZ65Ö. RS
