| 1971 Suzuki TM 400 Cyclone |
By Matt Cuddy and Robin Hannah
The Cyclone sounded like a real race bike; exhaust crackling from its long black open stinger. Rick
clicked it into gear, and was quickly down the alley in a haze of blue CCI smoke. When Rick got back,
his eyes were as big as queue balls, and said to the seller “Jeezus this thing is fast, get the
paperwork I’m buying it!”
As we loaded the Cyclone into Rick’s Ford, and the guy in plaster counted the $20.00 bills, I asked
him how he broke his leg. He mumbled something under his breath that sounded like “you’ll find out”
and limped back into his house. Another wimp, I thought, a non-hacker, trails bike material, mini-trail
pilot. Weakling.
When we got the bike back to Rick’s house in the hilly section of Silverlake, Rick offered to let me
ride the Cyclone up and own the street a few time, see what I thought about the machine. So I
climbed aboard the Halloween colored motorcycle and booted it to life. Ringgg—Ringgg---seemed to
rev kinda quick like, oh well, stick it into first gear and….WHOOOEEEE! YIKES! CANCEL MY
RHUMBA LESSONS! Man this is one fast sum*****, I said to myself. I ripped up and down the street a
few times and thought that mighty Cyclone must be the fastest damn dirtbike I every straddled. Rick
and I couldn’t wait for the weekend to get it out in the dirt. So we both called in sick the next day and
made our way to a deserted El Mirage dry lake. A perfect place to test out a slightly used TM400, we
thought. Turned out the only safe place to test a ’71 TM400 was in a desert made of foam rubber.
Rick was the first to get suited up and try out his new toy. We were parked on the dry lake, and the
Cyclone ripped way from camp with authority, roosting chunks of the dry lake high into the clean
desert air. Soon Rick was out of sight, making his way up to Shadow Mountain via a sandy whoop
filled trail. He was gone for a long time, and when he finally made it back to camp, I noticed both he
and the bike were bent and dirt colored in desert camo, a good indicator that he ate it big somewhere
along the line.
Rick peeled the goggles from his dirt-encrusted face (even the insides of the goggles had dirt in
‘em), and blew out a sigh of relief: “Phew, this thing’s fast…grab me a beer will ‘ya?” “I think the
swingarm or something is loose, handles kinda’ spooky, give it a try, slide it around a few bushes, tell
me what you think? I’m gonna sit down for a while.” And with that he collapsed into a lawn char, with a
kind-of stunned expression on his face. Well, ol’ Rick must have lost his edge, let me try out this new
sickle…and I suited up.
Again, the Cyclone started on the third kick, and sitting there in the saddle everything seemed real
cozy. A few blips of the throttle indicated that not much mass resided in the lower end, so I made sure
I fed a few more revs and slipped the clutch a little when I took off, didn’t want to stall it and look like a
turkey. The bike pulled clean and hard through the gears on the dry lakebed. The front end seemed
to be on the light side, so I positioned myself more towards the middle that I usually did.
Then it was off the dry lake into the mighty desert, where I was greeted with a long sandy whoop filled
road that on any other bike of the period was fourth and fifth gear all the way. The Cyclone was
happy in third or fourth gear, since the damn thing was going sideways more than going forward. A
few times I got into fifth, and scared the wee wee out of myself. Something must be loose back there
in the swingarm, or the shocks must be blown.
I made my way back to camp, pretty wore out from a first ride. I needed a beer too, and slumped into
a lawn char next to Rick’s. We didn’t say much for the next twenty minutes or so, until Rick opened
up: “Ya know, maybe the rear shocks are worn out, that’s the only reason I can think why it would
jump sideways like that under power, or want to high side you without any warning.” I wanted to
agree, but was too busy peeling blisters off my hands. We rode the Cyclone a couple times again
that day, but at a more sedate pace. Which was almost impossible, since it seemed to want to rear-
up at the least provocation, or tank slap crossing road berms. Some work had to be done on this
one, we both agreed.
Since it was Rick’s bike and he was my dirt bike riding buddy, I got to see first hand the modifications
Rick made on that evil bike over the next year or so. A new swingarm, Konis, Betor forks off a
Pursang. A new frame. More new shocks, Arnacos were supposed to be the hot set up, but worked
worse than the stockers. Nothing really seemed to help that Orange and Black Cyclone much. It
became known as the “Liquid Courage” machine, since you had to be zizzed on a few beers to even
think of riding it. By that time I was riding a Bultaco, and pitied my old buddy Rick stuck on the terror
bike, the Cyclone. Rick was very loyal though, and spent hundreds of dollars on that TM trying to
make it right. It was like throwing money down a rat-hole.
Finally Rick had enough and put the Cyclone up for sale. A few days later some kid came by and
bought the thing, without even riding it. Before the kid left, he shouted from his truck that the only
thing that works was to get rid of the stock PEI ignition, and slap the magneto from the TS400 Enduro
on it, made it a whole different motorcycle.
After the bike was long gone, far away from Rick’s house, I cracked a beer for both of us, and drew a
little orange Cyclone on the plaster cast that covered Rick's broken ankle. Good riddance.
clicked it into gear, and was quickly down the alley in a haze of blue CCI smoke. When Rick got back,
his eyes were as big as queue balls, and said to the seller “Jeezus this thing is fast, get the
paperwork I’m buying it!”
As we loaded the Cyclone into Rick’s Ford, and the guy in plaster counted the $20.00 bills, I asked
him how he broke his leg. He mumbled something under his breath that sounded like “you’ll find out”
and limped back into his house. Another wimp, I thought, a non-hacker, trails bike material, mini-trail
pilot. Weakling.
When we got the bike back to Rick’s house in the hilly section of Silverlake, Rick offered to let me
ride the Cyclone up and own the street a few time, see what I thought about the machine. So I
climbed aboard the Halloween colored motorcycle and booted it to life. Ringgg—Ringgg---seemed to
rev kinda quick like, oh well, stick it into first gear and….WHOOOEEEE! YIKES! CANCEL MY
RHUMBA LESSONS! Man this is one fast sum*****, I said to myself. I ripped up and down the street a
few times and thought that mighty Cyclone must be the fastest damn dirtbike I every straddled. Rick
and I couldn’t wait for the weekend to get it out in the dirt. So we both called in sick the next day and
made our way to a deserted El Mirage dry lake. A perfect place to test out a slightly used TM400, we
thought. Turned out the only safe place to test a ’71 TM400 was in a desert made of foam rubber.
Rick was the first to get suited up and try out his new toy. We were parked on the dry lake, and the
Cyclone ripped way from camp with authority, roosting chunks of the dry lake high into the clean
desert air. Soon Rick was out of sight, making his way up to Shadow Mountain via a sandy whoop
filled trail. He was gone for a long time, and when he finally made it back to camp, I noticed both he
and the bike were bent and dirt colored in desert camo, a good indicator that he ate it big somewhere
along the line.
Rick peeled the goggles from his dirt-encrusted face (even the insides of the goggles had dirt in
‘em), and blew out a sigh of relief: “Phew, this thing’s fast…grab me a beer will ‘ya?” “I think the
swingarm or something is loose, handles kinda’ spooky, give it a try, slide it around a few bushes, tell
me what you think? I’m gonna sit down for a while.” And with that he collapsed into a lawn char, with a
kind-of stunned expression on his face. Well, ol’ Rick must have lost his edge, let me try out this new
sickle…and I suited up.
Again, the Cyclone started on the third kick, and sitting there in the saddle everything seemed real
cozy. A few blips of the throttle indicated that not much mass resided in the lower end, so I made sure
I fed a few more revs and slipped the clutch a little when I took off, didn’t want to stall it and look like a
turkey. The bike pulled clean and hard through the gears on the dry lakebed. The front end seemed
to be on the light side, so I positioned myself more towards the middle that I usually did.
Then it was off the dry lake into the mighty desert, where I was greeted with a long sandy whoop filled
road that on any other bike of the period was fourth and fifth gear all the way. The Cyclone was
happy in third or fourth gear, since the damn thing was going sideways more than going forward. A
few times I got into fifth, and scared the wee wee out of myself. Something must be loose back there
in the swingarm, or the shocks must be blown.
I made my way back to camp, pretty wore out from a first ride. I needed a beer too, and slumped into
a lawn char next to Rick’s. We didn’t say much for the next twenty minutes or so, until Rick opened
up: “Ya know, maybe the rear shocks are worn out, that’s the only reason I can think why it would
jump sideways like that under power, or want to high side you without any warning.” I wanted to
agree, but was too busy peeling blisters off my hands. We rode the Cyclone a couple times again
that day, but at a more sedate pace. Which was almost impossible, since it seemed to want to rear-
up at the least provocation, or tank slap crossing road berms. Some work had to be done on this
one, we both agreed.
Since it was Rick’s bike and he was my dirt bike riding buddy, I got to see first hand the modifications
Rick made on that evil bike over the next year or so. A new swingarm, Konis, Betor forks off a
Pursang. A new frame. More new shocks, Arnacos were supposed to be the hot set up, but worked
worse than the stockers. Nothing really seemed to help that Orange and Black Cyclone much. It
became known as the “Liquid Courage” machine, since you had to be zizzed on a few beers to even
think of riding it. By that time I was riding a Bultaco, and pitied my old buddy Rick stuck on the terror
bike, the Cyclone. Rick was very loyal though, and spent hundreds of dollars on that TM trying to
make it right. It was like throwing money down a rat-hole.
Finally Rick had enough and put the Cyclone up for sale. A few days later some kid came by and
bought the thing, without even riding it. Before the kid left, he shouted from his truck that the only
thing that works was to get rid of the stock PEI ignition, and slap the magneto from the TS400 Enduro
on it, made it a whole different motorcycle.
After the bike was long gone, far away from Rick’s house, I cracked a beer for both of us, and drew a
little orange Cyclone on the plaster cast that covered Rick's broken ankle. Good riddance.
So we went out to the back yard and there it was, an orange and black 1971 TM400 Suzuki Cyclone
sitting in the driveway. It was a very pretty bike, with the black motor, plastic fenders and alloy rims. Didn’
t seem to have much wear and tear on it for a two-year-old dirt bike. The knobbies even had those little
rubber whiskers on ‘em. Seemed like it’d only been ridden a couple times, at most.
Rick walked around the bike and poked and prodded it in a few places, sat on it and bounced it up and
down, you know, the standard bike buying dance. “Can I start it up?” Rick asked. To which the owner
replied “Sure, you can take it down the alley out back too if you want.” The seller seemed agreeable, so
Rick started it on the third kick, and carefully made his way to the alley behind the house.
sitting in the driveway. It was a very pretty bike, with the black motor, plastic fenders and alloy rims. Didn’
t seem to have much wear and tear on it for a two-year-old dirt bike. The knobbies even had those little
rubber whiskers on ‘em. Seemed like it’d only been ridden a couple times, at most.
Rick walked around the bike and poked and prodded it in a few places, sat on it and bounced it up and
down, you know, the standard bike buying dance. “Can I start it up?” Rick asked. To which the owner
replied “Sure, you can take it down the alley out back too if you want.” The seller seemed agreeable, so
Rick started it on the third kick, and carefully made his way to the alley behind the house.
After a few minutes of looking, in the 1971 advertisement section of Cycle News in bold type was an ad
for a slightly used 1971 TM400 Suzuki Cyclone for the unbelievable low price of five hundred dollars. We
called up the seller who lived in Sylmar and quickly boogied on over in Rick’s 1963 F250 Furd pick-up
with tie downs in hand. We heard stories of how fast and dangerous the bikes were, but poo-poohed
these rumors as most likely from weaklings and turkeys that couldn’t handle the raw power of an open
class machine.
When we pulled up to the tidy little house in Sylmar on San Fernando road, we were greeted at the front
door, by a big guy with a giant cast on his right leg, and bandages on both elbows. He motioned us
inside and closed the screen door behind us. “The bikes out back” he whispered. Why was he
whispering, both Rick and I wondered? Maybe someone was asleep?
for a slightly used 1971 TM400 Suzuki Cyclone for the unbelievable low price of five hundred dollars. We
called up the seller who lived in Sylmar and quickly boogied on over in Rick’s 1963 F250 Furd pick-up
with tie downs in hand. We heard stories of how fast and dangerous the bikes were, but poo-poohed
these rumors as most likely from weaklings and turkeys that couldn’t handle the raw power of an open
class machine.
When we pulled up to the tidy little house in Sylmar on San Fernando road, we were greeted at the front
door, by a big guy with a giant cast on his right leg, and bandages on both elbows. He motioned us
inside and closed the screen door behind us. “The bikes out back” he whispered. Why was he
whispering, both Rick and I wondered? Maybe someone was asleep?
TM 400. I got to ride the first year Tm 400 Orange tanker at Garberville Frenchies Camp Track. The Suzuki
dealer had 3 of them there and was really trying to sell them as the new Open bike to have. I was racing a
Husky 360 round case. Roger & Joel were doing so good on thier Zuks, so I just knew if I was ever going to
be World MX Champion I had to be able to ride one of these production factory replicas. The Pusher, uh
Dealer offered me a ride for the day, so I put some electrical tape #s on and I had arrived, on the road to
World MX domination. Open practice started about the time I released myself from the last strand of
electrical tape holding several of my fingers hostage. A quick stab at the kick starter yeilded a back fire,
running engine, and a torn off mx boot toe plate all at the same instant. It seemed like magic, Black magic.
Garberville was a shale track. The shale was sharp and loose. Mixed in with the shale were rocks, a lot of
rocks, some softball sized, some basketball sized, but all in the wrong place. The shale made holding exact
lines a challenge, so you would slip into the small rocks, which would hurl you into the bigger rocks which
would loft your front wheel and make anything like steering impossible. I go out to practice on the Orange
Chariot from hell. The bike tried as had as it could to spit me off in the first 75ft, going first sideways in both
dirrections, then wheelieing insanely hard to the left, towards the flagman, I haven't even got to the track
yet. My arms were already pumped up, I'm sure my shorts were, um, soiled and now it's time to see why the
europeens were so fast anyway. Into the first turn holding a tight inside line standing on the out side peg,
roll on the throttle,OH NO!! here is that instantanious Black magic stuff again. All at once the demonically
posessed, two wheeled Pro wrestler, goes from this funky, off the pipe, crackley, smooth rolling, fairily
docile, Orange, brand new, borrowed MX steed, into a fierce opponent. At the time I really didn't have time
to be scared, I was holding on with both hands and a foot to a 40hp, 45mph, snake of a motorcycle. It
literally felt like I was holding on to the back, of the hood of a huge coiled Cobra with no idea which
dirrection it was going to strike. I did know that it was eventually going to bite me. Going off the track at high
speed is not the favorite racing maneuver of any racer, but when the rear wheel caught on the last of a
series of progressevely bigger rocks, and at maximum RPM and torque, even with my strongest
aspireations of World MX domination, well, I lost controll. I think I forgot to mention the pine trees lining the
track, if not for that low hanging branch, as if mother earth her self decided to intervien. I might still have
been on the TM when it centerpunched a 150 ft pine some 50 yards off the track and down a steep ravine.
dealer had 3 of them there and was really trying to sell them as the new Open bike to have. I was racing a
Husky 360 round case. Roger & Joel were doing so good on thier Zuks, so I just knew if I was ever going to
be World MX Champion I had to be able to ride one of these production factory replicas. The Pusher, uh
Dealer offered me a ride for the day, so I put some electrical tape #s on and I had arrived, on the road to
World MX domination. Open practice started about the time I released myself from the last strand of
electrical tape holding several of my fingers hostage. A quick stab at the kick starter yeilded a back fire,
running engine, and a torn off mx boot toe plate all at the same instant. It seemed like magic, Black magic.
Garberville was a shale track. The shale was sharp and loose. Mixed in with the shale were rocks, a lot of
rocks, some softball sized, some basketball sized, but all in the wrong place. The shale made holding exact
lines a challenge, so you would slip into the small rocks, which would hurl you into the bigger rocks which
would loft your front wheel and make anything like steering impossible. I go out to practice on the Orange
Chariot from hell. The bike tried as had as it could to spit me off in the first 75ft, going first sideways in both
dirrections, then wheelieing insanely hard to the left, towards the flagman, I haven't even got to the track
yet. My arms were already pumped up, I'm sure my shorts were, um, soiled and now it's time to see why the
europeens were so fast anyway. Into the first turn holding a tight inside line standing on the out side peg,
roll on the throttle,OH NO!! here is that instantanious Black magic stuff again. All at once the demonically
posessed, two wheeled Pro wrestler, goes from this funky, off the pipe, crackley, smooth rolling, fairily
docile, Orange, brand new, borrowed MX steed, into a fierce opponent. At the time I really didn't have time
to be scared, I was holding on with both hands and a foot to a 40hp, 45mph, snake of a motorcycle. It
literally felt like I was holding on to the back, of the hood of a huge coiled Cobra with no idea which
dirrection it was going to strike. I did know that it was eventually going to bite me. Going off the track at high
speed is not the favorite racing maneuver of any racer, but when the rear wheel caught on the last of a
series of progressevely bigger rocks, and at maximum RPM and torque, even with my strongest
aspireations of World MX domination, well, I lost controll. I think I forgot to mention the pine trees lining the
track, if not for that low hanging branch, as if mother earth her self decided to intervien. I might still have
been on the TM when it centerpunched a 150 ft pine some 50 yards off the track and down a steep ravine.
| Story by Robin Hannah |
| Story By Matt Cuddy |