Free Bikes And Other Curses
Free bikes and other curses
LEANINGS
Peter Egan
SO THERE I WAS ON SUNDAY NIGHT, working quietly in my garage and wondering if I would, at any moment, go up in a big orange ball of flame.
The problem was, I'd just dumped a full gallon of gasoline into the tank of a newly acquired green 1973 Honda CB350G and I'd forgotten these things have underslung crossover hoses to equalize the fuel level in both sides of the tank. This one was disconnected, so fuel was spewing all over the place.
And I, like that famous Dutch boy, was trying to reach under the tank and plug the dike with two fingers on the spigots. Meanwhile, gasoline gushed over the bike and down the insides of my coverall sleeves, flowing into a huge puddle that spread ominously in all directions, like the dark borders of Fascism in one of those old WWII documentaries.
As I knelt in the fuel, looking in all directions for something to plug the tank, my overhead workshop furnace kicked in, igniting the propane with the usual loud WHOMP!
This was not good.
What would my friends at the funeral say? Probably, “What was he thinking?”
To which the terrible answer would be, “Apparently, nothing.”
Acting decisively, I lifted the unlocked motorcycle seat with my chin and wrenched the entire tank off the bike, tilting the fuel away from the outlets. I ran outside with the tank and opened the garage doors to lean out the fumes in my workshop, which was running a little rich, you might say.
Fifteen minutes later, I had the floor cleaned and everything back in order. No fire. Saved again.
By now you may be wondering what a person of my advanced age is doing messing around with a non-running version of a small-bore motorcycle I last owned and rode 28 years ago.
That’s easy. Someone gave it to me. And I cannot turn down a free motorcycle. Especially a model of the exact year and color of the bike that was given to me brand-new as a birthday present by my wife, Barbara, when I got out of the Army and finished college on the G.I. Bill and was basically broker than I have ever been.
Here’s how I got it: The phone rang last week and the caller was a young motorcyclist/engineering student named Neel Vasavada. Neel and I have chatted at several motorcycle functions, and last year he showed up at one of the biennial Slimey Crud Café Racer Runs with his college roommate, who was astride none other than a thrashed-looking green 1973 CB350G-the last year for this model, and the only one with a front disc brake.
“Gee,” I said, “just like my old one. They sold millions of these bikes, but I haven’t seen one on the road in years. I’d love to find one myself.”
“We paid $75 for this one,” Neel said. “Found it on a farm in Iowa.”
“Well, if you ever decide to sell it, lemme know,” I said. (Note how this phrase just slips off my tongue, from years of practice.)
So last week, Neel called up. He’d graduated and was taking a job in California. His roommate had abandoned the old 350 in a snowdrift in the backyard of a student apartment, so Neel had pushed the bike to nearby Foreign Car Specialists, a shop where I used to work as a mechanic, and where Neel had been wrenching part-time.
“How much do you want for it?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “I just want to find it a home. There’s no title...”
So naturally, I threw my aluminum loading ramp right into the back of my Ford van and headed into Madison, Wisconsin, to collect my free bike. Which was, as advertised, a little rough-slightly bent front wheel, multiple dings in the faded tank, drooping turnsignal stalks, rusted chain, etc.
Into the van it went, and I drove home glowing from that strange euphoria produced only by a new old bike that needs a serious clean-up and may actually run someday. Who knows?
At this point, before you discover the bad crank or the spent camchain, the sun shines, bluebirds tie your shoelaces and the world is filled with latent joy.
I spent Sunday cleaning the bike and discerned that it needed, cosmetically speaking, a new tank, seat and mufflers, as ' well as a straight front wheel. Honda doesn’t stock most of this stuff any more, so I called a friend named Don Omen. Don has a garage and a metal shed filled with more old Hondas than I have blues CDs. He also has a random collection of parts.
“I don’t have many parts for the CB350s,” Don said, “but I have a complete green 1973 CB350G that’s pretty nice, cosmetically. I just bought it from a schoolteacher. It has a nice tank, good chrome, decent wheels and tires and perfect mufflers. The seat is fair. I also have the title for it.”
Every part I needed, in one neat package. “How much do you want for the whole bike?” I asked.
“Oh, $350?”
So, for the second time in one weekend, I found myself driving home with a CB350 strapped in my van. This one looked so good, I tilted the rearview mirror so I could keep an eye on it.
Don also sold me a new factory seat for the bike, right out of the box, for $175. So I now have an immaculate $525 CB350 “parts bike” to support my thrashed free bike. Or vice versa. Or maybe two parts bikes, at $262.50 each. Hard to tell what I’ve got.
Of course, the costs have not ended. I also ran out and bought one new battery. And some carb cleaner. And a new clutch lever. And tune-up and discbrake rebuild kits.
With a battery installed, the free bike started right up and ran fine. The expensive one also started and idles okay but won’t rev (this is the one that spilled all the gas). Probably has the usual clogged jets from sitting and needs a carb rebuild. A couple of surprisingly costly rebuild kits should fix that.
Ah, well, I saw it coming. When you acquire a piece of your own past, you have to be prepared to pay a little something for winding back the clock. And when you’ve sold a keepsake you shouldn’t have, penance may be due.
