Musings from one who writes, and rides…
A brief test ride, visible to passing aircraft, revealed that it probably had a ring gap the size of your forefinger. Turning the throttle resulted in a spasmodic, lurching kind of flatulence that couldn’t really be described as forward progress. Clearly, a rebuild was necessary.
This love of motorcycling in all its guises is something that can’t be cultivated. These are the things that empty our bank accounts, jeopardize our marriages—and enrich our lives.
Once I bring the Honda Dream home, my elation gives way to the harsh reality of what happens to metal when abandoned in a damp barn for 52 years.
When I was younger, time spread out before me like a desert highway, punctuated by dozens of future, imagined motorcycles, each one of them better than the last. Not so anymore.
Welcome to the world of my newly acquired 1973 Yamaha RD350 two-stroke. The little ring-a-ding is everything my stately BMWs are not: smokey, loud, and uncivilized.
I can hardly remember a time when I didn’t have the motorcycle obsession. It emanates from somewhere deep in the subconscious, like the desire to procreate, eat ice cream, or avoid house chores.
A while back, in a moment of delusion, I agreed to make motorcycles a zero-sum game: if I acquired one, another one had to go. Have I adhered to this diplomatic protocol? Of course not. Motorcycles seem to arrive, but none ever leave….
What’s happening to motorcycle shops? Gone, like points and condensers—victims of the pandemic, a fickle market, and more than a few bad decisions….
Carburetors, like clutches and cables, have become the earmarks of antiquity. There will soon come a time when exactly no one will know how to adjust or service these devices. Carbs and clutches will seem as weird as a wall jack….
Imagine a couple hundred codgers on BMWs sleeping in the dirt, drinking beer and traversing California for three days. But no one knows where the next day’s ride will go until they arrive at camp each night….