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I
am a pastor in a retirement community and have observed that those people who had
considered their retirement are delightful, while those who had not
pondered life after work can be awfully cranky. I determined that I would
fall into the former category and tried golf, which left me more homicidal
than pastoral. After some other false leads it occurred to me that it
would be fun to return to passions of youth and so I began to cast about
for a “project” bike. At first I thought chopping would be cool (what
Boomer does not secretly dream of joining Billy and Captain America on
their sojourn across America?) but quickly realized that the geometry
required for proper trail is such that a slight miscalculation would
result in a bike with less than satisfactory handling properties. Might as
well just climb up the church steeple and take a header off the roof.
Eventually my search led me to the London of fifty years ago and the Mods
and the Rockers (in 1979 The Who produced Quadrophenia, a story of these
groups). The Mods favored tricked out scooters and sharp threads (think
Beatles in their early American appearances) while the Rockers were
working class kids who wore leather, loved rock n’ roll, and rode
motorcycles (ala James Dean). The Rockers, aka “Ton up Boys” (a ton is 100
MPH) stripped the bikes, beefed up the engines and raced from café to
café. I loved the concept, the history, AND the fact that I have not seen
old school Café Racers in Phoenix, so my education began.
Lesson #1: there is a lot of over-priced crap out there. After many bum
leads I finally connected with a delightful guy who had a 1978 Honda
 CB
550 for sale. I checked it out and other than grime from a trip to Alaska
and a bit of oil seepage (all the inline four’s have that problem) it was
in great shape. So in February 2009 we struck a deal, the bike moved to
Rio Verde, I scrubbed and de-gooped until my hands were bloody, and the
odyssey began. The bike was licensed in California, so the first task was
to get her registered here in Arizona and following a
compression check, new plugs, oil & filter, battery, one failed emissions
test and lots of tinkering, by late March she had a title.
I tend to the cerebral, so could not begin the next step without
reflection. The quest in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance was to
find Quality, as Pirsig struggled with the dichotomy of Romantic vs.
Rational. I thought that rather than opposites, the Romantic Soul (say, an
idiot with little idea of what he was doing) could be united with the
Rational Mind (consisting of a Clymer’s, a digital camera with which to
take pictures of the correct assembly, and the entire household supply of
baggies into which to deposit parts) to create a new post-Modern synthesis
which might be that Quality which haunted Pirsig. Of course reflection is
often accompanied by copious amounts of alcohol ...
Deconstruction began. With WD-40, wrenches and an occasional hammer the
parts began to come off: luggage rack, turn signals, pegs,
 fairing
and then had one of Chris’s “Oh sh**!” moments. There was a small bag
crammed between the fairing and the triple tree and inside the bag were a
bazillion wires going nowhere. I grabbed my Clymer’s and a wiring diagram
from bikebandit.com but of course none of the colors described resembled
the colors of the wires sitting in front of me. So I just sat and stared,
thinking, "Now what?" No solution presented itself, so I decided to worry
about it “later” …
Off came the tank and seat along with the front wheel and forks. I got the
forks repacked and with help from Mr. Clymer and my digital photos everything
went back in place. Each night I surfed the web making choices: Clubman or
clip-on? Full tank & seat assembly or just a bum-stop seat? What about
rear-sets? Often decisions were reached by my wife’s diligent accounting
of just how much this new hobby was costing.
At last the parts arrived and assembly began. Lesson #2: there are about
fifty wrong ways to put clubmans on a bike. I tried them all before
finally figuring out how to mount them so one can actually turn without
banging into the gas tank. The same is true with rear sets, which involves
more geometry and removing a very long bolt that just happens to anchor
the motor to the frame. But with trial and error and the help of my son
Brian, we got the bike re-assembled enough for an engine test. At one
point during re-assembly I had Brian spin the wheels while I checked the
brakes and after the fiftieth spin his patience was exhausted: “We’re not
even sure if it will start.” “Yes,” I replied, “but if it doesn’t start,
it won’t kill me. If it doesn’t stop, it WILL kill me, so keep spinning!”
April 17th was test day for the almost-a-Cafe Racer. One of the greatest
sounds in the world is that of a re-assembled engine actually starting,
and with cylinders firing sweetly I kicked her into gear and took off.
Lesson #3: If you have throttle, you use throttle. She ran great, so of
course I pushed the limits and blew a gasket. So the return trip was
foot-powered rather than horse-powered, and I endured the wits driving by
while shouting "I thought YOU were supposed to ride the BIKE" as I pushed
her home. Let the record note that I took names and the day I retire as a
pastor, ass-whuppin's will be forthcoming.
Which brings us to Lesson #4: there is a happy balance in these old bikes,
and when one upsets that balance by replacing some things, other parts,
not unlike small children, shout “Me too! Me too!” Sigh. So back
apart she came.
 With
the engine working again and the body painted (thanks to Bart Iden for the
name of a good painter) the assembly into an official Cafe Racer
continued. The tank, headlight bucket and side panels went on with no
problem but the "bum-stop" seat was another matter. Finally, after
multiple trips to the hardware store and a bit of re-configuring, the seat
settled into position.
But
of course the friggin' headlamp didn’t fit into the headlight bucket, so
it was off to the junkyard again. And awaiting me was Lesson #5: Later
comes. My “bag ‘o wires” still needed a solution.
By early June Brian found a headlight bucket that fit, a friend figured
out which wires connected to what items, I completed the Checker Cab
motif, and we fired her up again. I took her out for a maiden voyage and
received three more lessons: 1) old bikes are just waiting for a chance to
show their stuff; 2) I am very grateful that braking technology has
improved during the past thirty-five years; and 3) a Cafe Racer is a young
person’s bike. I rode for forty minutes and then needed ten minutes after
dismounting simply to stand up straight. So now Brian owns “Mellow
Yellow”, our ode to the British working class.
But the bug has bit, so if anyone has a project bike just sitting in their
garage, my proletarian urges remain ...
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