I
n every lifetime there are legends
and tidemarks. Names, actions or
music that define an era, or time.
When I grew up in Christchurch in the
70s I watched the arrival of Japanese
motorcycles. Until then Triumph,
Norton, BSA and old Brit iron, like
Matchless, AJS and Ariel, were the
Canterbury biker’s standard fare.
But the ‘rice-burners’, as they were
disparagingly (and somewhat racistly)
referred to, quickly made inroads, as
things like reliability, affordability, a
lack of oil leaks, superb finish, bright
colours and smaller, ‘zappier’ engines
became very desirable.
36 KIWI RIDER
There were major standouts in
the Japanese fleet. Suzuki’s AC50,
the ‘Goucho’, was stylish, pretty,
candy-coloured and schoolboy-level-
affordable – if one had a particularly
profitable paper round. And they
were everywhere. The Linwood High
School gates saw the arrival and rapid
rise of Suzuki, Yamaha and Kawasaki
250s and 350s, so exciting and fast
that you’d have given up your first
actual girlfriend for one. Some did,
but one mate had a parent who ran
a motorcycle importer, and that’s
when I first knew real jealousy. My old,
war-coloured Jawa 175 was an ugly,