Editing Suzuki GT380/reviews

== Suzuki GT380J Road Test ==
[[Image:GT380J.jpg|thumb|350px|GT380J]]
'''Motorcyclist Illustrated June 1972'''

I trod the weary way to Beddington Lane, Croydon, Suzuki's new HQ, with distaste, venom even, in my heart. Beddington Lane is one of those places that has yet to come completely under the ravaging hand of a glittering eyed urban developer; but it is, like so many of the outskirts of our loathsome city, slowly offering up its greenness to the inevitable spread of the brick, mortar and reinforced concrete rape. The process isn't complete, though - the voice of the country isn't yet stifled; there are still fields in which horses play at horse play and cows at cow play. But this indecision on the part of the surrounding countryside, not knowing which way to turn, wasn't the cause of my indignation. No - the cause was the new [[Suzuki|Suzuki]] GT380. The story had begun about a month earlier.

You see, I had ridden the 380 before. It was to have been the steed to have borne me on The Very Important Holiday, a long and eagerly awaited jaunt over to Paris. We were to introduce, or at least try, a Continental flavour to our road test, i.e. pictures of myself scrabbling about in true blue fashion adjusting chains on the Route Nationale 1 or asking directions from a carefully posed and primed Gendarme. Suzuki had taken limitless trouble to procure the machine for me at the right time. They had reacted with courtesy and patience to my ever-increasing flood of begging telephone calls. They understood.

Green cards had arrived after heart-stopping doubts. We had loaded up the 'bike, sung our way to Dover and had the thing booked and pasted up for Calais. Three quarters of an hour to kill before the boat and the pub was 500 yards up the road.

A feeble croak from the horn and an ever-lengthening interval between the flash of the flashers struck icicles into our swelling excitement. Dover is a sleepy place on Sunday morning. So are its pedestrians. Another inhabitant flung himself beneath my front wheel. So - another blast on the horn. But this time, no so much a blast as silence. Deathly silence. The sort that comes crashing down on you. Yes - you've guessed it, the engine was keeping its mouth shut as well. With a sagging burble we ground to our soggy halt. And that was it. We were left with a lifeless lump of advanced Japanese technology. Our disappointment was bitter; my hatred or that little green bicycle so tangible that you could cut it into neat little portions and send it to your dear old auntie in Alice Springs.

Descriptions of other people's mechanical failures are sometimes interesting, and sometimes boring. Mine are boring. Believe me. Suffice it to say that despite the efforts of an incredibly charming AA man, as well as those of Malcolm, the Honda Four who had scoured eastern Kent for help, the machine kept up its devastating take-off of Lot's wife. Being about a diagnosis was the electrical control box. Someone else said a flat battery. A flat battery after a 70 mile journey at a steady 80? Well. ... I, myself would opt for the control box, but I doubt if history will ever really relate what happened. It was one of those silly little things which are going to crop up with any bike, irrespective of marque, once in many hundreds of times. As one of our more astute readers put it - "one of the joys of motorcycling".

Suzuki (GB) were profuse and genuine in their apology and, gents that they are, whipped the 380 back to London for repair and for speedy re-offer of the test machine to MCI. So we took it again, but speaking personally, and without any of the logic or judgement that  it was a pretty 'bike, nobody can deny. Instantly appealing. Neatness and proportion were everywhere. It couldn't be argued that the styling department had worked hard on it.

But a medium haul Tourer De Luxe should be second nature to your actual ideal road tester, I was just itching to slate it. It wasn't anything to do with the concessionaires or the factory itself. It was something between me and the bicycle. A personal viewpoint, you might say. So throughout the six or seven hundred odd miles we had the Suzuki I was out to pounce gleefully on every possible fault or, indeed, anything that looked as though it could develop into a fault even after three or four years of hard ownership. And, of course, by way of petty vengeance, our own machine would be driven to the point of the mechanical Valhalla, to the point of disintegration.

And that's where I came unstuck. Faults there were, but of the minor variety and none big enough and juicy enough to really grind into the pages of the magazine. The 'bike itself seemed to sense what I was after and gave of its considerable best as it could never have done before. So weeping into my grog, I was to be thwarted yet again.

The GT380J - one can but ponder on what the J stands for - was seen by the great British public for the first time at the last Racing and Sporting Motorcycle Show. It seemed to be cast in the shadow of its bigger sister the [[Suzuki GT750|Suzuki GT750]], and at the time I remember being doubtful of the 380's commercial success, if for no other reason than its capacity - neither me backside nor me elbow so to speak - and because of its selling price - identical to the excellent and brutally underrated [[Suzuki T500|Suzuki T500]]. Unlike [[Kawasaki|Kawasaki]], Suzuki had chosen to introduce the biggest and the smallest of its range of threes first, leaving a yawning gap to be filled later this year by the 550. (It's a point of conjecture as to when we will hear of a three-cylinder 250 from that factory.) Nevertheless, the little 'un was never left in peace at the show and was constantly "subjected to the prying hands and eyes of enthusiastic believers. The feature which led to most controversy was the Ram Air System - a remarkably simple answer to the problem of multi-cylinder two-stroke cooling by the expedient of a cowling raised above the cylinder head which swept and, by virtue of the increased overall height of the thing, amplified the cooling breeze onto the cylinders themselves; particularly the centre pot - the enfant terrible in many cooling problems.

The engine itself was a three-cylinder unit, each pot having square bore and stroke dimensions, and producing a comparison to its direct rivals, a modest 38 bhp. The Kawasaki S2 is, of course, the rival that first comes to mind. But on reflection I think that it's doubtful whether any such rivalry does in fact exist. The S2 is a quivering, full blown, no-holes-barred sportster; the Suzuki, on the other hand, is a different bird-a relaxed, sweetly singing tourer with no pretensions to the land of blurring speed and sensuality. And comfortable with it; mentally and physically. You know the sort of thing - no hassle keeping within that ridiculously wide power band; no smack in the unsuspecting face wallop power delivery. That's not to say that the pulse of the thing couldn't be quickened, but the all pervading impression is of sedate gentlemanliness. But more of all this later.

So, as I've said, I returned to the 380 with undignified and biased hatred in my heart. I arrived at Beddington Lane and was immediately confronted by the offending object winking sheepishly at me in the sunlight. Yes - I had to admit that it looked nice. There was something pert - almost impudent - in the gently uptilted quartet of silencers and laughably huge tail light bobbing around on the rear. Ever been beating across rough ground and set up a rabbit from under your very feet? Reactions, if they are anything like mine, are too slow to snap the broken shotgun to your shoulder, so you just sit there and laugh at the furry ball of speed in desperation, as it bobs and bounds by zany routes to the farthest possible point on earth, but always painfully conspicuous by the glaring white of the tail. For reasons best known to a psychologist, that is exactly what the Suzuki reminded me of.

A fresh offside side panel had now been procured - the last time I had had the machine the panel had been strangely absent - as had the tool roll. But now Graham Mallion, the service manager, phoned round frantically and, bless him, came up with the necessary spanners, screwdrivers, etc. By now I had relaxed, and was secretly eager to get back on to the 'bike. Starting ritual is by far the simplest I have yet to come across: don't worry about turning the liquid on (they've got vacuum taps which don't let a drop out until the engine is turning), stuff the key into the keyhole situated twixt rev and speed meters and turn to the central position. Remembering my sceptism last month about "first kick starts" I now have to eat my words. With, I think, two exceptions throughout the time we had the 'bike, one and only one delicate boot was all that was needed to start the unit burbling and clacking away. And that's the truth. Even worse - or better if you like -muscle man that you are, the thing could equally easily be prompted into life by hand. Immediately after starting, when the mixture was still rich, each detonation would be a subdued though quite definite crack. Give it two minutes at the very outside and then throw the rich lever back to the normal position. The tick over would settle down to a regular, off-beat and scarcely audible murmur, at around 1200 rpm (and this no matter how long or hard the engine had been thrashed beforehand).

Silencing was pure schizophrenia. Under y/i or possibly 4 all that could be heard was a grumbling, rumbling growl. A purr that was more electrical than internal combustion, akin entirely to London Transport's tube trains (now believed to be gaining in rarity value). Above 4 and the air quivered to an animal scream as the power unit got down to the nitty gritty, accompanied by the usual yackety yack yack on the overrun or on light throttle loadings. Much as I personally dislike two-stroke noise, I've got to admit it can be neck-tingling on occasions.

Handlebar layout was typical Japanese - efficient, though, to my mind, biased towards the left-hand side. On that 'bar were the off/on switch for lights and a little (a confusingly little) to left of that the dip switch. No pilot light is provided. On the same end were the beautifully simple trafficator pushes as well as the horn push. Fumblesville in the cold, wet, gloved weather? On the other side, alone in solitary splendor, was the cut-out switch. Sitting directly in front of you and hanging (rubber mounted) over the headlight shell were speedo and rev counter -incidentally the latter was rather a lazy instrument. Both were of weight-saving plastic and hooded against reflection. And utterly readable.

The styling department had worked hard on the 380. That it's a pretty 'bike nobody can deny. Instantly appealing. But - and this applies to all Japanese motorcycles - is it an appeal which will endure. I know it's all in the eye of the beholder, etc., but will you be able, after a year's, perhaps two years' ownership, to stand the thing out in back garden or gutter, be at peace with the world, and let your eyes trickle over its every nook and cranny, and still find a beauty, a satisfaction, or maybe even a slight tingle as you gawp reflectively at it. I wonder. . . Whereas I just don't wonder about machines like the immaculate Vincent I saw recently. VOC members can protest until they're blue in the face, but that sort of machine, along with perhaps, a glittering Rocket Goldie, should be in the National Gallery for the nation to look at and learn by. And blow Tutankamun.

Nevertheless ... the 380 is going to be sold a great deal on its looks. Neatness and proportion everywhere. The engine itself looks four stroke-ish thanks to the Ram Air System. And futuristic – peering rearward through the forks and it's straight out of 2001. Someone, somewhere is not taking motorcyclists seriously though if they believe we are going to be impressed by the moulded and airtight air intakes on the side panels. This is strictly Mickey Mouse and has no place on such a functional and no-nonsense 'bike as the Suzuki. Instrumentation is, again in common with most Nip bicycles, good-looking and, well... very tasteful. I liked it. Even the chrome mudguards and tail light (ah, that tail light!) didn't come over as too flashy. Just setting off the black and light metallic green to the right extent.

Framing is conventional - a duplex full loop cradle affair with an added top tube from the steering head to rear down tubes. Incidentally, this frame looks virtually identical to that of the 750 - save for the obvious bowing of the latter's front down tubes to accommodate the fan. It's quite possible that there are differences between the two frames (there must be, come to think of it), but they weren't easily apparent to my naked as nature intended eye.

After I had taken the machine over from Suzuki it was used for unexciting town trips - the usual commute yawning and evening and more often than not with a pillion. It was only when a pillion was over ten stone that the performance suffered, and then only by a fraction. But, dammit all, you expect a 37Ice unit to suffer more than a fraction with two up. Because of the 'bike's eagerness and comparatively large size a lot of riders will be expecting comparatively large performance from the thing. Illogical but true. I don't think they'll be let down a great deal, though.

Around town, where the routine mundanities of motorcycle riding are practised so much more frequently than on the open road, is the place where the thoughtfulness of the overall design can be appreciated to a great extent. I don't mean road holding, high speed line chopping and general thrashability. No - merely unexciting consideration such as whether the stands raise the voice a couple of octaves, whether trafficators can be seen and appreciated more than ten feet away, whether the thing leaves the Mall under an impenetrable pall of two-stroke smog. Also - if you're in a hurry -the brakes, which will get a pounding equal to most cross country blinds. As to the Suzuki's front brake ... oh dear, oh dear. It's been damned heartily by every report I've come across - on both sides of the pond. I won't add wood to the fire, but merely say that if lighter than air sponge is your thing, try a few serious stops. It really is something the factory will have to cure, and it could be so easy. There is a comforting side to this; the rear brake is more than adequate. It has to be.

Then came the day when I tired of short runs, and longed for something that both the machine and I could get our teeth into, something that we would both enjoy and where I could discover whether the GT label glued on the side of the 'bike was fact or sublime publicity optimism. A combination of countryside, long straights and well-, surfaced bends was- called for. And it could certainly not be less than 100 miles either way. For me there was but one answer - up through Baldock and Royston and along the All to Norwich. Anyway, as I've mentioned before, it is my favourite road.

The nice young gentleman on the weather forecast was trying to quell my spirits. Summoning the full and devastating resources of modern meteorology, and showing a precision which one can only admire, he said something about it all being "changeable". It didn't look too bad though, so spurning wellies and plastic pants, the 380 was tanked up, oiled up and tire pressures checked to the last pound.

Something that I should like to mention is that the Suzuki is a machine which does not require British Steel Corporation nerves to wring the best from. Now this ain't derogatory by any means. It is just that there is a very definite satisfaction in being astride a machine and knowing that you have mastered every available pony beneath your seat. I'm by no means the fastest rider this side of Daytona - anything but. Nevertheless, I was using any and every revolution that would propel me that much faster through the atmosphere. The spread of power on that motor is, as I've mentioned, monumental for that capacity. Anywhere between 2Vi (to be as uncharitable as possible) and an elastic catapult force, was at your beck and call any time the energy to twist that thing on the right 'bar came your way. With that kind of power band and six cogs to play the xylophone on, you would have to be in a sorry state not to enjoy yourself. It really is tremendous fun pootling along behind some trundling intercontinental Behemoth, snorting and protesting its ungainly-way up a shallow incline, to spy your chance, to rev and snick down once, twice, thrice even should the mood so take you, and explode past the creature in a yowl and scream of joyous energy, paying scant respect to clutch action or anything else, come to think of it, save for the one obsession of keeping that handle twisted as far towards you as it will go.

I was wearing the Bell Star helmet during the run. Every helmet I've ever worn has excluded certain sound frequencies while admitting certain others. So it was on this occasion. The din of general two-stroke effort filtered up and filled my ears continuously. Continuously simply because the motor was seldom allowed to drop below 6000 rpm throughout the run. Cut off from sound I wasn't.

When you get down to it, the heart of the matter is those three little honey pots each singing its song of liquid power. Centre exhaust flows into a Y function, and thence rearward.

But insulated from the elements I was. Thus it was that I had to peer carefully into the visor to verify that those were raindrops that were doing the Sacha Distel on me. Nothing to put one off - they weren't even showing on the tarmac beneath my wheels. But the thought was there.

It happened that I was trying tentatively for top speed when, with nostrils closer to front spindle than my normal riding position allows, I flickered a casual glance down at the forks. Horror of horrors - the spindle end of the fork was oscillating backwards and forwards by about half an inch, possibly a little more. I was not amused. Instinct nudged me on the shoulder, telling me that this was really not as it should be. Blow it, said the motorcyclist part of me. If it was going to do anything interesting it would have done so before now. And, anyhow, I've been in the region of 85-90 mph for the last ten minutes.

At the Royston Baldock turn-of I pulled up in a lay by for a spit and a drag, and to tussle with the forks in the forlorn hope that there might be something I could do to stop the oscillation. Incredible thing was that the shuddering of the forks didn't have any effect on straight line handling, nor on the corners, such as they are, which are found on M ways. I was, and still am, at a shameful loss to explain the entire phenomenon. 

Softening up the rear suspension units amplified the resulting pulse which could be felt in the handlebars; beefing them up eradicated it - well, almost. There are more things in Heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Horatio ... or something to that effect. A gentleman passed me on a 180 [[Yamaha|Yamaha]], I think it was, while I was reflecting on the above mentioned vagaries. He passed, did a double take, and promptly stopped. No, for once I wasn't in trouble, but we stopped and chatted bike chat. The 380 was carefully scrutinised, carefully tried for size, and inevitably, carefully driven up the road. That searchlight that passes for a stoplight beamed and winked at me over half a mile away. Then he returned, eyes bright, expression glowing. Yes, he did like it. He needn't have told me.

By now the "changeable" clouds had passed. I was deluding myself, but I thought summer was here. The sun poked its nose from behind a cloud, looked about and decided it might be an idea to stick around for a while. Traffic was as light as could be expected and the fields began to flatten out on either side of me. OK -so we all know that two-stroke consumption is all-dependent on the inclinations of the right wrist, but I somehow have an inkling that this 'bike will be driven rather hard wherever it goes. At one stage, several days earlier, a hectic blind down along the A40 and thence to London Airport, with a light pillion on the back, produced the staggering total of 29l/i mpg. I give this purely because you'll find it as hard to believe as I did. But it does show what can be done when you really try. So why on earth, with a thirst of that proportion, does the thing carry a 3.3 gallon tank? As one damn fool discovered when he forgot to switch back from reserve after filling up and was not appreciating the resultant mile-long push, 114 miles from the top Up along Thetford Chase I decided that spindle judder or not, time had come to make a serious effort at seeing just what could be coaxed out of the 'bike. 

Harshly persuading the thing up through the gears - 7Vi, perhaps 8, though power fell off so drastically after the former figure that it seemed a wanton waste to try for more - and tucking away every conceivable ounce of my 11 and a considerable bulk, I got down to that time-honoured pastime of pancakes. And if you know Thetford Chase you'll know why they're used to people playing that sort of game round there. Squint-eyed and peering myopically twixt rev and over the gentle undulations in the road and, thankfully, past the trucks as they lolloped along like a train of tired camels. Suzuki had had the kindness to replace the original and, by now, worn Japanese tyres with good British stock -Avon Mk Us back and front. I hadn't tried the Japanese tyres in the wet, but the suspicion of them was continually at the back of my mind. Going down to Dover, heavily laden with pack and pillion, I felt the sneakiest hint of wander on the curves. Perhaps it had been me and an exaggerated sense of self-preservation, but it had been a deterrent to complete enjoyment. On the other hand it could have resulted from the extra burden. . . . But on the Avon’s confidence was quickly returning. Most people who ride their Japanese 'bikes seriously seem to be fitting British tyres, usually TT100's, despite the admirable progress Japanese covers are making.

By now I had discovered just how thirsty a multi-cylinder two-stroke can get. On an unkind average the stuff would be slurped up at the rate of one gallon every 37 miles. The howling cacophany of the engine and the fierce juggling of the instruments (rubber mounted, remember) combined with the jar and blur of the onrushing road to produce an exaggerated sense of speed. Flicking my eyes towards the fuzzing speedo - but I couldn't believe them. So, another frantic squint at the thing and a slight disappointment. 94, perhaps, juuuust 95mph. Somehow it had felt a good 10 mph faster. And then I became aware of the rapidly approaching backside of a Guinness tanker ... I tried again several times later but was never able to better 95 Perhaps racing leathers and nice low 'bars would tempt that extra 5 mph shyly from its hiding place. In retrospect I can see that I had been misled by the markedly brisk acceleration in the first three gears into expecting a commensurately brisk top speed. Don't forget -when all is said and done it is still only 371cc's worth of engine.

I carried on up to Norwich and the ever-beckoning spectre of a couple of pints of Norwich Bitter at the maximum average speed which I thought the 'bike comfort able at - 85 to 90 mph. This it continued in a relaxed manner, the only expenditure of energy being on the concentration of keeping the wire wound open. The engine was being worked hard but uttered never a second of protest. And I must admit that the seat was supremely comfortable. I covered, by routes most devious, over 300 miles that day. Not enough by many standards, but more than sufficient to gather the bum-numbing qualities of a saddle. Throughout most of the trip the dampers had been on the hardest of five positions. This, coupled with the reasonably stiff front end, had been suited my weight and our speed admirably. No complaints at all, blast it.

On the way back I stopped beside Snetterton and sat in the mellow afternoon sunshine on top of the shallow bank overlooking the Norwich Straight. Save for the occasional bellow of passing lorries the time and place were ripe for reflection. So I reflected. Everything about the machine was functional. Silly odds and bobs showed up, though, which spoke, I thought, of cost cutting. The unbacked mudguard stays, simply crying out for rust, were an example. It goes without saying that the chain remained despicably exposed, but worse than that the wheel was non-QD and the chain of the endless variety. And endless amusement for some poor, punctured person. Manners of the engine, whether in town or in the country were impeccable, and at the end of the day's work the unit was scarcely more than happily warm. There must be something in this Ram Air business.

The 380 is a simple 'bike to ride, but there is enough power there to make your getaway from lights in the wet a matter to be treated with a certain amount of respect, especially bearing in mind the peppiness of the first three cogs. In the dry a wheelie, if such torn-foolery takes your fancy, would require the backside to be placed well rearward in the saddle. Otherwise one does tend to waste rather a lot of rubber. The frame and damping combines to produce very useful road holding, indeed the well ground away centre stand spoke of braver men than I who obviously achieved quite silly angles of lean. I, as mentioned previously, had the rear dampers jacked up to their hardest and consequently never came anywhere near touching down on either side.

During our last two days with the Suzuki, and much against my every intention, I thought that the 'bike might just, could possibly, begin to "grow" on me. I'm not making any definite statements mind; it's merely a sneaking and discomforting suspicion. It doesn't make it as a GT in the true sense of the word - intercontinental and all that, but as a medium haul tourer it's functional, fuss-free and. naturally, oh, so smooooth. I cannot and will not forgive that silly little tank (that is if the makers are trying to get us to believe in the GT label) nor the ludicrous non-detachable rear wheel. But apart from that it did what it was called upon to do without any hassle and with alarming reliability.