GRAZIE GUZZI!
What is it about a classic Moto Guzzi that draws you in? Jim Lindsay expresses his affection for this very Le Mans Mk II.
How age changes you. When I first rode the Moto Guzzi Le Mans Mark II in 1979, I was an impatient lad of 25.
I loved the looks, the unique engine layout and the maintenance free promise of shaft drive. At the same time, I was irritated by the quirky handling (I preferred Ducati’s 900SS or the softer Darmah) and my adrenal glands required four-cylinder power from Japan, or perhaps the raw urge of Laverda’s 180 degree triples, even if my riding ability barely qualified me to use it. How age changes you. My first ride on the subject of this test was just as frustrating as the bike I rode 37 years ago. Had I made a £5000 mistake in buying it? Answer: No. It needed adjustment (physically to the bike and mentally to me) and patience to learn how to ride it properly. The second ride took me for a 90 mile circuit of some of my favourite roads. The grin that took over my face after five miles was still there at the end of the ride. The third ride was a 100 mile flip round my own test route which has a mixture of everything from bumpy unclassified lanes to the short tedium of a motorway stretch. I did not want to stop. Only the lateness of the hour and the tyranny of the keyboard halted a ride which I would have happily doubled in length. What we have here is that rarest of beasts, an original, well cared for unmolested example. It dates from 1979, is an original UK registered bike which
has covered just over 25,000 miles in the hands of only two owners. It has what an auctioneer would call the patina of age; what the rest of us call rust, scratches and faded paintwork. It’s surprising how quickly 71 horsepower can push you along. Maximum power come in at 7300rpm, the red line is at 8000rpm. In deference to the bike’s age, and the fact that I have a workshop full of tasks already, with no desire to add another blown engine to the list, I stuck to 5000rpm for most of the time. The transverse V-twin is a big, solid lump with a reputation for reliability. It’s even a pleasure to wait at traffic lights and feel the low frequency vibes that the thumping tickover sends through the whole machine. It feels properly alive. Below 2500rpm everything is lumpy and reluctant. It’s not the best device to ride in traffic but it is manageable. Get to 3000rpm and it makes more sense as the power delivery evens out and the revs build in a smooth curve. At 5000rpm in top (fifth) gear the road speed is about 80mph and there is enough power on tap to deal with brief bursts past slower traffic without needing to shift down. It’s a sweet spot in the rev range where the vibration is present but not intrusive and from which the bike easily reaches 120mph in a graceful, unhurried manner. The design stretches all the way back to the 1960s where it was first used in a three-wheeled military tractor built at the request of the Italian government. It’s simple and robust. Two valves per cylinder are operated by push-rods from a single camshaft mounted high in the crankcase between the V of the cylinders. Chain drive is used for the cams on all 850 models – earlier bikes had more costly gear drives. Air is sucked by a pair of 36mm Dell’orto PHF slide carburettors with accelerator pumps. Ignition is by points and coil, which worked fine on the bike tested here. A Bosch alternator sits behind the round cover at the front of the engine while drive to the five-speed gearbox is via a three-plate, coil spring clutch and that final drive is by shaft. There is plenty of drive out of fast corners in top gear. It’s only when the going gets twisty that
you have to search down the box for fourth or third to get the necessary punch out of corners. You only rarely need to drop to second: I favour clutchless upshifts. They are possible on the Guzzi but you need to be extra careful. I reserved it for shifts between fourth and fifth, using the clutch the rest of the time. The gearbox is a bit like the air-cooled BMWS of the same era – clumsiness makes it crunchy. The inertia from the shaft drive is partly to blame here, but looked at another way: it’s just another part of the unhurried character of the whole bike. The Le Mans is not a point and squirt machine. If you try to hustle it along like an RD400, say, you won’t enjoy it much. The secret is to keep the flow constant, the speed up, shifting gears only when absolutely necessary, keeping your concentration high and your inputs smooth. The shaft drive, unlike a chain, lifts the rear suspension on acceleration and makes it squat on deceleration, which feels odd to begin with. Ideally, you need to get your downshifts and deceleration done well in advance of any corner. Sudden last minute changes of input will cause the bike to pitch and weave. It’s not dangerous at all, just unrewarding. Get it right, learn the required technique and the Le Mans is a sweet-handling machine that will reward your studies with a cornering performance which will let you batter along your favourite lanes with indecent haste. You may also surprise a few modern bikes as well if that is the sort of thing that takes your fancy. If miscalculation, or an approaching idiot on the wrong side of the road, demands mid-corner correction, a firm hand will have the Le Mans responding reluctantly but safely and quickly enough. I loved the brakes. The Le Mans has a linked system. The foot pedal operates the front left-hand disc and the rear disc. That is enough for most situations. If you need more, the handlebar lever brings the right-hand front disc into play. It’s a brilliant set-up. The foot pedal gives loads of feel, making it easy to modulate braking input. The brakes are Brembo opposed piston calipers all round, no seize prone sliding monstrosities here, thank you very much. The front calipers are mounted behind the forks, a change from the Le Mans Mark I which had them mounted in front of the sliders. Usually I find these calipers, which were fitted to many European bikes of the time, lacking in feel. The linked system overcomes this although the handlebar operated front right disc has an unpleasantly wooden feel typical of the period. Comfort: well it’s not great, about the same as a modern sportsbike. After two hours my legs and lower back were noisy in their demands for rest and my bottom was also pretty sore. The fairing does a reasonable job of keeping the wind away.
The cushioned pads for your lower legs at the back of the fairing lowers were designed for a mythical average lower body which I do not possess. What else don’t I like? For such a beautifully put together machine, the rider footrests show an ugly bit of cost engineering, mounted as they are on flattened bits of tube. The footrests themselves fold up, which is an irritant if you accidentally retract them while waiting at a junction or traffic lights. The instrument housing looks cheap, like the footrests. The switchgear is horrid, even worse than the BMWS of the same era. Ducati and Laverda had the right idea. They got their kit from Japan. The throttle action is heavy enough to give you wrist ache after an hour of riding twisty roads. Not too much of a list then. Unlike my old Ducati 996, I’m keeping this one. The Ducati was like a modern sportsbike, just not as good. The Moto Guzzi is a proper taste of a bygone time which combines all its clunky analogue charm with a real ability to mix it with modern traffic. The not as good, but more fancied Mark I Le Mans models are being offered for sale at increasingly strong money (whether or not they are making the asked amounts is another matter, of course). The Le Mans II, like this one, can be had in good nick for £4500 upwards. I paid £5000 for mine. I would have been mad to turn it down. It’s lovely to ride and still quick enough to give my adrenalin levels the spikes they demand. If you want to know more, Mick Walker’s book Moto Guzzi Twins published in 1986 as part of the Opsrey Collector’s Library is a great source of information. It is no longer in print but there are second-hand copies out there to be had.