So, you hear this term, ‘Universal Japanese Motorcycle’, right? UJM. Sounds kinda grand, doesn’t it? Like it’s the answer to everything on two wheels. For a long time, I just nodded along whenever someone brought it up. Yeah, UJM, cool. But then I actually started to think, what the heck is one, really? It ain’t just an old bike from Japan, that’s for sure.
I decided I wasn’t just gonna read some articles online. Nah, I wanted to get my hands dirty, figure it out for myself. My practice, if you wanna call it that, was to find one and see if that whole “universal” thing was legit, or just some rosy memory from old guys.
First off, I started poking around, looking at what folks called UJMs. You know, the old Honda CBs, the Kawasaki KZs, Suzuki GS series, those Yamaha XS bikes. Standard riding position, inline-four engine most of the time, no crazy bodywork. Simple. Honest. Bikes that were just… bikes. Built to do a bit of everything without making a fuss.
But here’s the kicker: trying to find that spirit today? Good luck. It’s like everyone forgot what a motorcycle was actually for. You go to a dealership now, and it’s all hyper-specialized. This one’s for the track, but ONLY the track. This one’s for dirt, but God forbid you ride it on tarmac for too long. And the prices? Don’t even get me started. Everything’s got a million computers and modes I’d never use.
So, I went looking for an actual UJM. Found myself a late ’70s Kawasaki KZ650. She wasn’t a show pony. Looked like she’d been ridden hard and put away wet, probably more than once. The fella selling it gave me the classic line, “Ran when parked.” Sure it did, buddy.
Getting that thing roadworthy was my real education. That was the practice. First up, the carburetors. Four of ’em. I pulled that whole bank out, and man, they were gummed up something fierce. I must have spent a solid weekend meticulously taking them apart, soaking everything in cleaner, poking out jets with a tiny wire. My kitchen table looked like a motorcycle exploded on it. My wife was thrilled, as you can imagine.
Then came the electrics. Oh boy. It was a proper spaghetti monster under the seat. Half the lights didn’t work. The horn sounded like a sick goose. I got myself a cheap multimeter and basically taught myself how to trace wires. Found a couple of crispy connectors and one wire that had rubbed through on the frame. Fixing that felt like I’d cracked the Enigma code.
I changed the oil, which came out looking like roofing tar. Cleaned and oiled the chain. Bled the brakes until the lever didn’t feel like squeezing a marshmallow anymore. Little things, one by one. Each fix was a small victory.
Finally, the day came. Turned the key, hit the starter, and after a bit of coughing, she rumbled to life. Not a super-smooth purr, more like a grumpy old man waking up, but she was alive! That first short ride around the neighborhood, I was grinning like an idiot.
And then I started using it. For everything. That was the whole point, right? Universal?
- Needed to pop down to the hardware store? Took the KZ. Bungeed a small toolbox to the back.
- Meeting friends across town? KZ.
- Felt like a longer ride out to the coast on a Saturday? KZ again.
Sure, it wasn’t the fastest thing on the road. It vibrated a bit at certain RPMs. On a cold morning, it was a bit grumpy to start. And if I rode it for more than a couple of hours, my backside would start complaining. It didn’t have heated grips or cruise control or Bluetooth. It was just a motor, two wheels, and a handlebar.
But that old Kawasaki, it never pretended to be anything it wasn’t. It just did its job. It got me from A to B. It was fun in a simple, uncomplicated way. And if something went wrong, chances were I could fix it myself with a basic toolkit and some patience. I remember one time a spark plug wire worked itself loose on a busy road. Pulled over, popped it back on, and was on my way in two minutes. Try doing that with some modern techno-marvel.
What I learned through that whole process – the finding, the fixing, the riding – was that “UJM” isn’t just a set of design features. It’s more of an attitude. It’s about a bike that’s a capable, reliable, unpretentious tool. A partner, not a fashion statement. And honestly, I think we’ve lost a bit of that. Everyone’s chasing the latest, greatest, most specialized thing. Sometimes, just a good, honest motorcycle is all you really need.
