Another Story Part II

So, in late March 1976 I found myself signing the papers for a used 1974 Yamaha XS 650 that looked pretty clean and unmodified from what the factory had intended. The only real differences from new, tires were bald, the bike was covered in dust and there was a lot of oil/dirt mung encrusting the lower cases. But other than that, this looked like a brand-new bike to my innocent eyes. It’s amazing now some 50 plus years later how those little tell-tales would probably not affect me at all in a buying decision.

After we concluded our deal, money changed hands and paperwork was signed for a new title we strolled from the office across the highway that bi-sects Ogden to the maintenance shop to roll the bike out and get it running. To this point in the process, I had not actually even seen the bike running and it was only then it crossed my mind that maybe I should have actually spent a little time before parting with my meager cash I should have made sure I was buying something I could actually use. The lust for ownership had given me such tunnel vision that logic and common sense had disappeared in my myopia for simple acquisition. Owning a bike had surmounted the reality of actually riding the bike. To ride the bike meant the motor had to run (unless I was willing to paddle-walk it everywhere). So now was the moment of truth. The guy put the key in the ignition and switched it on. The green neutral indicator came on (a very good sign). He hit the starter lever, nothing (not so good a sign). He turned the ignition off and back on and tried again with the same result.

Now I’m standing in his shop beginning to have a panic attack. I had just spent months of starvation, sweat, toil, and mediocre grades for a bike that wouldn’t start. The dealer pulled the kick-starter out and then romped down on it. The engine roared to life (almost causing a loss of bowel accident from me). This thing sounded like a freight train on steroids. I would later conclude, after careful inspection, the lack of any restriction in the rotted mufflers would be part of why it had that unique cacophony of mechanical distress. My bike was running a nice lumpy idle that only a parallel twin can do when it’s poorly carbureted. I was nearly peeing my pants. It was running, it made tremendous noise, and I owned it. It just doesn’t get any better. I could have remained enraptured, but I noted the dealer was beginning to show signs of wanting me off his lot (likely so he could slink away under cover of darkness or fold his tent and be off). So now it came to it, I had to ride the bike home (or at least off his lot).

This is the moment I planned on using all those exiguous skills garnered from so many hours of riding pillion on a motorcycle. Plus, I had the added benefit of knowing where first gear was from riding my school friends’ mighty 90’s up to 185’s. I was I thought quite capable of knocking this thing into gear and riding it home like a seasoned pro. I felt that because I knew where the other gears could be found even though I had never actually rowed through a gearbox in search of them. So, I paddle-walked my bike to the driveway exit and monitored traffic to determine the best departure time based on the traffic flow. The dealer was talking with his shop’s senior wrench hand as I waited for traffic heading east to clear. I sat blipping the throttle to ensure the bike wouldn’t die and enjoyed the rush each time the motor exploded into another discharge of spent fuel and noxious fumes. When the last car was clear I would be free to navigate the road home. When east bound traffic had sufficiently cleared to take off is the moment when it would have been handy to have ridden a motorcycle in more than one gear. But that hadn’t happened, yet.

What did happen next was I let the clutch out slowly and the bike moved forward pulling my arms with enough force I could feel the balls leaving the sockets and my forward momentum was building at an alarming, eye watering pace. I knew enough not to dump the clutch because doing that would kill the engine so I wound up the throttle to prevent killing the engine and I was now rocketing across the 4-lane highway. I let go of the clutch and I was now headed into the oncoming traffic lanes. I was leaning over to the right trying to get the bike back on my side of the road as I was rushing headlong east in the westbound lanes. I also noted that my throttle was now at or close to the max, the engine was screaming for mercy and so I did the only thing possible under those circumstances with my experience and survival instincts in full control. I shifted to second gear. Found it on first try too. In retrospect I can say that was probably not the sanest move I’ve ever made, and that’s by a pretty fair margin. Because what happened following that brilliant maneuver was it shot me over to the far west bound lane and closing in on the curbside in about 2 heartbeats all while I was tilted to a nice 50 degrees to the right. I occurs now some 50 plus years later had I put my knee down I would have looked like Valentino Rossi coming out of the corkscrew chicane at Laguna Seca, only without the benefit of a knee puck, or riding leathers. On-coming traffic at that moment was becoming acutely aware of my presence but was demonstrating a remarkable degree of confusion as to where the accident wouldn’t be as cars began nose diving and tires squealing.

I on the other hand was demonstrating a remarkable degree of confusion as to how not to adorn the hood of a late model Chevrolet headed for me. So, I did the only thing sensible to me given my survival adrenaline would allow, I gave it more throttle. That helped a whole lot. That spun the rear bald rear tire and dropped me and my new bike onto the road like cow poop hitting a flat rock only we were sliding at a phenomenal rate of speed eastward (normally cow poop goes in all directions at a phenomenal rate). I was sliding and the bike was sliding and the on-coming cars were sliding and starting to resemble a covey of quail looking for a clear flight path. This was a lot more fun than I would have guessed my meager cash account would have gotten. This was beyond my wildest expectations for enjoying the open road; I was getting the open road literally imbedded in me. I was just hoping as deceleration took place, I would have time to save my bike before it became a casualty of my ignorance. After all it wasn’t my bike’s fault I’m an idiot.

By the time my bike and I came to rest on-coming traffic was about 200 yards from a date with my destiny and lots of explaining to the local constabulary. The bike had come to rest about 20 feet from where I finally imbedded my final cinder, so I surmised based on how much traffic had slowed in the westbound lanes, I had time to get the bike out of harm’s way by only a few seconds. It’s interesting what fear, adrenaline, and panic will do for your will to survive, it’s less interesting or aromatic what it does to your undergarments. In the fast-forward stop motion world my brain inhabited in those moments I saw myself jump up and run over to my stricken bike. I then picked the bike up and tucked it under my right arm for safekeeping and ran across 4 lanes of highway back to the dealership entrance. Once there I put the bike down and started to sort myself out. I put the kickstand down and started to see what damage I had wrought on my new (to me) motorcycle.

The dealer walked over as casual as though he was going for his morning paper and said, “I’d have paid good money to see that,” then he started laughing hysterically. I became concerned he actually would need some medical attention due to a catastrophic rupture of one or both of his sides. I was concerned of course with my new bike and if I had now permanently damaged it. That I was permanently damaged was not a concern because I was only scuffed up to the point of searing pain. No worries, healing is free. I did make me curious however as to what was so amusing to him that he was now completely disabled from coherent speech. I thought about it for some time and when his gales of laughing began to subside I felt compelled to inquire what he had found so amusing from my distressful state.

“I’d have paid money to see someone pick up a motorcycle and run with it under their arm!” He began laughing again as though the memory had hit anew and he was again doubled over in laughter. Well funny or not I was in a real pickle, I had a busted-up bike and all my money was pretty much shot. After a closer inspection of the damage, I noted that most of the real damage was just cosmetic, mirror, brake lever, throttle grip, right foot peg, rear turn indicator and that was about it.

“Can you fix my bike?” I asked with resignation.

“Sure,” he said between fits of ha’s, he’s, who’s and guffaws, “I’ve got some spare parts I can put on; you can pick it up to-to-tomorrow,” as he erupted into hysteria once again.


TO BE CONTINUED