1974 V 2018
Photography Chippy Wood Embroidery Esther Wilson
Kawasaki Z1 owner John Naish on the rise and rise of retro.
IF YOUR SIGNIFICANT other turned up in a fur bikini and asked you if they looked exactly like Raquel Welch in that old dinosaur film One Million Years BC, how exactly would you reply, and survive? You might be compelled to say ‘Yes’ – if you were feeling polite, or scared, or squinted a lot. felt this way when editor Wilson asked me to try the Z900RS, having spent the last twenty-odd years riding a Seventies Z1 on which it is modelled. Either I should respond with gushing enthusiasm – or look like a bitter old git by rubbishing the thing entirely. Turns out that it ain’t that simple… I’ll say it straight off: the RS is a fantastic ride. The Z1 was a fantastic ride too – in the dinosaur era. But superficial looks and spec aside, you couldn’t make a pair of naked four-stroke transverse fours feel more different. The chasm in character is plain the moment you mount.
The RS’S chassis feels instantly taut. It perches you firmly into a half-crouch, while the bars are set perfect for elbows-out shenanigans. And I’m on tippy toe. Hit the starter and gosh that Kerker-like pipe’s rorty at idle. The young pretender is a sculpted six-pack. My old Zed’s a middle-aged spread. Its sofa-like seat slouches round your bum, the springy suspension flexes, cowhorn bars slump you into a sack-ofpotatoes pose. The oldster’s pobbly exhaust note sounds grumpily relaxed. Even my little 5ft 8in frame can flat both feet on the floor. Next surprise: the new RS is all woo-hoo right from the off. I had some of Kawasaki’s ‘Son of Z1’ marketing hype still lodged in my brain when first taking it out of the car park. Result, unplanned banzai wheelie. Floods of low grunt … on a Z1-alike? Surely Kobe should have programmed in the old Zed’s reluctance to shift until its cams wake at 6K.
‘Me and the Zed persist as mid-lifers manacled into a marriage where only dread of separation trumps the stress of togetherness’
But that’s me gullibly seeking the shared corporate DNA that Kawasaki’s marketing promised. This paternity test proves that the old Zed will never have to pay maintenance, even though both bikes are aural thrillers. Running fast with the throttles pulled hard, the Z1’s airbox howls, the pipes roar like a Formula 1 Ford Cosworth DFV. The RS also has a Seventies tone, but gravelly like an old 400/4. There’s also a yummy lush scream as its linear power hustles speed. To compare the two bikes’ handling is about as fair as putting Bob Dylan in the ring against Anthony Joshua and saying: ‘They’re both legends, so it’s OK.’ The Zed isn’t as bad as the hero myth. Seventies tyres and shocks caused most of the lethality. Modernity has sorted it so you can slump around at a fair lick. But you must concentrate constantly to stop wobbles and weaves going feral. The RS merits vigorous applause as a naked upright four that trounces the laws of physics by manoeuvring so super-capably. It stops good too – and the riding modes do what they’re supposed. It’s all ‘what it says on the tin’. What isn’t honest is all that son-of-z1 stuff. Kawa should know better. They tried it with the Zephyrs in the 1990s. Those bikes were more like old Zeds, but still no more convincing than a pub covers band. Fakery does the RS no justice. It stands easily on its own merits. Maybe Kawasaki were driven to raid the heritage dressing-up box because they realised they’d built the world’s best UJM – but it didn’t have a USP. So they slapped on fancy dress. It looks great in pics, but odd in the flesh: too fat across the tank, and the bodykit sits so high on the frame it seems an afterthought. Me and my Zed go holidaying in Wales each year. Would I rather take the RS, I pondered? The answer is ‘no’. The revvy RS buzzes at the bars – a pet hate because it makes my fingers go sleepy.
Less practically, but as important personally, is the RS’S Zed-alike pretension. It would make me feel dishonest. I feel the same about modern Bonnies, too. But then I own a boringly plain-looking Triumph triple for modern-bike fun. Neither my Zed nor the Triumph are trying to be anything that they’re not. Yes, I may be too hung up on authenticity. But then again, nothing ever became a legend through imitation. I bought my current Kawa Z1 in 1994, while pie-eyed from drinking all afternoon. Dirt cheap, it was, because people then were lusting after super-sorted race-reps – not worn out Easy-rider fugitives from an era when soft porn was the only thing hairier than Oriental-bike handling. My excuse? I first got the Z1 habit aged 19 in the early Eighties, when Zeds were the budget way to kill yourself. The habit stuck. This current one, a 1974 Z1B, replaced a predecessor that got stolen for parts in the Eighties. Sixty-odd thousand miles down the road, me and the Zed persist as mid-lifers manacled into a marriage where only dread of separation trumps the stress of togetherness. Zeds are undeniably pretty. With a legendary backstory, too. The
‘If you ride a Zed hard it will demand continuous fettling. If you don’t ride it hard, there’s no point.
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