The Discriminating Cheapskate

The discriminating cheapskate

LEANINGS

Peter Egan

READERS WHO ARE OLD ENOUGH TO have voted for Taft may remember a story I wrote for this magazine about 11 years ago, when I was first freelancing my way to virtual solvency. The story was called,"Because It’s Small,” and was about a 300-mile trek by Honda 50 and bicycle from Madison, Wisconsin, to Pike’s Peak, Iowa (the “other” Pike’s Peak). I rode the Honda 50, a 1966 stepthrough model, fully laden with luggage, and my bicycle-racing pal John Oakey accompanied me on his Stella 10speed bike.

We wanted to see which vehicle was more efficient, and, of course, the Honda won. It ran all day on about 50 cents worth of gas, while John consumed $4 or $5 worth of candy bars, high-energy drinks, granola, oranges, etc. that I didn’t need.

About the only advantage we could see to the bicycle was that John slept more soundly than I did when we camped at night. He fell into the tent like a rhino hit with one of Marlin Perkins’ drugged darts, then slept through a thunderstorm and didn’t notice that the end of his down bag was sticking out in the rain. John was all but legally dead, just from one day of trying to outperform a Honda stepthrough 50 and its little thimble of a piston.

I won’t say John is a slow learner, but he just called me last weekend (now that I’m back in Wisconsin) and said he’s thinking of buying a motorcycle. Only 1 1 years later.

It seems his wife, Alice, has her own bike, a Honda CB360 that she rides to classes at the university, and John has noticed that it’s quite a bit of fun, not to mention efficient. So he’s finally decided it’s time to look for a bike.

“Great,” I said. “What kind are thinking of getting?”

“Something really cheap,” John said, “but it has to be good-looking. Appearance of a machine is important to me. It has to look right or I won’t enjoy owning it.

“How much do you want to spend?” I asked.

“Oh, two or three hundred dollars.”

I held the phone and stared out the window for a moment, allowing that figure to register in my brain. “Okay,” I said at last. “We talking really cheap here, as in used Japanese, Seventies vintage. No Bonnevilles or Ariel Square Fours.”

“No, no,” John said. “I can’t afford anything like that. Alice is in school and I’m part owner of a Cessna that needs work. Besides, I don’t want to restore a motorcycle right now, I just want to learn how to ride it. I’ve got a couple hundred dollars to spend and I want a bike for the summer.”

“But it has to be good-looking.”

“Right.”

“Well, I’ll check the used bikes in the paper and look around a little. I don’t suppose you could stretch to, say, $500? There are some amazing bargains around if you can spend just a little more.”

“I might be able to scrape up $500, but $300 would be a lot better.”

“Okay,” I said, “I’ll keep my eyes open.”

And I’ve been doing just that, all week. Reading the papers, checking the local shoppers and slowing down to look at the front-lawn specials on the country roads between our house and the city.

Knowing John’s sense of esthetics, which is not that far removed from my own, I’ve concluded that he will probably end up with one of the following bikes, in the price range (if you can call $200-$300 a “range”) he’s stipulated. I’d guess he’ll probably find either a Honda CB350 or CB450 Twin, as there seem to be quite a few of these still on the road

and in the want ads. You hardly ever see these bikes in California, where I was living until recently, mainly because the long riding season there allowed them to reach terminal mileage about 10 years ago. Midwestern winters, however, insure that old bikes age more slowly. Hibernation keeps them forever young, as long as they’re stored out of the weather.

My personal choice for John would be an early-to-mid-Seventies CB500 or CB550 four-piper, brown or green in color. I always wanted one of these and never got one, so, of course, the next best thing is to get a friend to buy one. He might have to pay $500 to get a running 550, however, and I don’t know if he’ll go for anything quite so lavish.

Whatever he ends up with, I’m having a lot of fun in the search. There’s a peculiar pleasure in helping someone look for a first motorcycle. You feel almost like one of the aliens out of Body Snatchers, planting the seed pod that will cause your friend to metamorphose into an entirely new being. A motorcyclist. “Forget what your mom said. Become one of us. It’s easy. Relax and let it happen.” Good wholesome fun.

There’s an added benefit in helping someone like John find a bike, because I think, once metamorphosed, he’ll probably stay that way. People who remain motorcyclists forever, I’ve observed, are generally individuals who really like machines. Motorcycles built around fads, and the riders they attract, are always transitory, just passing through. But new converts who understand and admire machinery usually find in motorcycles a kind of distilled mechanical truth that remains permanently appealing.

John, with his airplanes and racing bicycles, is a prime candidate. We met each other when we were both mechanics at a foreign-car shop, racing sports cars, and John was a fine mechanic with an instinct for meticulous detail. I have a feeling that when he finds that $300 special and starts riding and working on the bike, he’s going to be hooked.

Who knows where it might lead? In a couple of years, I can help him look for a really expensive classic. Something in the $600 range. 0