There was another snag. For some reason the centrestand was missing and I looked up the previous owner on the off chance he might still have it. He turned out to be a maniacal dwarf who lived on a council estate that reminded me of Escape From New York. He regaled me for half an hour with tales of mono-wheeled mayhem on my bike.

Probably interpreting my appalled speechlessness as admiration, he reckoned he had the stand somewhere and agreed to look it out for a tenner. Somewhat to my relief, I never did hear from him. It began to dawn on me that the Z750 had led a very hard life with each new owner even more brutal than the last.

Never mind, as I revelled in what was to me rocket-like performance. The motor was a gem, smooth and docile yet producing arm stretching thrust at the twist of a wrist. It sounded good too with an intoxicating wail when it came on cam, augmented by a bristly-chinned growl on the overrun. On paper, the motor produced almost as much power as the legendary Z1. Unfortunately, the Z750 appeared to have also inherited its infamous handling characteristics.

Not long into my ownership and still getting used to the bike I backed off the throttle a smidgen as a left-hander tightened up. Suddenly it was as if the entire chassis had done a vanishing act, leaving the bike's remaining components to cope as best they could. For a moment, it looked as if my last act on earth was going to be an involuntary bowel movement. Somehow, the Z managed to sort itself out. After putting my jeans in the wash I gave the bike a thorough check over thinking that a vital component had failed. Nothing was obviously amiss.

One of those things, I thought, and was not put off from charging headlong up the A9 in an attempt to find out the Z750's top speed, egged on by a pursuing Golf GTi. At an indicated 120, with the howling motor promising more to come, the handlebars began to shimmy back and forth like a fiddler's elbow. Easing off the throttle slowly calmed the bike down and I let Milk Tray Man pass as if I had planned it this way all along.

Thinking back, a chassis that looked like a couple of bicycle frames welded together with front forks resembling knitting needles was not going to be up to the job of keeping 80bhp and 500lbs in line. The front suspension featured air-adjustment, another Eighties gimmick that had no effect whatsoever, but fitting new rear shocks did make the Z more stable at high speed. Ultimately I learned to ride around the Z750's handling foibles by tipping it slowly into the corners and exiting on a rising throttle. I also had to accept that its safe maximum speed was not much more than the ton.

Despite these heart attack-inducing moments I could not keep off the big Kawasaki and the miles and months flew by. Then one dark night on the way back from a mate's remote cottage the bike began to misfire while the headlight dimmed to a glow-worm's output. The Z750 did get me home but by then the battery was almost completely flat.

Luckily, I only had to push the quarter-ton dead weight a couple of miles to the dealer's premises. The cheering diagnosis was that a new rectifier would soon sort things out - a phenomenal œ200; presumably it was made of solid gold. Bleating pathetically that I didn't have that sort of money they took pity on me and an old Honda unit was persuaded to fit.

It did the trick and all was right with the world until the Z750 suffered a dramatic power loss during what had been a perfect summer's evening ride. Sounding like a sick tractor the bike managed to limp home, the engine dying the instant I came to a stop. My futile attempts to restart her only succeeded in burning out the starter motor. Terrific, if a swear-box was at hand I would have been simultaneously bankrupt and a millionaire. Even I could tell it was serious and another epic shove ensued. Much more of this and I would end up with shoulders like an Olympic rower.