The Kawasaki Z1: How To Be Late To The Party And Still Steal The Damn Show.

 Right, so imagine, if you will, the mid-1960s. A time of questionable fashion, even worse music, and, crucially, motorcycles that largely handled like a shopping trolley full of actual bowling balls. And then, there was Kawasaki. A name, back then, that probably conjured images of… well, I don't know, industrial machinery? Not exactly a purveyor of two-wheeled ecstasy.

But apparently, they'd had a thought. A rare occurrence for a Japanese corporation, one might

argue. They looked across the pond, saw America, land of the brave and home of the deeply credulous, and decided, "Yes! We shall sell them motorcycles. Big ones."

So, they got some chaps – probably smelling faintly of instant noodles and regret –

locked them in a room, and told them to build something utterly, monumentally brilliant. They called it "New York Steak." Because, obviously, that's what you name a groundbreaking motorcycle project. Not "Project Thunderpants" or "Death on Wheels," but "New York Steak." Genius.

The brief was simple: four cylinders, four-stroke, and two camshafts up top, presumably to make it sound incredibly complicated and expensive. And they were cracking on with it, beavering away, probably fueled by lukewarm tea and the crushing weight of corporate expectation.

Then, bam! Honda, the cheeky beggars, rock up at the Tokyo Motor Show a year later with their CB750 Four. Four cylinders. Mass produced. A milestone, apparently. Kawasaki must have spat their tea out. Beaten to the punch! By Honda! The sheer indignity of it.

But Kawasaki, being Kawasaki, didn't just curl up and die. Oh no. They huffed, they puffed, and then, because they had deeper pockets than a wizard's cloak, they just hurled a load of three-cylinder two-strokes at the market. And what beasts they were! Legends, apparently. For acceleration, yes. And for trying to kill you at every corner. They probably required a valid will and testament just to start the damn thing. But boy, did they make sports fans go absolutely bonkers. In a good way. Mostly.

Meanwhile, "New York Steak" trundled on. They’d already set the bar incredibly high, bless 'em. So, while they might have been second to the four-cylinder party, they were, crucially, the first to have a proper twin-cam head. Take that, Honda and your paltry single camshaft! More cams, more power, more bragging rights. That’s how it works.

By '69, the prototype was ready. It had grown to a mighty 900 cubic centimetres. And with a frankly ridiculous 95 horsepower, it could apparently shatter the 220 km/h barrier. Which, in 1969, was basically warp speed. But then, it went for testing. And, shock horror, it broke. A lot. Fragile. Unreliable. Just like a British Leyland product, then.

It took another couple of years, presumably spent with technicians swearing loudly and throwing wrenches, but they finally got it right. And when it emerged, it didn't just steal the show; it probably punched the competition in the face and took their lunch money. It made everything else look like it was running on dreams and good intentions.

They called it the 900 Z1. And it was glorious. Beautiful, aggressive, utterly stonkingly fast, and, rather surprisingly for a motorcycle of such potency, remarkably easy to ride. You could blast it down a motorway, or you could bimble along to the shops. Versatility, see?

I remember reading a review. A magazine, desperate to find fault, decided the suspension was "too soft." Which, given the roads back then, probably meant it offered some actual comfort. But even the perpetually grumpy reviewer admitted that "driving a Z1 gives an emotion that can hardly be described." High praise, indeed. Probably brought a tear to his eye.

They later bumped the engine up to a full litre, because why not? More power! More speed! More noise! And while it never quite outsold the Honda 750 (500,000 Hondas versus a mere 120,000 Kawasakis – a sales disaster, obviously), it still became a cult bike. A dream for proper enthusiasts. A proper legend.

My only, and I mean only, regret in life? Never got to thrash one. Not once. And that, my friends, is a tragedy.