Old Bikes: the Gift That Keeps On Giving
Old bikes: The gift that keeps on giving
LEANINGS
Peter Egan
INSPIRED BY BIG STEAMING CUPS OF coffee and with all Iowa spread before US in its autumn harvest finery, Bruce Finlayson and I hammered along I-80 in my blue Ford van on a mission from God, as the Blues Brothers would say, discussing motorcycles, as usual.
We were driving all the way from my home in rural Wisconsin to Omaha. Nebraska, to reclaim my old 1975 “Candy Jet Green” Honda CB550K. I sold this bike four years ago-probably to improve my debt picture on a Ducati 900SS-to my friends Bill and Karen Rafferty.
New to motorcycling, they hauled the 550 home and then used it to take MSF riding courses and get their motorcycle certification. But a busy life with jobs and young children had more or less brought their riding to a halt. Also, Bill thought they might ride more if they had a larger, more highway-capable two-up tourer.
In any case, the 550 was languishing in the back of their garage and had not run for two years, so when I heard it was for sale, I offered to buy it back for the same $600 I sold it for, and the Raffertys accepted the offer.
Those with encyclopedic CW memories may remember a story I did on this bike in June, 1994, called “The $300 Jewel.” I originally bought the 550 from a local dealer (who was relieved to find a buyer) for $300, and then spent another $300 replacing the two banged-up right-side mufflers. Now I had a $600 jewel, but it needed no further work and I rode it for a very pleasant, trouble-free year.
When Bill and Karen hauled it away, that little alarm bell went off in my brain that portends a growing and wistful regret. But I thought, perhaps, they might outgrow the 550 and it would come my way again. Which, happily, it did.
My first thought was to cash-in a frequent flyer ticket, jet to Omaha and ride the 550 home on some pleasant autumn weekend, but Bill advised against it. “It needs a battery,” he said. “Also, the carbs are leaking and probably a little gummed up, and the front brake is dragging. And the tires are just fair.”
Ah, yes, the classic things that always happen to an old Honda when it sits. “Maybe I’d better come and get it with my van,” I said.
So I did, and Bruce, always game for a bike-hunting expedition, volunteered to come along.
As we hummed down the highway, I said, “You know, I think the act of going to pick up a motorcycle you really want is one of the most satisfying occasions in life. And it doesn’t have to be a new bike, or some great classic. In fact-now that I think about it-the cheaper and funkier the bike, the better.”
Bruce nodded. “The old ones are more fun. When you pick up a brand-new motorcycle it’s like Christmas morning, but once you’ve opened the package, it’s done. You park the bike in your garage, and there it is. Nothing more to do.
“A nice old Honda,” he continued, “has that same initial excitement of getting it, but then you have the added pleasure of fixing it up, making it newer. You are always opening new packages, adding or improving something. Christmas is never quite over.”
We picked up the bike on a beautiful warm autumn afternoon from Bill and Karen, who took us out to dinner at a good restaurant in the old restored downtown of Omaha-a lovely city whose charms are almost unknown outside the immediate area, probably because Hollywood never makes a film there.
We strapped the bike down in the back of the van, said our good-byes and headed east just after sunset. We had hoped to find a motel near Marne, Iowa, so we could visit the famous Baxter Cycle shop in the morning, but a convention in the area had filled all rooms (National
Association of Narcoleptics, or something), so we pressed on to Adair, and then got home the next afternoon.
I started working on the Honda that evening, and just got it back on the road this past weekend, after a week of work.
Bruce’s assessment of the perpetualgift nature of a light-duty motorcycle restoration has proved accurate. That first evening, I put a new battery in the bike, added gas, hit the button and it started right up, revving with that characteristic electric-smooth ferocity and mechanical rustle that distinguish sohc Honda Fours. But the carbs leaked, so I shut it off.
I removed the carbs, turned them upside down on my bench, cleaned the jets, needles and float bowls and installed all new gaskets and O-rings. Now they work fine: The gift of smooth, leak-free running, achieved.
Then came the stuck front brake caliper. I lightly honed the cylinder, installed a new piston and seal and bled the brakes. Now the bike stops.
The next day, I took the wheels and their ancient rubber rim protectors in to Motorcycle Performance and had my friend Bill put on a set of new Metzelers.
Real rubber! Is there any nicer gift to yourself or a motorcycle-with a greater promise of satisfaction-than a freshly mounted set of good tires?
I oiled the chain (reasonably new), adjusted the valves and gave the already pretty clean bike a deep cleaning and polishing-spokes, sprockets, etc.-and buffed the valve covers to a mirror finish on my buffing wheel. Then sat back for a midnight beer.
Ah, the gift of cleanliness and shine! A package to savor and unwrap slowly with great pleasure at the gradual, inexorable improvement.
The next day I took the bike for an all-morning ride. I’d almost forgotten how nice these Seventies Honda Fours could be-smooth, plush and agile with light, intuitive steering. The first vintage bikes (other than old BMWs) with truly non-punishing suspension.
Now all but perfect, the 550’s only fault was a slight misfire above 8000. Time for plugs, points and condenserswhich I hadn’t yet even looked at. I stopped by the shop yesterday and bought an ignition tune-up kit in a box.
Tonight I think I’ll unwrap it and see what’s inside. E3
