The Ct110 Caper
THE CT110 CAPER
A tale of poodle-bikes, UFOs and man-eating burros
DAViD EDWARDS
PITY THE POOR CT110. IN A TIME when 100-horsepower 750s are commonplace and dirt bikes have enough acronymed gizmos to almost need a separate alphabet. Honda's little red CT110 trail bike stands alone as motorcycling’s most unspectacular product.
This is a motorcycle that seemingly was first ridden by Adam and Eve, so dated is its styling. This is a 105cc motorcycle with an engine design more than 20 years old. and suspension components to match. This is a motorcycle that even Honda’s everresourceful PR department couldn’t spice up: Under the “New Features” section in the CT 1 10’s press release is but a single, strained entry—“Bold, new graphics.”
Bold? New? Hardly. Rather, this is a motorcycle truly deserving of its place as the bike to have when it's time to lash something to the bumper
of your Airstream trailer and head for the retirement campground.
But. Despite all its 1960s time-capsule qualities, there is something undeniably appealing about the CT 1 10. Like a prospector’s big-eyed packmule. the bike has an honest, let'sget-going air to it. And sitting there, small and lonely, in Honda’s newmodel catalog, flanked by the brightest and the best that modern Japanese industry could muster, the 1 10 almost begged to be ridden.
“Well, what exactly do you want to do with them?” was the reply when I phoned Honda’s PR department to ask for two CTllOs. I confessed I didn't know, but that I'd think of something. “Well, okay, but you know, we've got a new bike called the FatCat; it's got ATV-type tires and an electric starter. It'll go just about about anywhere. How about taking one of those along?”
No thanks. I said, no Garfield the
C at bikes; just the l 1 Us. please.
The twin trailsters languished in the Cycle World garage for a couple of weeks until a suitable venue could be found to unleash their particular skills. Then, over lunch one day, someone mentioned a UFO landing site in the California desert. Perfect! A quest through the barren desert wasteland to find evidence of an extraterrestrial visit. Movie rights to be sold to Spielberg and Lucas at a much later date.
Even though the 1 10s were streetlegal. we decided we should trailer them the 200 or so miles to the desert; so this time I called Suzuki’s PR department and procured a new Samurai, a pint-sized 4x4 best described as a Jeepette. I didn’t mention it would be used to tow Hondas. Next came a conscription of ablebodied men. Cycle World Publisher Jim Hansen was drafted as Suzuki driver, partly because at one time he spent 10 years' worth of weekends dune-buggying around the California-Arizona desert, and partly because he had the largest allowance on his company credit card. The one remaining CT saddle was amply filled by our newest staff member. Associate Editor Camron Bussard, who hadn't been on the job long enough to come up with a suitable excuse when I asked for volunteers for the four-day adventure.
Hansen set the tone for the weekend w hen Bussard and I picked him up early Thursday morning. Standing in front of his house was the familiar silhouette of Publisher Hansen, with a grocery bag over his head—New Orleans “Aints fan-style—“just in case we come across any real motorcyclists with these . . . these poodlebikes." he explained. Hansen never donned his bag during the trip, but thereafter, thé CT1 10s were always referred to as “poodle-bikes."
Seriously overloaded with three
people, a trailer, two poodle-bikes, fishing and camping gear, and enough outdoor clothing to outfit Sir Edmund Hillarv's assault on Everest, the Suzuki's 1324cc engine finally dragged us into view of Cadiz. California. alleged site of the UFO landing. Somehow I had expected a tight and difficult trail leading off to scorched earth, historical markers and bronzed impressions of the spacecraft's landing pads. What I got was a general-store-and-garage just off' the highway and a sun-blistered sign that read “Flying Saucer Repair Station” next to a slab-sided 1963 Chrysler Newr Yorker that would make Lee Iacocca cringe.
The weathered ow ner of the general store/garage shed some light on the UFO situation. “It’s a joke," he said. “I had some extra space on my sign, so I told the sign painter to put ‘Flying Saucer Repair Station' on it. thinking it'd make people stop. That was 22 years ago."
“Ever fixed a flying saucer during those years?" Hansen asked.
“Nope, but we'll be ready if they come.” the ow ner replied.
As we walked back to the Jeepette. I was all set to believe the old guy's story—until Jim and Camron started talking, that is. “Pretty clever disguise that alien had. huh. and who'd ever think that an old Chrysler was actually a spaceship? Look, it’s even got scorch marks on the hood where the tiles fell off during entry."
Not wanting to get caught up in a Rod Serling script, I unloaded the bikes, then we puttered off towards Essex and the cutoff to Hole in the Wall, just past Wild Horse Mesa in the foothills of the New York Mountains. At one time the sanctuary of— you guessed it—The Hole in the Wall Gang, the formation of rocks is deserted these days, except for the occasional camper, so for a couple of hours we played latter-day desperados and climbed all over the sandstone hideout, imagining what it was like to be on the lam from the law.
One thing's for sure: The Gang was made of stouter stuff than we were, because as the sun set and the temperature began to plummet into the high 20s, all thoughts of camping out were abandoned. We loaded the bikes on the trailer and headed for the sanitized-for-your-protection comforts of the Needles TraveLodge, 45 miles to the East.
Needles is one of those places you stop at only because there are signs on the highway proclaiming that the next services are 57 miles away. The following morning, after a fairly forgettable breakfast, we drove back to the New York Mountains after first leaving the trailer at the only restaurant in a town called Goffs. Hansen had told tales of abandoned mine shafts and old cabins up in the hills, and even though it had been 1 5 years since he had been there, he led us through two inches of just-fallen
snow to a mine complete with two wood-plank cabins. The mine had long since stopped producing and the cabins were in disrepair, but there was a sense of history about the place. In the smallest cabin, scrawled on a section of tin, was a message, probably left by the dreamer who had started the mine. It read: “Please leave things in good order. Thanks, J.C. Bohm. Pasadena, Calif. 4-5-57.” And just to spark the imagination, there were even traces of fool's gold lying around.
For the rest of the day we just explored, racing along snow-covered trails, stopping long enough to toss a few snowballs. Once below the snowline, we took the long wav back to Goffs, along dirt roads that meandered across the desert floor. Deathly hot most of the year, the Western deserts are things of desolate beauty in the winter, alive with all kinds of plants, any one of which is capable of spearing a careless motorcyclist. We
didn't even mind when Hansen's promised fishing hole turned out to be nothing more than a mud field. It was enjoyable just to be on a motorcycle, a refreshing distance from the nearest civilization.
And a word to the wise: Mommas, don't let your sons grow up to be bobcat trappers. We talked with a Fish and Games Department ranger near Bobcat Hills who told us how trappers get bait. Seems they scan the nearby roads for animals that have been hit by cars, scoop up the remains and let the mess sit in a glass jar for a year or so to ripen. You can always tell a trapper by smell, said the ranger. No doubt.
After another warm, if not exciting. night in Needles, we were on our way to Oatman. Arizona, a mining town founded in 1906 that today ekes out an existence as a tourist attraction. First we stopped at a fishing pond just before the Oatman turnoff, where Cam ron made like a Field & Sircam coverbov—and caught absolutely nothing.
Oatman. its chamber of commerce will tell vou. is famous for many things. Every Labor Dav. for example. there's the International Burro Biscuit Throwing Contest. And why ABC’s “Wide World of Sports” doesn't have the TV rights to that one remains a mvsterv. But the town's real claim to fame is that one fine night in 1939. mov ie stars Clark Gable and Carole Lombard, fresh from a wedding chapel in nearbv Kingman, stopped in to spend their honeymoon night at the Oatman Hotel (Mohave Countv's only tvvo-storv adobe building). Ás a newspaper account goes, the newlyweds were driv ing along the old Route 66 w hen Gable, “high on champagne and Miss Lombard's beauty." decided it was time to stop. Today, the Oatman hotel n^) longer rents rooms, but for a 50-cent donation at the bar. YOU can go upstairs to famous Room No. 15 and peek through chicken-wire at the very bed
where the marriage was consummated. Not exactly the Eifl'el Tower, admittedly, but not bad for the middle of the Mojav e Desert.
After hav ing our photo taken by F rederick of Oatman to document our visit, we wandered back onto Main Street, only to be caught in the middle of a wild-burro feeding frenzy. Enticed bv food that shopkeepers sell to the tourists, the burros come out of the hills and wander through town, looking for handouts. Actually, they'll eat just about anything. as C'amron found out when one started nibbling on his jacket.
Once freed of the burro attack, we headed a few miles East to dig around in some abandoned buildings and amuse ourselves bv throwing rocks down long, dark mine shafts. We also discov ered that, with their dual-range transmissions locked in low. the CI110 poodle-bikes would climb over the nastiest terrain imaginable, helped along bv the rider's paddling feet. Just try iluu on your “real" dirt
bike w ith its 37-inch seat height.
In truth, the CTI I Os were impressive. Capable of only about 55 mph on the asphalt (drafting helps immensely). and comfortable in the dirt only at speeds below 40. the bikes nonetheless took us everywhere we pointed them. And after three days of flat-out running (no matter w hat gear thev were in), the only damage they sustained was a couple of creativ ely dented skidplates and a broken mirror. courtesy of a failed donut spun bv Jim Hansen. So if you're looking for a condemnation of these Winnebago-bumper bikes. don't come to us; we liked 'em.
This is not to sav that CT1 l()s are destined to become the saviors of motorcycling. We'll still get thrills when we blast off on the new est road missile. still get excited bv the latest works-replica motocrosser. Sometimes. though, just sometimes, all it takes is two skinny wheels. 105cc and a desire to see what lies beyond the next hill. EH
