YAMAHA TRX 850

by Swifty

The TRX outside a pub at the end of a twisty road

It was the summer of 2002 and after many years of riding motorcycles without a licence, Mrs Swifty decided to put her petite foot down: I was to get myself licensed and no more of this running from the police every time they saw me.

This story goes back a little further, to the evening before ANZAC day in 1997, when a mate of mine and I blasted up to Sydney for a ride. The ride started out as they all do: a coffee, some sledging and an estimation of how quickly we could do the 300 odd kilometres. We left Canberra in the late afternoon and proceeded to blast the cobwebs away. Before long we had made our way out of the suburbs and onto the Federal Highway. It was at this point we came across a Porsche 911 and proceeded to have a bit of fun. The highway drag race kind. As we approached Lake George we shot off into the distance: two gleaming Harleys with open slash-cut pipes, roaring like lions on the African plains after a kill.

In quick time we had caught up to the Porsche and he then floored it and the process was repeated. Goulburn quickly approached and unbeknownst to us he had turned off just at the Macca's. The light was fading and we did not see him divert his attention to the off ramp at the top of the hill. As we approached the crest we "saw" the Porsche again and proceeded to nail it. The speed limit was quickly dispensed with and we soon caught up to what we thought was the German beastie only to find it was a non-descript Commondore.

Normally this would have made the pig-wagon alert go off inside my little brain, but this time all it did was to cause the right wrist to twist downward and off I went into the night once again the speedo was deep into three figures and my mate was happily coming along for the ride. After about 5 km's we noticed that the Holden had caught up to us and with the lack of tell tale red and blue flashing lights we both thought we had found a new playmate. So without further thought we blasted off into the night air with the Commodore a distant speck behind us.

Mittagong was about to be dispensed with and then as we motored over the crest of a hill a sickening sight greeted us...yep two paddy wagons and highway patrol car were set up, lights flashing making no bones about the fact that we where the objects of their affections. For a split second I thought of nailing it once again and trying to outrun them (mental calculation showing that it would take time for them to get back into their vehicles and start the chase), it was then I also noticed the flashing lights quickly coming up from behind us.

We pulled over and listened as the officer read us the riot act. This was the same officer who was driving the Commondore we "raced" from Goulburn. Too gutless to pull over two blokes on Harleys, he decided to simply follow us until he had gathered more evidence (apart from the high range speeding offences). Luckily for us we had only been speeding. We hadn't stopped to pillage any of the small towns along the way, nor had we sent up an amphetamine factory in Berrima as bike riders often do. We where just two ordinary chaps, riding our steeds as God intended and having fun to boot. Sure, I was technically unlicensed and my mate's licence had expired, but that was surely just a small oversight on our parts and should go unpunished.

After the police escort back to the cop shop our details where checked against a naughty person database and I was found to have an outstanding warrant. Gulp. Gulp again. I was then advised that the warrant was for an unpaid parking fine in Melbourne. Sphincter relaxed and I got my wallet out to pay the offending fine and we could be on our way... well after being advised that we wouldn't lose our licenses and a hefty fine would be coming our way in the mail a few weeks later. They completely missed the fact that we both where unlicensed. The Road Gods were indeed looking over us and I was willing to forgive them for not being more forthright in telling us that we were about to be chased by cops for 50 or so kilometres.

We arrived in Sydney and proceeded to ride, drink and have fun like it was going to be the last time we could enjoy the two for a long while. Years passed, I sold the FXR and purchased a CBR250R.

Which brings me back to the summer of 2002. I meekly completed the compulsory riding course and exam and rode home on the little CBR250R (it was parked around the corner to make sure suspicion was not aroused by a guy turning up for his learner's course on a motorbike).

After a few months of riding the venerable two-fiddy, I decided that I wanted more herbs and went on the look out for a new bike. The internet was surfed and tyres kicked at the many shops in Elizabeth Street. I had decided on either a 750 Monster (twin disc model) or a SZR660. Yep I am a glutton for punishment and was simply purchasing based on my personal desires, not the head -- which by the way is the ONLY way to decide on a bike. I was bitterly disappointed with the Monster I had looked at and proceeded to check out the SZR660. That was when I saw it. Resplendent in dark green; beckoning me to come hither like an expensive hooker.

I then spent the next week thinking of ways to ride the TRX850 home and park it in the shed. My first problem was getting a test ride. For some reason the dealership wasn't willing to let a learner licensed rider take a blast on this beastie, so a mate duly volunteered to dink me on a blast. Until the Saturday test ride, I spent hours researching the bike, reading forums and spec sheets. I found that it won Two Wheels BOTY but on the flip side was a bit of an orphan, under powered but mostly under-rated. Excepting the orphan bit, a lot like me really.

I arrived at the dealership with the intent on playing it cool, taking it for the test dink and returning home to have a bit of a think. History will show I did none of these things. The test dink was a blast, well at least the bit where my mate jumped off the bike and sat in the gutter whilst I proceeded to put the bike through its paces, roaring off into the distance. The sound, the feel, the <insert superlatives here>, were all encompassing. I picked my mate up and he dinked me back to the shop. It might have been the huge grin on my face or the fact that I was scrambling to get the credit card out of the wallet, but the salesman knew he had a sale as soon as I walked into the dealership. A trade price on the two fiddy was agreed to and after a quick glance in the direction of Mrs. Swifty for the non verbal OK, it was mine.

And so began my life as a rider of an orphan motorcycle. We have had many highs and few lows.

Highlights:

The trip to Barmah State Forrest Rally with my mate Bob
The trip to Foster and back with Mrs. Swifty
The many track days with Bob
Riding to the Island for my first MotoGP with my father and a few mates
The first dink I gave my son at 6 months old -- wedged between myself and the tank in the driveway

Lows:

Not riding it for months on end due to work/family commitments

This article is supposed to be about the experiences owning the bike; so, what is it like to own a Yamaha TRX850?

Well, they are prone to soft valves and supposedly use a lot of oil. Mine has never succumbed to these common ailments. Touch wood.

They have possibly the worst pillion seat in the history of modern motorcycles, and the wife will attest to this. On the trip to Foster she had had two pieces of high density foam, a small pillow and sheepskin cover. This helped her for about 500km but her arse was fairly tender for a few weeks after the trip.

Other than that it is a great bike. Admittedly I am biased, but with its v-twin like power delivery (it is a parallel twin) good base set up and fruity pipes giving off the most delightful note it is hard to beat for the money.

Upgrades; well most people will re-jet the carbs (they run fairly rich in standard trim) throw on a set of blue-spot front calipers from a R1/R6, then upgrade to stickier tyres (the standard Macadam's were shit) and possibly tweak the front end. After these humble modifications the only enemy of the TRX850 is a long straight, where it will run out of puff at around 220-230km/h, depending on gearing. Some wankers will fit R1 front ends, swing arms etc, but my feeling is that you should just buy a bloody R1 instead.

These days the TRX850 is outgunned by Suzuki SV650s and Hyosung GT650s (they pump out a massive 70hp, stock) but in its day it was a real alternative to the Ducati 750ss and 900ss, offering a similar experience, without the chocolaty crankshaft and suspicious Italian build quality, in a handsome package.

If a TRX850 could be summed up in a sentence it would be this...."any bum can go fast in a straight, but it's in the corners where boys become men". This is where the bike shines. Broadford is its hunting ground or any snaking back road where horsepower gives no advantage (unless you are Mick).

So ride one. You might hate it, I don't give a rat's arse, but if you do a soft spot will be reserved forever for this orphan of a motorcycle. Thanks Mr. Yamaha, not only for making them in the first place, but for resisting the urge to tamper with its simpleness.

The TRX850 is dead. Long live the Yamaha TRX850