Good morning everyone.
I am in the process of shopping for a CB750 or GS750 depending on what the bike gods toss in my lap. Because I haven't played with street bikes in 25 years give or take, and even then, with limited mechanical knowledge, I thought it would be wise to attempt to educate myself (to whatever extent possible) via project resto threads. Many of them offer an up close and personal view of the good, the bad, and most importantly the ugly of each model. This morning I was sitting here reading the upteenth restoration project and I had an epiphany.
While technically non-fiction, project threads are the greatest stories ever written. They start out with an introduction creating interest. The new owner finds a bike. It is a mere shadow of its former self. The owner inspects the inoperable or broken and tired beast, staring in awe and wonder at the war-torn victim's scars, wondering about the incredible life it must have lead. Our hero vows right then and there that come hell or high water, the bike shall be returned to its former glory, damn the disposable income and full speed ahead.
He (Lets call him The Office Worker) prepares for the long arduous journey by assembling a battle plan and gathering weapons of war. He goes to town (sohc.net) and attempts to build consensus by addressing the townsfolk (sohc members). He speaks of the days of yore. A simpler time in life. A time of narrow power bands and drum brakes. A time when heroes wore their road rash and pipe burns with great pride. For that's what great motorcycle enthusiasts do.
With arrogance and pompousness, he asks the towns people to join him. Join him to right this terrible wrong. To show the word that we will not go quietly in to the night tolerating electronic ignitions, computer chips, and dare I say it.......fuel injection!
Many of the towns people are Resto Veterans. These are battle hardened men........men who have been to restoration hell, and returned with their sanity intact. Men with propane burns and deeply scarred hands. Shell shocked men that develop a nervous twitch when they hear the words 'barn find.'
They gather to talk amongst themselves. They agree that our hero makes sense, but do any of them really have the time to help this young, inexperienced upstart with their own projects spread about the garage? After whining about their own woes, they agree that it is their obligation nay, their duty to at least keep an eye on The Office Worker and help when it’s convenient.
They approach our hero and pledge loyalty to the battle ahead. The Office Worker is full of hope and optimism but ignorant to the ways of the Resto Warrior. Yet he decrees to all who will listen that with a quick fuel flush and mere 1/4 turn of the idle set screw, The Beast will roar to life with fury ! The Resto Warriors follow tentatively, knowing that evil surely lurks just around the corner.
The Office Worker shamelessly drags the bike out in the yard. He hoses off the big chunks, while brushing pine needles away. He us unable to acknowledge the serious the coming journey is, reality being smothered by The Office Worker’s pie-in-sky dreams.
He begins taking pictures. To the untrained eye, a cursory examination indicates that she is unmolested and 100% OEM. Knowing better, the Resto Vets begin studying the pictures. One of them squints at a picture. The hair on the back of his neck begins to stand up. Suspecting eminent danger, his keen eye spots a plethora of issues. Two head bolt studs appear to be missing. There are teeth missing from the drive sprocket, and oh noes, the smooth lines of the OEM airbox have given way to the fetid and festering growths know as PODS !
The Office Worker, recognizes his mistake. He stops to briefly ponder the daunting task of finding both an original air box and carb bank. He must push back the fear and move forward. A quick calculation reveals that he will be 1,000.00 over budget and he has yet to turn the first bolt. Finally, he is able to calm himself. He will address these issues in time!
The Resto Warriors begin whispering. This new owner is a simpleton. A buffoon! Any sane enthusiast would cut his losses now while there is still hope (and cash) ! Drop this foolish notion and make this a parts donor. Then immediately select a steed in better shape. The Office Worker stands and stares down the vets (yes, via the internet.) With steady voice, he bellows, " I WILL NOT ! (He says this in Captain Morgan pose, foot on toolbox.)
Disassembly begins with a fervor. Sadly, the Resto Warriors worst fears start to become reality. Frozen shocks. Water dripping from an unknown hole in the bottom of the frame, and is that JB Weld on the case? They all shake their heads. We warned this man, The Office Worker. Yet he refused to take heed.
The Office Worker shears off yet another frozen bolt. It was more than any sane man could take. He falls to his knees, exhausted and emotionally drained. His tears grow worse……… deep raking sobs overcoming him. With bloodied hands raised high overhead, he curses the Gods of UJM. His only solace is knowing that there is a special place in hell reserved for filthy liars known as Previous Owners.
Once again the Resto Warriors gather. Look at the fool, they say. We warned him not to use the impact wrench. We told him to slow down. He failed to yield. And now he must pay the toll. Yes they agree. The Office Worker MUST PAY !
Then one of the Resto Warriors stood. He was a man of few words, yet he was clearly a man deeply respected by all. No one knew his real name. He was simply referred to as Hondaman.
"Gentlemen. All that you have said is true. This man.........this office worker, has time and time again ignored your wisdom. And for this he suffers. His family suffers. His children go without new video games. His wife hasn't had her nails done in weeks. They are so broke at this point that they are eating mac with NO CHEESE. Yet in spite of all of this, the fool presses on.
We shall help this man. For it is the right thing to do. Return to your garages. To your sheds and your attics. Scour them to gather the very best of your spare parts and return to me. We shall make a list ! For we are Honda enthusiasts. Men of honor and glory!"
With surgical focus, the men did as they were asked. One by one, they came forward. First someone offered up a low mileage F2 head. Another shipped an extra airbox accepting no payment in return. Still another came forth with an entire bank of carbs. Then, with little warning, a Resto Warrior stopped by the young upstarts house. And together they began to work. Slowly and deliberately at first.
Item by item, heinous acts of butchery were corrected. Many things were cleaned and polished. Parts...........shiny OEM parts, continued to pour in to The Office Worker’s mailbox from the far corners of the world. And the tide of evil began to turn. Momentum brought traction. And traction brought hope.
And before everyone knew it, that day was upon them. The day of righteousness. A number of the men gathered round the beast. The silence was deafening. So quiet that the noise of a dropped carb o ring could be heard for miles.
One of the visiting Resto Warriors instructed The Office Worker to make ready to turn the key. The Office Worker's hand shook violently as he reached for the key. Then he hesitated. Mere inches from the key. A split second from destiny.
"Fear has overtaken me", The Office Worker whispered.
The Resto Warrior sat quietly for a moment before speaking.
"Be Strong! You have done well and seen this difficult task through. You must fulfill your destiny. Men will sing dirty limericks about you. Everywhere you go, big, bow-legged women will fling undergarments at your feet and beg for a ride on The Beast. Parts dealers from near and far shall mention your name with great reverence during their nightly prayers, as your plethora of parts purchases put their children through their early years of college.
Fulfill your destiny. Turn the key!"
Once again their collective gaze fell upon The Beast. And once again The Office Worker reached for the key. The Resto Warriors all nodded their heads in approval.
He turned the key ever so gently. It was greeted with an electronic whine and lights were illuminated. There was no turning back now. He turned the key further. All held their breath as The Beast coughed and sputtered. It droned on yet remained asleep. The Office Worker returned the key to the Off position, his head hung low with great sadness.
With keen eye, a visiting Warrior noted a fuel line weeping. He immediately leapt upon The Beast wielding a #3 Phillips. He began making deep guttural noises speaking in the ancient language of Honda enthusiasts known as Potty-mouth. The other Warriors began to speak in the ancient language as well. After what seemed to be an eternity, the fuel line stopped weeping.
"Turn the key AGAIN”, commanded the Warrior. The Office Working turned the key. Still, The Beast coughed and sputtered without life. Then, without warning, something deep within The Beast stirred. At once, a great roar came upon them ! There was the roar AND there was smoke. And the smoke abated quickly until only the roar was left.
Once again, one of the Resto Warriors lunged at The Beast. With great adeptness, he began twiddling screws while listening intently. This went on for quite some time until the beast purred. He nodded with pride as he made eye contact with The Office Worker. There was only one thing left to do.
The Office Worker threw his leg over The Beast. With his white knuckles clearly visible, he pulled in the clutch. His left foot pulled gingerly up on the shift lever.
He gave The Beast some gas and The Beast responded in kind, lurching forward. It stuttered and coughed briefly, while meandering down the driveway. The Resto Warriors looked on with great hope. Then The Office Worker pulled in the clutch and shifted in to 3rd. And the beast barked, begging to be set free. But The Office Worker had been warned. Do not release The Krakken for The Beast has just returned from the dead must heal.
After what seemed an eternity, The Office Worker once again appeared over the horizon known as the end of the block. He returned steadily and without hurry. He seemed to sit a little taller on the back of The Beast. Pulling up to within a few feet of the other men, he braked and quieted The Beast.
The Office Worker was surrounded by the Resto Warriors and there was much cheering ! They grinned at one and other. And there were bugs of joy deeply embedded in the teeth of The Office Worker.
Before long, the Resto Warriors began to return tools to their proper location and then headed for humble pick-up trucks. The office Worker pleaded with them to stay and celebrate. They would eat steaks and thick cut bacon, while sipping frosty adult beverages. And they would discuss every minute detail of the incredible journey.
But all the Warriors declined The Office Worker's invitation. For there were other Beasts. And other office workers. A seemingly endless tide of inexperience and rusty evil.
And The Office Worker remained on The Beast as one by one, the Warriors drove off in to the sunset.
THE END
