My recently acquired Yamaha two-stroke smokes blue, disturbs the peace wherever it goes…and brings joy to my twisted little heart
Originally published in BMW Owners News.
Readers with too much time and poor taste in writing will no doubt have read my previous column (“The Year I Took Up Smoking”), in which I foolishly acquired a 1973 Yamaha RD350 two-stroke street bike.
A brief test ride, visible to passing aircraft, revealed that it probably had a ring gap the size of your forefinger. Blue smoke curled skyward like smoke signals. Neighbors placed calls to the EPA for gross violations of air quality. Turning the throttle resulted in a spasmodic, lurching kind of flatulence that couldn’t really be described as forward progress. I barely made it home without having to summon the Trailer of Shame.
Clearly, a rebuild was necessary. That was five months ago. Because I am retired and have no life, almost every week since that time has been devoted to resurrecting the little ring-a-ding.
The world’s slowest mechanic
I’ve restored quite a few motorcycles, with passable results. My secret? I move with glacial speed. Everything is documented, to the last nut and bolt. My phone contains hundreds of stultifyingly boring photos of engine internals and wire routing. Entire notebooks are filled with descriptions of the disassembly. Parts are carefully labeled and placed in Ziploc bags that are marked with a Sharpie and say things like “piston parts,” “taillight internals,” often accompanied by useful descriptors like, “PITA!”
Restorations are always like peeling back the layers of the onion. The trouble starts when the restorer innocently states, “As long as I’m [fill in the blank], I might as well [fill in the blank].” To wit: A simple fork seal replacement revealed head bearings that were so pitted that turning the handlebar made a clicking noise, like rotating the fan knob on a cheap air conditioner. A tapered roller bearing headset was added to the list. Of course, while the front end was apart, I discovered I could disassemble the instruments and replace the flickering, burned-out bulbs with tiny LEDs, which made the green neutral lamp shine like a traffic light. While I was there, I mended a broken bezel with J-B Weld and Bondo. With all these parts out, it only made sense to subject the triple trees to the wire wheel and give them the black rattle can treatment. New handlebars with a stock bend replaced the flat bar that sent my low back into contortions. Of course, with all the controls off, I had to replace the decaying brake lines. During this process, I discovered multi-level spider houses inside the switchgear, so those needed to be cleaned and reconditioned. A small, broken-off stub was all that remained of the right-side mirror, so that was drilled out and cleaned up. The bike had no horn, so I bought an aftermarket item and connected it to the stubby pink wire that someone had severed with side cutters. Now a press of the button produces an anemic noise that, on a good day, might rise above the racket of the wailing two-stroke.
And so on. Boxes arrive daily. Money flows like a waterfall. All told, I probably spent 30 hours on the front end alone, a job that I undertook as an afterthought and figured would be completed over a single cup of coffee.
The Internet is (almost) always right
When faced with an implacable problem like how to procure a left-hand-thread mirror, useful advice can often be solicited from Internet forums. Consulting these forums is a little like seeking counsel at the local dive bar. You could encounter sage advice, or, if you trust the wrong person, you could end owing money to a guy named Carmine who has a thriving business in breaking kneecaps. The forums are also home to endearing bits of folk wisdom, like using wadded-up tinfoil and vinegar to clean rusted chrome. The wackiest advice generally involves lighting things on fire, always accompanied by the proviso: “I’ve been doing it this way for 50 years with no problems.” Well, they tried to cure cancer with leeches for several centuries, and that didn’t ultimately work out, either.
My favorite comment, however, occurred after I posted a photo of the cute little Yamaha. “Your motorcycle is hopeless,” read the comment. “Don’t even bother trying to fix it. Just give it to me.” Uh, no. But I appreciate the compliment.
The other day I saw a plumber’s van that had these words inscribed on the side: “We do the stuff you can’t learn on YouTube.” I tried not to take offense, because the truth is I fix all kinds of stuff based on what I learn from “YouTube University”—including motorcycles. I watch these videos on the large monitor I have in my shop, displaying them 10 seconds at a time while, for instance, while re-assembling a gearbox. Interestingly, I’ve noticed that many of these videos now originate in India, where there is apparently a thriving business in old motorcycles—and making money from YouTube. Most of these endearing videos look like they were shot in someone’s kitchen in Bombay, with screaming kids and dogs in the background. Engines are disassembled on kitchen tables, using the classic farmers’ tools (Vise-Grips, hammers, duct tape). On one occasion, I watched in horror as they installed a seal backward in the crankcase, a mistake I almost committed as I mimicked the video. But in general, if one exercises due caution, YouTube University is the restorer’s friend.
With this many resources, and the freedom that comes with retirement, it should be hard to make a mistake. And yet, I do. Plenty of them. At one point, a small Phillips screw in the vicinity of the shift drum refuses to come out, despite careful application of an impact driver, heat, and a prison yard’s worth of expletives. Just as I am about to go at it with a handheld drill, I decide better and call my friend Todd, a bicycle framebuilder who also happens to be the most talented, artistic machinist that I know. He jigs it up in his mill, drills out the offending bolt with grace and aplomb, whereupon the coils of metal remaining in the crankcase fall out with a breath of air, leaving the threads perfectly intact. These are the moments, and there are many, when I realize my vast shortcomings as a restorer. At least I have the good judgment to pick up the phone and call someone who knows better.
Ring-a-ding redux
After five months, I put the big, slow-moving train in reverse: re-assembly begins! I know things are going the right direction because the pile of empty Ziploc bags is growing, and the large bin of parts keeps getting emptier. What’s more, I can see the surface of my workbench again. For most of the last year, it’s been completely obscured with the detritus of a 53-year-old motorcycle.
I fill the engine with essential fluids, straddle the newly covered seat, and give it a hefty kick. The carcinogenic little smoker bursts to life like a supernova, shaking windows for half a mile. My little gross polluter runs!
From the first ride, weepy senior men come over to regale me with tales of past glory on this very model, including supra-legal escapades with scantily clad passengers. Apparently, lots of people owned these bikes back in the day.
Have I learned anything from the experience, for instance, that restoration may not be my calling in life? The answer is no. In my side yard, under a pop-up tent, is a rusting but complete, hulk of a motorcycle: my 1965 Honda Dream barn find. No sooner have I cleared my workbench than thoughts turn to this corrosive corpse of a bike. If I extrapolate from the restoration time of my little Yamaha, the Dream will burble to life in about….2030.
It’s going to be a long, agonizing story. Stay tuned. Then again, I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t….
