Though we weren’t really riding together, we chatted at the stop lights and cut paths for each other through the evening traffic. I’d say we frolicked if that didn’t sound so silly. We traded the lead as the flow of traffic evolved until finally, he split off down Hiawatha Ave.

Approaching the Lake St./Lagoon Ave split, I remembered how much I used to hate this street. Although Lake is one of the most direct east/west streets in the Twin Cities, it can be crowded with inattentive traffic and the stretch between Uptown and the Mississippi River seems to have about a thousand intersections. Truth be told, it’s a stretch of road that intimidated me as a green scooter rider in the TC. I’d find elaborate routes to avoid it when I could. Yet that evening, aboard my CB450, I realized just what a different rider I’ve become. Lake was nothing. I’d been riding my scooter and motorcycles in Chicago all season — a place profoundly more aggressive and crowded than anything MSP had ever thrown at me. Sure, I had to keep my eyes open on Lake, but realizing just how tame this once intimidating route really was in the grand scheme of things, a contented feeling of accomplishment washed over me.

At the intersection of Lagoon and Hennepin, I saw the now boarded-up Uptown Theater. The Mrs and I had seen In Bruges there when it had first come out. I remember thinking it was kind of a shit hole, but it was still sad to see it shuddered. They used to do midnight showings of Back to the Future and other cult classics. Not often enough, I guess. What it drove home was a profound sense of absence. I didn’t live here anymore. I was no longer privy to the Twin Cities and its changes over time. Funny how not being there for a change somehow lends it that much more gravity. I’d never really cared about the Uptown Theater before, yet I was sad to see it go — sad to remember that this place I used to call home really would continue on without me. With the 450 pumping beneath me, the light finally changed and the two of us shot down the sweeping roadway to rejoin a two-way Lake St.

With Lake Calhoun on my left, it was time to make a choice. I was headed to Plymouth, basically due west of the Minneapolis city center, and I had a couple of good motorcycle ways to go. I opted for Hwy 7, because this was yet another road in the Twin Cities where I felt a sense of history. Hwy 7 was where I learned to ride my scooter on a freeway. It’s a relatively uninterrupted stretch of mostly 45 mph four lane and it was the fastest way east/west that wasn’t a properly big, busy road. I’d cut what felt like my high speed teeth on this road — learning to read that kind of traffic and learning how to settle in and cruise for a few miles. The 450 made easy work of the little road and delivered me to Hopkins in what seemed like a blink.

This little crosstown ride was at that point the furthest I’d actually ridden my CB450. We weren’t strangers anymore, and it was fantastic. We were learning to trust each other. The howl of the engine was being etched into my ears. My hands were conformed to the grips and my boots never had to hunt for the brake or the shifter. My body position was utterly perfect, which at 6′ 3″, doesn’t happen on many motorcycles. All of Robb’s little touches had really added up. This bike had been made for me — tailored like a good shirt — and the fit was just right. That fit went deeper than just ergonomics though. The bike’s character fit me, and it had been created in a spirit of gratitude and fraternity that I could hear in the exhaust note. I could feel it in the rebound of the suspension. I could sense it pumping in the motor oil with every beat of the engine’s twin heart.

I barrelled up to Hopkins Crossroad and swept the bike into the turn lane, ready to turn north into Plymouth. I’d have to wait on the light, but I didn’t mind. The heat had subsided a bit, even if the humidity hadn’t. I sat there conspicuously on my brown and gold vintage sport bike with my bulging backpack on, gold helmet sparkling in the last rays of the setting sun, proud as punch that this enviable little machine was mine. All mine, and for those few days I’d be in MSP, all I had to get around on. We were stuck with each other, but it was alright. The bond had been made.

To be continued…

I had about an hour to kill before my first big event of the weekend: Third Thursday at BlueCat Motors. Every month of riding season, BCM opens their doors to the whole two-wheel community. They invite a food truck out and make themselves available to hang out and answer questions about vintage bikes. Thing is, the event really takes on a life of its own. It’s not about BCM; they’re simply the host for it. The people who turn out for it are what make the event so special. Rather than just a single, common kind of motorcycle or scooter, Third Thursday tends to attract a certain kind of riding enthusiast. It’s people who love to ride and love what they ride. It’s mostly older machines, but the sheer variety of machines is amazing. At any given month’s event, you’re likely to see everything from highly modified racing mopeds, to Japanese cafe racers, to museum quality restored airhead BMWs. The occasional modern scooter and bumbling Harley will show up as well. The common thread is a common kind of person — a laid back rider who loves their machine, but appreciates others as well. As people started to arrive that Thursday, it was familiar faces and familiar bikes and BCM felt more like home than ever.

Last year, because my own machines were all in various stages of repair, I’d attended most of the season’s Third Thursdays on The Mrs’ ’81 Honda CM400. Not that I really minded, because the CM400 is a blast to ride and is itself a BlueCat bike. It was never quite right though, as it wasn’t my motorcycle. Even attending the final Third Thursday of 2011 on a freshly resurrected ’81 CB750 wasn’t quite what I was after. That wasn’t a bike I meant to keep. That hot Thursday, however, all was made right as my CB450 sat shining in the setting sunlight just outside the main garage door. People would ask me, “What are you riding?” and I could point out my brown beast like the proud papa I was.

There were two bikes and riders in particular who I had a lot of fun connecting with. One was an old-timer on an orange Honda CL450, complete with luggage. The other was a guy about my age on a bright gold Honda CB350. The CL450 was as weathered and worn as its owner — a kindly old gentlemen who looked just as likely to sell me a jar of moonshine as shake my hand. He regaled me with tales of cross-country rides and improvised maintenance. His machine looked solid, and it gave me hope that my CB450 (which is basically the same machine) would also enjoy a long, colorful life.

The CB350 was a terrific “rolling patina” machine not too unlike my own CB450. The paint was bright, if imperfect. The engine ran strong and loud through a pair of big Dunstall-style pipes. We talked briefly about the machine, which turned out to belong to his father. I have to admit, I was a little jealous. I’d love to have the old Cushman scooter my dad used to run around on when he was a kid. Not because I’m that into Cushmans, just because of the association. This bike’s rider and I parted ways then for the taco truck, but I’d see him again later on.

Each month, I make an update on the BCM blog letting everybody know the event is on, and what to expect in terms of food and other fun stuff. Before coming into town, I had a text message exchange with Ryan, the owner at BlueCat Motors, to make sure the event was still on this month.

Taco truck? Check. Fifteen piece brass band? I thought for sure he was kidding. I figured he was just excited for the event. I sure was.

Turns out he wasn’t kidding at all. As more and more motorcycles, mopeds and scooters filtered into the BCM parking lot, the occasional person would roll up on a bicycle wearing what looked like Mr. McFeeley’s hat from Mr. Rogers Neighborhood. They kept trickling in one by one. I’d forgotten all about Ryan’s text message and didn’t put two and two together until the instruments started coming out and the band began assembling. Soon they were pumping out the happiest little oom-pah songs you can imagine. What was even more surprising was just what a great fit it was. The band was playing these quaint little songs, melancholy and happy all at the same time — not at all the kind of music one would expect at a motorcycle gathering. They played with enthusiasm and without an ounce of irony, and somehow, it just worked. The charm of the whole scene was as infectious as it was uncanny.

As the sun sank lower in the sky, I needed to head out. I was staying across town with my dear friends Susan and Sam. I said my goodbyes, donned my ad hoc armor, and grabbed my weekend backpack. The lot was still full of fun bikes and fun people. The CB450 fired right up and snarled for the group. Per procedure, I let her run on her own for about 60 seconds — long enough to let the timing chain noise quiet down and then disappear. All loaded up, I threaded my way through the crowd and headed out onto Prior Avenue. I opened the throttle wide and let the engine howl loud and proud. Another Third Thursday in the books, but my weekend of motorcycle adventures was far from over. The heat of the day had broken, and I was riding into a cool sunset. Just me and my little brown bike.

To be continued…

It was 6:15 AM when my iPhone alarm chimed its familiar wake up tone. Today was the day — the start of a four day adventure on a motorcycle I’d only just met. Cab to the airport, through security and I was soon on a plane bound for Minneapolis. Barely an hour in the air safely delivered us to the Twin Cities. Not much longer than my daily commute, actually. Seeing familiar roads on the final approach had me feeling freshly nostalgic for my old stomping grounds. I’ve missed this place and frankly, it still feels like home. Stepping out of the airport I took a deep breath. For all of Chicago’s virtues, air quality isn’t one of them. That gray Minnesota morning smelled like I’d found Earth again. It was fresh, cool, dry and full of possibility.

A chatty cab ride delivered me to BlueCat Motors. As usual, a row of motorcycles sat out front serving as advertising for the shop. On the near end of that row: my very own rootbeer-colored 1974 Honda CB450 Supersport. We’d met before, about a month previous, at Road America. My preview of the 450 had been brief. Just enough to get an initial feel for the chassis and fall in love with the sound of the engine. I hadn’t done more than 30 mph meandering around the National Park of Speed. Today this new machine of mine would not only become an official part of my fleet, it would serve as my sole transportation for the following four days. Rain or shine, the 450 would have to haul me and my gear to and from several bike events, plus back and forth to BlueCat over the course of my long weekend. That’s why I’d packed light.

My arrival was met with a warm volley of handshakes and man hugs. It was good to be home away from home again. I was happy to find BlueCat Motors more or less as I’d left it. There were bikes everywhere, every lift was occupied and everybody was busy. Jeff has moved on to other things, and old shop apprentices have been replaced by new ones, but in all the ways that matter most, BlueCat pushes on and continues to grow its business and reputation. Behind the scenes and two states away, I’d reprised my old role as documentarian and site manager for a comprehensive refresh of BlueCat’s website. Yet there I stood, in the middle of the shop, my Nikon in hand. In as much as it could be, the team was back together.

I dumped my bag up in Lance’s parts office and came downstairs in search of a helmet. At my request, Lance ordered a handful of things for my arrival. Among them, two new tires for the CB450 and a gold metal flake Bell 500 Classic helmet. Its ’70s style matched my ’70s motorcycle perfectly. We paired it with a yellow bubble visor, which doesn’t quite replace sunglasses, but it does wash the landscape in a wonderful yellow hue that, in my mind anyway, makes the whole world look like it’s 1975. With a proper DOT lid, I could actually ride the 450 around in good conscience. Good thing too. For a guy on vacation, I had a lot of appointments. Places to go. People to see.

Later that afternoon I would be a guest on David Harrington’s Just Gotta Scoot podcast to talk about ScooterFile.com. That night was Third Thursday back at BlueCat. Then staying across town with my dear friends Susan and Sam I’d have to get out to their place with all my gear after Third Thursday. Friday morning I’d be back at BlueCat for a tire change and business discussions with Ryan. Saturday was The Bearded Lady Motorcycle Freak Show and whatever other adventures presented themselves. Events aside, my soul itched to ride some of my favorite Twin Cities roads on this new motorcycle. Among all of that, somewhere along the way I had to line up a box truck so I haul the CB450 back to Chicago. Let the games begin.

Back upstairs at BlueCat, I exchanged my frequent flyer’s flip flops for my motorcycle boots (a terrific brown pair of Icon 1000 Elsinores). Robb needed me to actually sit on the 450 so he could dial in the rear shocks. It all felt like pre-flight. Titles were exchanged and Robb gave me a preliminary checklist of things to keep in mind while riding for the weekend. “Let the bike warm up enough to get oil into the head. Don’t let it idle on the side stand for very long. You’re still breaking in the motor, so no long, high-speed runs. Vary the load.” With that sorted, it was time to really experience my CB450 for the first time.

Petcock lever down, headlight off, a smidge of choke, key to “on” position and I hit the starter button. The bike immediately fired to life, snarling like a sleeping lion that’d been roused from a very good dream. I closed the choke lever on the left carburetor, stroking the big cat’s ear. “Easy girl.” True to Robb’s description, the cam chain was an audible clatter for 20-30 seconds. Then the engine got quiet, calm and happy.

“You hear that? That’s what I’m talking about. Let the oil get all the way up into the head. Watch for the tach to really come alive. That’s a good indicator.” Robb projected into my left ear over the growl of the exhaust. “Now get out of here.”

He didn’t have to tell me twice. With my new Bell on my brain, I headed for Minneapolis to meet David Harrington. Pulling out of BlueCat and onto Prior Ave, I opened up the throttle and let the machine roar. It didn’t take much. One-third throttle had me and the bike moving along well. Unlike the buzzy, chipper little twin in The Mrs’s CM400, this CB450 motor was brutal. It’ll rev, but it doesn’t really need to. Even though the stock CB450 made 45 hp (and my modified one likely makes a couple more), it’s torque that sets this parallel twin apart. The noise trumpeting out of that two-into-one exhaust was pure racing, but without the unrefined pop and drone of your typical back yard, straight pipe, hack job and re-jet. Speaking of jetting, the stock CV carburetors on my 450 are mated to foam uni-filters on one side, and that terrific, free-flowing exhaust on the other. That’s a lot more air. So obviously, it’s running brass with bigger holes. Robb warned me I’d likely only get 35 mpg or so, but the result is worth it. The bike pulls as hard as any 450 has business pulling, but it’s not just sound and fury. My CB450 was unlike any bike I’ve ever ridden and there was a lot to get used to.

Firstly, the throttle response. The simple, re-jetted carbs on my 450 require smooth throttle operation. I couldn’t just screw it on and wait for the motor to catch up like I can on my newer Hondas. The 450 would buck and choke if I rode the throttle that way. Roll it on smoothly though, and the engine would pull with a furious output of torque and growl. I was going to need some earplugs.

Getting used to the CB450′s brand new clutch would prove my second lesson in learning this new machine. Robb had rebuilt the clutch “the right way” in that he faced the curve of each clutch plate in the same direction. This makes the clutch engagement much more positive and according to him, causes less slipping and longer clutch life. That all sounded great, but adjusting to the new clutch took a few miles. The engagement range is much narrower than most motorcycles, and this gives the clutch a bit of an on/off character. It’s not a bad thing, but it’s very different from what I’m used to.

The rest of the CB450 was an effortless transition. The suspension setup was taught, responsive and comfortable. Robb had matched the components and settings perfectly to my weight. I had been concerned about the 450′s shaved seat, wondering if it’d be comfortable for any period of time. What the seat lacked in inches of padding, the suspension made up for in soaking up road irregularities. Yet, the bike was absolutely planted through the turns. I could push the bike as deep into the turns as I liked — holding back only for the sake of its ancient tires.

As the bike and I got to know each other more, we roared down Larpenteur Ave toward Dave’s office. My yellow bubble visor colored the gray day with a retro tint appropriate to my time travel. The humidity had me sweating under my Dickies work shirt — my traveling man’s stand in for my usual armored jacket. Movement helped, but by then I’d simply consigned myself to hot summer riding. Comfort wasn’t really on my mind, though. The CB450 was so much fun, weather be damned. It was unlike anything I’d ever ridden — so tight and new and fresh, yet so old fashioned. Simultaneously, the CB450 felt gentlemanly and defiant — like an old man in a sharp suit, giving the finger to the mayor. It’s worlds away from a modern sport bike’s rarified performance envelope, yet my 450 was still extremely capable. Comfortable too. Between the grunty, picky character of the engine and the pitch perfect setup of the suspension, I imagine there’s many a road in the world where my CB450 would eat would-be, boy racer squids on their GSX-Rs for breakfast.

But that’s not the point.

The point was that this snarly old machine was capable and overflowing with character. It’s not about perfection, or even measurable proficiency. My CB450 was simply a brilliant old motorcycle, and so much more than the sum of its parts. Like any great old machine, it had its aches and pains, but just because a horse is old doesn’t mean it can’t gallop. And boy, did that bike gallop. Through all of my motorcycle travels on the CB450 that weekend, the persistent thought in my head was about the past — the time when this bike was new. This. This is what motorcycles were like in the ’70s. No wonder there were so many passionate Honda owners back in the day.

I arrived at Dave’s office all too quickly. Hot though it was, I was liking this whole motorcycle-as-trasport arrangement. I had nothing with me but the clothes on my back and the content of my pockets. No laptop, just my iPhone. No extra clothes. People would just have to take me as I came. I really enjoyed the simplicity of it all. All I had was myself and my trusty ride.

Recording the show was a blast, and you can hear the edited version of our conversation here or on iTunes.

Back toward BlueCat, I took a detour up to Bob’s Cycle Supply where I snagged a pair of Icon Field Armor sleeves for my elbows and a stand-alone Field Armor back protector. This turned my Dickies work shirt into an armored Dickies work shirt. Though the extra gear didn’t help with the heat, it certainly helped with my confidence as a two-wheel traveler — my gear climbing the scale higher and higher up from “better than nothing” to moderately safe. While an unwelcome expense, staying safe was critical to traveling entirely by motorcycle that weekend.

Back out into the heat, I arrived at BlueCat with enough time to quiz Robb for CB450 tech spec’s and maintenance intervals before Third Thursday that night. Basically, I’m going to have to give the bike a full tune up every 1,000 miles. Oil change, plugs, ignition timing (points), valve clearance check, and a handful of other things will have to happen very regularly if I want to keep this new old bike healthy. While some might see this as a hassle, I’m really looking forward to it — to showing this amazing little machine the reverence it deserves. After my first day of motorcycle-only travel aboard the CB450, I was more than happy to give the bike whatever it needed. It’d already taken great care of me.

To be continued…

As many of you know, I write regularly as an automotive journalist for MotoringFile.com, BimmerFile.com, and ScooterFile.com. I also spent a year as BlueCat Motors’ official documentarian, writing a weekly story about what was going on at the shop and some of my own thoughts about riding old motorcycles. Then there’s my own stories of wrenching and riding here on my blog. I’ve had a tremendous amount of fun writing in all of these recreational and semi-professional venues and I’d like to take it to the next level.

My plan is to submit my work to various motorcycle publications to see if any would have me as a freelance writer. This is not a career change, simply an expansion of something I’m already doing. I don’t see myself quitting my day job any time soon. What I would like to do, however, is find more interesting ways to use some of my vacation time.

My question for you, faithful reader, is what would you recommend I send as a submission? There are several venues to choose from:

• MotoringFile
• ScooterFile
• BlueCat Motors Blog
• Wrench Log
• Ride Log

Obviously, I will probably submit work from all of these areas, but where I’d appreciate some help is in narrowing the field. What stories have really stood out for you? If put on the spot and asked to recount one of the stories I’ve told in these venues, what comes to mind? What stuck in your head? Have there been any stories you’ve come back to and re-read? Help me choose some winners. I think I’m definitely too close to these to have a good sense of which stories are the most impacting.

Secondly, are there any publications you’d recommend? I have my thoughts, but what are you folks reading?

Share your thoughts in the comments, and thanks in advance.

Since moving to Chicago I’ve been trying to figure out my riding calendar. In the Twin Cities, there was a rhythm of events that I relied on to mark the passage of each year’s riding season. And while I fully intend to travel to MSP for some of those events each summer, a new city means a new riding community and a new spectrum of events to attend in the Chicago area. One of those events is the AMHRA Vintage Motorcycle Races, just a short ride away, at Road America.

I couldn’t have been more excited to attend the races. I’d never been to a real live motorcycle race, and more importantly, the boys from BlueCat Motors had made this event a sort of pilgrimage. They’d shut down the shop for the weekend, made the trip out to Elkhart Lake, Wisconsin, and were staying for the whole event. Makes sense for a bunch of vintage motorcycle mechanics.

Unfortunately, I could only spend the day, but I’d take what I could get. Best of all, I’d have company on my two-and-a-half-hour journey past Milwaukee. Both Bree (now affectionately known as “the wookie”) and The Mrs were coming with me. The plan was to set off fairly early, spend the day, then return a little before dark. I’d be riding my Honda GL1100, The Mrs would be on her BlueCat-bred Honda CM400, and Bree would rock his Triumph Bonneville T100. We’d be a cheery little caravan of (mostly) old bikes off to gather with hundreds of others.

The weather was perfect. It wasn’t hot. It wasn’t chilly. The sun was shining and all our bikes were running strong. The GL1100 had been flawless since its proving run out to Beloit, Wisconsin, and back — a trip of nearly equal road time to what we planned to tackle that day. Better yet, the GL had freshly reconfigured brakes. It was more roadworthy than ever and I couldn’t wait to show it off to everybody at Road America, especially the boys from BlueCat. Confidence notwithstanding, I still packed a significant toolkit and a handful of spare parts should our day’s road trip turn into another episode of This Old Bike.

We shot up HWY 41, beyond Chicago’s sprawling satellite neighborhoods, and out into the Wisconsin countryside. As a new Chicago resident, I’m learning the value of getting the hell out of town once in a while. Chicago is a wonderful city, but it’s dense. The streets are close together. The houses are close together. The people are close together. Everything is right up next to everything else. It can make anyone feel a bit claustrophobic. That density pretty much sucks all the joy out of driving around town on anything but a scooter. Escaping the city helps remind me that there’s still living green and open road in the world.

A couple hours on, we’d punched north through Milwaukee’s horrible snarl of road construction and the three of us pulled aside for a pit stop. The break did us good after the stress of navigating the road mess and the general butt discomfort from simply sitting on a bike for two hours. Pulling off the road for a while gave me a chance to reflect on our little squadron. Small packets of Harleys would rumble by every few minutes — no surprise on such a lovely day. I couldn’t help but feel proud. Here were three bikes well outside the norm. We had the sleepy Brit cruiser, the light and nimble Honda 400, and my beastly, chocolate brown muscle bike with its bizarre boxer four cylinder and sweeping covers. We were hardly the typical weekend warrior tribe and I couldn’t have been happier about it.

North of Milwaukee we encountered some genuinely lovely countryside. I’m talking rolling hills and red barns — real Americana shit. Our bikes galloped up the hills and ate up the miles as we pushed through those last 30 miles to Road America. As we went, the rural road became thicker and thicker with motorcycles. At a gas stop, we encountered his-and-hers classic Hondas: a gold CB350 and a dull red CB400 Four Supersport. At least I knew we were headed in the right direction.

“Vintage bike races?”

“Yup! Should be fun.”

“Great bikes!”

“You too.”

“See you there.”

There’s something truly special about the camaraderie of motorcycle people — especially those who seem to appreciate bikes for their own sake, rather than as extensions of their own ego. You can’t (or at least you shouldn’t) get a big head about a 30+-year-old Japanese motorcycle. Yet they’re easy machines to love. It’s easy to obsess. It’s easy to dote. With a weird old bike it’s not about me, it’s about the machine. Yeah, there’s pride in it being my machine, but the bike itself is the star. When that kind of people get together, it’s easy to find common ground and easy to feel that kindred spirit. The closer we got to Road America, I swear, I could smell it in the air.

I’d never been to Road America before. I was shocked at the scale of the place. It’s huge. It’s sprawling. What’s more, the track is everywhere. The race course weaves in and around the property like a twisted river. There are no grandstands that overlook the whole track. It’s too much of a road course for that. Instead, spectators were able to wander around basically unchecked behind the scenes, pick a spot with an overview of a corner or straight, and watch that little segment of the action. Every couple minutes, a small pack of old and angry motorcycles would go screaming by. First the leaders, then the rest. The terrific noise of the racing, plus the stereo growl of thousands of bikes on our side of the fence gave the whole facility a kinetic energy I could taste. The paddock was also absolutely overflowing with motorcycles. We hadn’t found the BlueCat boys yet, but I was already a pig in shit.

The lads from BlueCat Motors had their trailer and a handful of bikes strewn atop a large hill inside the main gate. Hiding in plain sight, they were the only ones up there — as if to say “We claim this land for Minnesota!” A flag planted in the ground would not have looked out of place. Their vantage point overlooked a pretty sharp turn in the track plus an uphill straight. We had to ride our bikes across 200 yards of grass and up six stories to get to them. My GL is shod with sport profile road tires, so I navigated the grass cautiously. In order to summit the hill, I had to give the bike a final surge of throttle to make sure I didn’t lose momentum half way up the slope. I had to be gentle though. Losing traction in that grass would have been awkward and likely disastrous. Nothing like wrecking your ride home, right? That final burst of throttle pushed me over the crest to see Ryan Scott, owner of BlueCat Motors standing there to welcome us. Reunited, and it felt so good.

We shed our riding clothes and received everyone’s warm greetings. Greasing up with a fresh layer of sunblock, I surveyed the scene. An open cargo trailer provided shade, its tow vehicle still attached. There was Jake’s franken-moped, a 50cc knockaround scooter, and then right at home in the vintage racing scene was Robb’s root beer brown ’74 Honda CB450. His bike was the spitting image of my own, longsuffering-but-still-broken CB450. It’d come into the shop on consignment, and was such a good deal they’d just kept it. At the time, I was tempted to buy it myself in hopes of frankenstein-ing together a working motorcycle. Once I left for Chicago, that shop 450 became Robb’s daily rider. Ryan and I had been talking over the phone recently about my own CB450, which was still in their shop awaiting an engine rebuild. He mentioned that Robb had been using his 450 as the prototype for what they wanted to do with my machine, so I was excited to see what Robb had done so far with his bike. Also, Lance had sent me a text message the day before with a photo of Robb’s 450. At the time, I was very curious and a bit annoyed to see my bike’s racing pipes on Robb’s motorcycle. What was that all about?

When I’d last seen Robb in late February, I was in the Twin Cities to retrieve my motorcycle fleet and bring it to Chicago (minus my CB450). That weekend just happened to be the same weekend as BlueCat’s annual “Illegal” Pinecar Derby. Robb and I arrived at roughly the same time, and on our way into Grumpy’s, he said something very intriguing.

“I’ve taken an interest in your little 450.” He said with his usual, friendly intensity. “I’ve got one of my own now — the brown one we got in on consignment — I like it. I’m using it as a test bed for what I want to do to your bike. I’ve been in touch with some guys who used to be involved with the factory Honda race team back in the day and they’re giving me the low down on how to tune that engine. You won’t have some crazy top end, but I should be able to give you tons of mid-range. Most of all, it’ll be solid and reliable.”

It all sounded great, and really, who was I to argue? I figured only good things could come from his “taking an interest.” In the months that followed, I was intrigued to hear about little updates here and there to Robb’s prototype bike. I’d heard about his complete re-engineering of the front suspension with new valving, springs and all manner of skunkworks modifications. Apparently they’d also used the racing pipes off my 450 to create a jig for producing copies of that discontinued design. Seeing my pipes on Robb’s machine there at Road America, I could only assume they were there for R&D purposes. Then again, I also couldn’t blame him for commandeering them. After all, they sounded fantastic on my bike when it ran.

Finally seeing his bike in person, I was very curious to see how all of the prototyping had shaken out. Robb put an arm on my shoulder and walked me over to his 450. “Let me introduce you to this little beauty.” He was right. The bike was gorgeous. From its drilled front rotor all the way back to its borrowed Yamaha taillight, Robb’s 450 was just terrific. Knowing this bike was intended as the prototype for my own machine, it felt like looking into a very bright future. Robb went on to explain all the tweaks and substituted components. The brakes were new. There were no stock components left inside the front forks. The engine was freshly rebuilt using parts from this bike’s K7 motor and a CB500T. The front fender was from a CB550, as was the longer kick starter. The seat was a shaved, custom unit from Vinyl-Lux. The rear indicators had been shortened and relocated from the tail light back to the frame where they belong. The terrible, square Honda tail light assembly was gone and in its place, a round Yamaha unit that matched the bike perfectly. The whole package was stunning. The bike was stock at a glance, but to knowing eyes, it was something very, very special.

“It’s the CB450 Supersport Honda never built, but always should have.” Robb continued, “I’m not quite done with it. The charging system is all new and pumping out amps, but I want to put slightly hotter coils on it so it’s got a nice strong spark. Then I’m going to swap the rear shocks with upgraded units to match what I did in the front suspension. It also needs tires. So I’ll need it for another month or so. But after that, we’ll just trade titles and that’ll be that.”

I was confused. “Wait. What? Trade titles?”

Confusion gave way to disbelief. I looked at the bike, then back at Robb, then back at the bike. “Okay, I need to clarify this. Are you saying this is my motorcycle? Am I understanding you correctly?”

“Yup.” Robb elaborated, “You know how I am. I lose interest as soon as the project is done. And besides, your bike, cute as it is, is a piece of shit. This is a much better machine. Yours is a K6. This is a K7. The motor has way more bugs worked out of it. This is a better seat for the lines of this bike. I figure, I’ve got this one right, why bother building another one? I’ll have a signed title for you when you come to pick it up and I’ll just take the title for your machine back in the shop. But I’m going to need this bike for a about a month to wrap it up and figure out a different bike for me. We’ve got a customer who may sell me his Bonneville T100. I’m too old for this shit,” he said, pointing at the 450. “I just want something I can cruise around on.”

I was speechless. He’d been so matter-of-fact about it all, as though to say, “Of course this is your bike, stupid. Who else would I have built it for?” I knew the BlueCat boys were going to fix my bike, but I didn’t expect they’d build me a new one. My pipes on this bike made sense now. They’re on this machine because this was actually my motorcycle. It was more than my brain could take in. How do you even say thank you for this kind of thing? All I could do was awkwardly hug the guy.

Sure, this bike was in trade for website and content work I’d done and continue to do for them, but what the BlueCat boys did with this CB450 was well above and beyond. It was more than a trade. It was a thank you. Their business had grown by leaps and bounds and by their estimation, I played a big part in that. But rather than just check the box — rather than just rebuilding a broken engine — they built me a complete motorcycle. They took their time, and most of all, they cared deeply about the result. The suspension setup wasn’t just improved, it was bespoke — spec’d and built specifically for me, my weight and the way I ride. The engine was tuned for mid-range and reliability so that this motorcycle could be my very own growly city bike. Not some finicky, high strung racing motor turned purely for peak horsepower and self-destruction. It was what Robb called a “rolling patina restoration” and the name fit the result. What I had here was a 1974 Honda CB450, that rather than being kitted out or rebuilt bright and shiny from the frame up, had the look of an original bike that had been carefully and meticulously cared for, and recently refreshed.

We spent the rest of the afternoon catching up on shop news and Chicago adventures and bombing around the race course infield looking for better views of the track. My mode of transportation? The bike-to-be. The 450 snarled and growled like no old Honda I’ve ever heard. It wasn’t the fickle, empty drone of poorly matched aftermarket pipes, pod filters and piss-poor jetting you hear from most modified old Japanese bikes. This was different. This engine was properly tuned for its exhaust. There was just the right amount of back pressure and just the right amount of pause in the resonator. As we’d pass through the many tunnels that run under the race course, I’d pull in the clutch and give the engine a handful of surging revs. I couldn’t help myself. The sound was addictive, but the fury was even better. It signified everything an old bike should be — the substance of a fine machine for the ages.

Everything about the bike felt tight and new. The suspension carried my weight without issue. The brand new clutch was positive and quick to engage. The brakes felt new because they were. The engine felt smooth and precise, effortlessly creating torque and moving the bike along from idle on up — even though Robb had up-geared the bike by four teeth. As we wove our way through the infield, I was one proud papa. For all the myriad of old machines in attendance, I knew I was riding something very, very special. My little brown bike got looks everywhere it went, and for every onlooker who saw a groovy old custom Honda 450, I had the deeper knowledge of how special this little bike really was. Special not just for all the work and re-engineering that went into it, but all the more for the care and goodwill in every bolt and detail. This CB450 was now an old bike imbued with a young soul — a vigor born of gratitude, friendship and brotherhood.

Sadly, we couldn’t stay. We were only there for the day and as the sun got lower in the sky, it was time to get home to the dogs. The BlueCat boys would soldier on another day at the event, my new Honda CB450 safe in their keeping. I hopped on the bike for one last lap of the facility. Glorious. The 450 had completely overshadowed the actual races for me and I couldn’t wait to get this thing back to my garage in the coming months. I parked the 450 and we said our goodbyes. I then climbed aboard my other brown Honda. The GL fired to life and the three of us headed back down grassy hill and out the main gate.

As expected, the GL dutifully gobbled up the 135 miles home. Part of me would have rather ridden the 325 miles back to the Twin Cities on the CB450, but the closer we got to Evanston, the more familiar this new feeling of home in Chicago started to feel. That’s okay for now. Chicago is where my journeys are starting and ending these days, but other journeys are still ongoing. Journeys that still start and end in St. Paul, Minnesota, at a little motorcycle shop called BlueCat Motors. One such journey was coming up soon, in fact. I had to take delivery of a metallic brown 1974 Honda CB450 K7 Supersport. A bike built just for me.

Our rally point was just outside the town of Beloit, WI. The sun was shining and the temperature was stretching up on its tippy toes trying to grab hold of 90º. With a bladder of ice water on my back, I’d set off from home just after noon. That is, after checking the GL from wheel to wheel. Maybe it was the eclipse, or maybe it was the year’s worth of mechanical work I’d done to the bike, but I simply didn’t trust the thing yet. For all the time I’d spent with my GL, very little of that time was actually riding it. For a touring monster like a Goldwing, this was an absolute shame. This bike was born to gallop and as yet, we’d only really trotted around town. With all major repairs complete, and all maintenance finally up to date, there was no excuse not to let the old boy finally stretch his legs a bit.

The first hour of the journey was spent simply getting out of town. The GL and I rumbled down Golf Rd in search of HWY 14. These minor motorways let me see a side of outer Chicago I hadn’t experienced before. These sleepy, outer suburbs reminded me of the western ‘burbs in Minneapolis. I’d ridden through those little towns many times in search of good county roads. Nice to see that Chicago wasn’t that different after all. Eventually the road opened up to a 55 mph limit and I left the suburban sprawl in my howling exhaust. The GL felt better and better as I throttled up into fifth gear — the little purple overdrive light coming on in the tach. I kept scanning the gauges, looking for warning lights. The red oil light was dark. The temperature gauge swayed through its normal range. The motor sang its jet engine sewing machine’s song. No hesitations. No faltering. Just a bike satisfied in finally having real work to do.

The other half of this mission was my buddy Bree. He was riding his 2007 Triumph Bonneville T100 back from the Twin Cities. Like me, Bree has recently moved to the Chicago area for work and adventure. We were colleagues at a former job in MSP, and scooter/motorcycle buddies since then. So having him in town is a real treat. That day, his was a rescue mission. Bree had flown back to the Twin Cities to retrieve his Bonneville. Originally, I was going to ride the GL to the Twin Cities myself and then be Bree’s wingman for the ride back. However, two consecutive breakdown experiences on previous motorcycle trips to Alma convinced me to take a smaller bite for the GL’s first real proving run. The last thing I wanted to do was break down somewhere between Chicago and St. Paul. If past experience was any indicator of future disaster, that’d be exactly where it would happen. There, or in Hastings, MN.

So rather than a two-day, 800 mile trek across rural Wisconsin, I’d ride out and meet Bree a couple hours from home, along his way to Chicago. In retrospect, I think the GL would have made the Minneapolis-and-back trip no problem. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? There’s no way to know without getting the bike out on a proving run. What my little trip lacked in ambition, it more than made up for in satisfaction.

About 90 minutes from home, I was now well out of the ‘burbs and enjoying the rolling Wisconsin farmland. Hovering right around 60 mph, the GL had been gobbling up miles with little effort. Up in 5th gear overdrive, the engine hummed along at just over 3,500 rpm — right in the bottom of its power band. Each mile added more and more to my confidence in the machine. This motorcycle really was healthy. Everything worked. Everything was comfortable (except for my damned thumb). The GL’s stellar performance also meant I could actually turn my attention to appreciating the ride itself.

With the green hills passing by on each side and the gray road unfolding in front of me, it was a flood of memory. This! This is what all the confounded motorcycle tinkering is really all about! It hit me like a bucket of water just how long it had been since I’d taken a real ride — how much time had passed since I took a long wander up the highway on a steel horse. All the wrench work wasn’t just for the sake of skill acquisition. It was so that I could get out and ride. Had I lost sight of that? Was I too caught up in the machines to remember what they’re really for? I hadn’t bought this grumpy old Goldwing as garage decoration, had I? Getting out in the wind and the howl was a much-needed reminder of what owning a motorcycle is really all about. It’s about getting out there. It’s about travel — about going — even if only to return home again.

I reached the Wisconsin rally point ready to keep on riding. Could I somehow intercept Bree further up the road? There was plenty of trip left in me and in the GL, which I was very happy about. That’d have to wait though. Rally first. I parked the bike on the edge of the Mobil station parking lot where it was the most visible from the highway. No way Bree could pass by and not see it. There’s no missing a gigantic, chocolate brown, naked Goldwing.

I purchased an ice cream cone from the station’s freezer, then returned outside and sat down on the little raised concrete platform at the end of the row of gas pumps. Before me was my GL, and behind it was the highway interchange and an ever-darkening sky. I’d encountered 30 seconds of sprinkles on my ride out, but nothing that constituted real rain. I was thankful for that. Looking to the west, the sky was growing dark and menacing. It was going to rain, the question was when and how much? Was Bree chasing this storm, or being chased? His last text message had him about 90 minutes out. Hopefully that’d be enough. No sooner did I finish my cone, it started raining. Steadily more and more the water fell to earth, but I didn’t want to go inside yet. I had a perfect view of the approaching highway and was seated on the leeward bank of fuel pumps, pretty much completely out of the rain. As the downpour intensified, I watched as a group of five motorcycles turned off I-43 seeking shelter. They pulled into the Mobil station just as all rainy hell broke loose.

The wind and rain intensified and I started actually getting wet under the pump awning. I grabbed my helmet and rushed inside just in the nick of time. The other riders and I watched through the windows as the windy rain became an angry monsoon. The wind accelerated up to what had to be at least 60 mph. The rain thickened to a solid wall of water and blew sideways like the world’s largest pressure washer. I’ve seen fire hoses with less enthusiasm. A mere 15 yards away, the place where I’d been sitting wasn’t even visible through the thick sheets of sideways rain.

I was inside, thankfully, but my motorcycle was completely exposed. Would the bike blow over? The GL was parked broadside to the heavy winds, but stalwart so far in the deluge. This GL came with an extra wide, roll-off center stand and it was perfect for the job. Both wheels sat firmly on the blacktop and the stand’s horizontal steel feet acted as outriggers against the high-velocity rain. The storm raged, and the wind huffed and puffed, but the GL stood its ground. It’d take more weather than that to blow over 640+ lbs of resting mass.

Right at the storm’s crescendo, we all watched awestruck as a lone rider on a midsize sportbike dove in under the station’s refueling awning behind the other bikes. We weren’t sure he was going to be able to stay upright. He shouldered his machine into the wind on its side stand and dashed inside as fast as he could. The door closed behind him and quieted the whooshing storm outside. There he stood, cellphone in hand, the wettest human being I’ve ever seen. He would’ve been drier under water. Miraculously, his phone still worked. “I’m okay,” he told his wife, “I just got really wet. I’ll be home soon.” We were all grateful to be out of the weather in the shelter of the station.

As quickly as the storm had flared, it subsided again, leaving just a steady, moderate rain in its wake. A couple of the bikes on side stands had shifted, but nothing fell over. Trash cans had gone flying across the road. But for everyone gathered there, no bikes were damaged and wrinkled fingertips were the worst injuries. My timing had been incredible. Had I arrived 15 minutes later than I did, I would have been the sopping wet guy on the Ninja — and that’s if I’d arrived at all. I couldn’t help but wonder though, where was Bree in all of this?

The rain steadily lightened and I soon got a call from Bree. He’d stopped for gas in Madison and was about an hour out. We reconfirmed the rally point with iPhone map markers and he was on his way — thankfully well behind the monsoon that’d just blown through. It was sunshine and blue skies where he was. “Bring it with you” I told him. The weather radar projections on my iPhone were painting a big green wall of rain all the way back to Chicago. Hopefully wet would be the worst of it. All I could do at that point, however, was to sip my iced tea, have a sandwich and wait for Bree to arrive. The GL waited too, likely with water in places that hadn’t seen moisture for more than two decades. Hopefully nothing would short out or misbehave from newfound wetness.

Right on time, Bree arrived safe and dry on his Bonneville. I’d forgotten how good looking that motorcycle is. The classic lines, the understated paint scheme. It’s just gorgeous. After a fuel stop and a short rest for him, it was time for me to see if the return half of this journey would start successfully. That is, it was time to see if the ridiculous rain had fouled something in the GL. I put my key in and hit the starter. “Chunga, chunga, chunga GROWL!” The GL fired to life. The starter seemed a little sluggish, but it does that sometimes. Wary of battery issues though, I pulled out the choke to insure the bike would run happily long enough to settle and idle for sure. I didn’t want to have to restart it unless absolutely necessary. Old bike, after all. Thankfully, it ran just fine.

To the northwest, a hole had opened in the clouds and the sun was raying through dramatically. The sound of my engine was just drowning out the angels. To our southeast was a wall of dark gray. That’s where we were headed. It wasn’t cold, thankfully, so if we did get wet, it would be unpleasant but we probably wouldn’t wind up with hypothermia or numb hands. With nothing for it but to go, we set off down HWY 14 and toward whatever weather would present itself.

To my surprise, we only saw maybe 90 seconds of actual rain on our journey back to Evanston. That isn’t to say we stayed dry. The road spray was horrible for the first 30 minutes or so. Every car in front of us and every car that passed us going the other way hit us with fresh spray. My knees were soaked and my hands were starting to get cold inside my mesh gloves. Why hadn’t I brought my zip-in rain liner? Why didn’t I have my insulated gloves? Why hadn’t I looked at the weather before I left? I’d been so worried about the motorcycle, I’d failed to do even the most basic trip planning. I’d chickened out on the long ride to Minnesota, but I hadn’t even bothered to bring basic tools with me 75 miles from home. I had no rain gear. No spares. I didn’t even have an analog map. What was I thinking?

The sunshine followed us all the way to our shared garage. Through speeds of 25 mph up to 60 mph, we’d blasted back to civilization. Both machines were healthy and both riders tired but better for the experience. Bree had successfully delivered his Bonneville to the Windy City. I’d confirmed, pretty conclusively, I think, that the GL was healthy and could be trusted with longer journeys. It was mission accomplished. A year’s worth of work had paid off and best of all, some real riding got done. More riding, in fact, than I’d ever done in a single day. The GL had taken me there and back again without issue, and in complete comfort. That is, except for the wicked soreness in my thumb.

Alma has become a yearly motorcycle pilgrimage. In 2010, the riding adventure The Mrs and I had there with four of our closest motorcycle friends was the highlight of the season. It shouldn’t have been the highlight, but it was. The CM400 blew a head gasket 30 minutes into the trip and we had to abandon it temporarily in Hastings, MN. Both The Mrs and I spent the weekend cramped, cold and uncomfortable riding two-up on my CB650. And yet, we had a terrific time. It was a lesson in “type-2 fun” as Santiago called it. It was a challenging weekend that wasn’t nearly as fun in the moment as it was in retrospect. Yet it really was fun.

So as soon as the winter snow began to melt in 2011, I had Alma on my mind. I wanted to go back. The CM400 had been fixed by then, and there were exciting new machines in my fleet. I wanted to see the CM400 re-conquer that ride that had conquered it — to get back on that proverbial horse and reach its destination beyond Hastings. I also wanted to ride the GL1100 I’d just acquired. I’d sold my CB650 and bought that beast of a bike born and bred to travel long distances.

But rather than being able to just ride my new GL1100 from the start, I ended up fighting it and two other project bikes all season. Specific riding goals soon gave way to just trying to get something I could actually ride. By late September, I was beyond frustrated. The season had slithered by, just out of my grasp. Plans for a June birthday ride, a Bearded Lady CB450 reveal, and even a rideable GL1100 had all fallen short. Of all the motorcycle-related things I wanted to do in 2010, only a revisit of the Alma trip remained possible, but only if I could wring a running bike out of my crippled fleet.

Thankfully, Robb and the fellas at BlueCat motors helped me get my 1981 Honda CB750 resurrected and rideable. No sooner did I get the bike home, I got in touch with Joe and Santiago. Perhaps an Alma trip could redeem this season of far too few miles. Santiago and Lynn were in, as were Joe and Rochelle. Also added to our merry band was Wil, who is an Alma regular and long-time scooter/motorcycle friend of Joe and Rochelle’s.

We had to act fast. Our weather window was closing. Autumn was turning colder and soon evening and morning temperatures would push colder than the group would want to deal with. We settled on the soonest available date that everybody could make: the weekend of October 1st. Daytime temperatures would be in the low 50s and as the weekend approached, the forecast was clear of rain. We were gonna do this!

Departure Friday arrived. A little after 4:00 PM, the Mrs and I loaded our bikes and headed off to meet the rest of the group at a nearby coffee shop. The five of them were gathered around an outdoor table, all but Rochelle wearing their riding gear. It was cold enough that she’d opted to be the group’s caboose in her Smart. Can’t say that I blamed her. I’d rather drive than be a chilly passenger on a Royal Enfield. Especially if I had to hang on to Joe the whole time. I kid! The whole scene was a terrific echo of the year before — a great group of bike nerds off on a bite-sized, overnight adventure. This was my chance to redeem last year’s trip — to, in a way, show off all that Jeff and the boys at BCM had taught me about old motorcycles.

Since this whole second excursion had been my idea, the group informed me that I had ride leader duty. I hadn’t expected that, but fair enough, I could set an easy pace on my CB750. Santiago and Lynn were riding two-up on his Suzuki V-Strom 650. Joe was astride his army green Royal Enfield 500. The Mrs had her now healthy CM400. Wil, our energetic tagalong, was riding a monstrous Honda Valkyrie — a bike of particular interest to me as it’s the more modern equivalent to my own naked Goldwing. No one would have trouble keeping up, so off we went.

The group set off with little fanfare and we headed east out of Eagan toward Hastings. It was on this stretch that the CM400 had so spectacularly blown its head gasket the year before. As we passed through Hastings, The Mrs and I exchanged knowing looks and she patted the CM’s tank lovingly as it buzzed onward toward Wisconsin. Hastings wouldn’t get her this trip.

We reached our mid-point gas stop just as the sun was setting. Not a moment too soon either. I was cold. We all were. The temperature was in the mid 40s and I hadn’t counted on just how much warmth having the sun on our backs was giving us. After topping off, I headed inside to down half a cup of hot chocolate — trying desperately to nudge my core temperature up a few notches.

“Next year, let’s do this trip again …in August.” Joe said from under his own cold layers of cloth and leather. “Let’s leave on a Saturday, about noon, and quit doing this cold weather, after work, freezing sprint shit.” I couldn’t agree more. I would have loved taking this trip in August, but I didn’t have a bike that worked.

With full tanks and slightly more feeling in our extremities, we saddled back up for the final push on to Alma. When I hit the starter on the CB750, it turned over sluggishly, which was out of character for that bike. That is, for as well as I knew it. I’d only been riding it for a couple weeks at that point. It’d been in barn stasis for about six years previous to that. The bike started, but the anemic starter had me concerned. The bike had a brand new battery in it, so everything ought to be alright, but maybe it was a bad cell. It wouldn’t be the first time a new battery failed on me, nor the last. I didn’t think too much of it — figuring it might have something to do with the temperature.

As we were ready to pull out from the station, I flubbed the clutch and stalled the bike on the little incline that butted up to the road. Hitting the starter, I got nothing. “Click.” Without even thinking, I swung the bike around to my left, tamped it up into neutral, gave it two or three quick, walk-along steps and rolled it back down the incline. I toed into first and let the clutch out smoothly. The bike fired to life! I felt like a badass for getting it on the first try. My thoughts went back to that exhausting day in the parking garage the year before. There I became an unwilling expert in bump-starting old Hondas thanks to a bad battery in my CB650. With the 750 running again, I figured it was no big deal. Either the battery would charge on the way there, or the charging system would continue to run the ignition and I’d just have to bump start it all day.

There was no turning back. I continued east, content to face further problems as they came. The autumn colors were in full splendor in the setting sun. The landscape was changing too. The flats had given way to rolling hills and bluffs overlooking the river. They call it The Great River Road for a reason. The last golden rays of sunlight were bouncing of Pipen Lake as daylight gave way to twilight. It wasn’t quite dark enough for my headlight to really light my way. The eager blacktop swallowed up what little light it made. The bluffs looked absolutely enchanted in the last shreds of sunlight. Soon, it was properly dark. Cold as I was, the whole experience was still charming. We were doing this. We were having this motorcycle adventure against all odds — against a season that seemed hell bent against me having any riding fun on my own bikes. It didn’t matter that it had gotten even more chilly.

Truth is, it had gotten properly cold. The final 45 minutes of our journey got progressively more uncomfortable with each mile. My hands were starting to go numb as we finally cruised through Alma to our accommodations — the same riverside B&B we’d occupied the year before. Rather than park on the street at river level, I headed around the house and parked the CB750 about 30 yards up the hill. If I was still having battery issues, I didn’t want to waste what juice I had trying and failing to start the bike. A neighbor in the house up the hill was out in his yard when I pulled up and asked why I bothered to park all the way up there. I told him I seemed to be having some battery issues. He graciously offered me a battery charger. Hungry, tired, and pretty sure I wouldn’t need it, I turned him down, thanked him, and hoped I was right.

Finally in Alma, the relief of our arrival was pretty palpable in the group. We were glad to be there, and glad to have ridden, but relieved to be out of the cold. The warm comfort of Kate & Gracie’s Restaurant was just what we needed. The place was packed. It’d be a 45 minute wait for a table that could seat us all. A year ago we had the whole restaurant to ourselves. I remember being worried the place wouldn’t stay in business long. No worries there now.

We warmed ourselves up at the bar and chatted with the locals — our riding jackets and helmets making for easy conversation starters. It felt like our trip was fully realized now. The things I was hoping to recapture and reinforce were coming together and despite one mechanical hiccup, all the machines that had set off from the Twin Cities had arrived safely in Alma under their own power. This was a marked improvement over the year before.

Adding Wil to the group was a real treat. I have yet to meat a wholly un-likeable person who rides both scooters and motorcycles. Wil was the bachelor of our group though. His wife was originally going to join us for dinner in Alma by car, but her working schedule had changed and she was needed back in MSP by 7:00 AM the next morning. Given the amount of heavy food, wine, whiskey and finally top shelf tequila our night would involve, it was probably wise for her to stay in town. But that didn’t stop Wil from passing the the phone around the table to let her have “wish you were here” greetings from several complete strangers. The party moved back to the B&B and that’s when the Casa Noblé came out for the second year in a row. Smooth as ever. Conversational hijinks ensued well into the wee hours. In a word: perfect.

Morning came, but not too early, thankfully. Though the Fish Float was very fondly alive in our memories from last year, the group decided some variety was in order. We settled upon the Pier 4 Cafe and Smokehouse, right on the river. After all, could we resist the slogan. “Best BBQ by a dam site.” Our farmer’s breakfast included plenty of rather interesting conversation from Wil in his area of expertise: organic agriculture. I also discovered by happy accident that a little sweet BBQ sauce on eggs and hashbrowns beats catsup any day. Do try that at home.

The plan after breakfast was to carve up some Wisconsin “alphabet roads” and then head back to the Twin Cities that afternoon. Collecting our stuff from the Bed & Breakfast, we all loaded our bikes. It was brisk out, but the sun was shining, which makes all the difference in the world when you’re below 50º F. I pulled the choke all the way out on the CB750 and headed down the hill. A gentle release of the clutch had the bike running. It looked like I wouldn’t be needing that battery charger after all. The way I figured it, if the bike could keep running under its own power, I ought to be able to bump start it as needed and still ride the bike home. I’d then sort out the charging system, or battery, or whatever was wrong when I got the bike back to BlueCat.

I kept revving the 750 to try to put some temperature on it. I didn’t want to risk it dying on me, as the last thing I wanted to do was push it back up the hill. By now the group had gathered and everybody’s bikes were loaded and running. Joe was our designated ride leader for the day’s backroad wandering, so he and his olive drab Enfield pulled away from the B&B with the rest of us in tow. Heading south on The Great River Road, the plan was to intercept one of the alphabet roads that loops east into Wisconsin, around Alma, and back to HWY 35 on the other side of town. The group came up to speed on the 55 mph road, but I had a problem. The CB750 was bogging and sputtering. I couldn’t get it to top 50 mph. Did I forget to turn on the gas? I reached for the petcock. The selector was straight down — the ON position. I switched to RESERVE just in case. No change, I was still losing power. 50. 48. 45. 40. I blew my horn a few times and pulled over, not sure what to make of the situation. The Mrs pulled up behind me as the rest of the group rode on up the road.

“I can’t go any faster than about 50!” I yelled over the still running engine. “I’m going to head back to the house!”

I didn’t make it. Though we’d only gone about a mile down the road, I was only able to get about halfway back — our accommodations hidden beyond the a bend in the road. The bike had steadily lost more and more power. By the end, full throttle would get me all of 5 mph, then a walking pace, then the bike finally sputtered and died. I was at a complete loss. What the hell was wrong with this thing? The battery was obviously dead, but the charging system wasn’t producing enough juice to even run the ignition. I didn’t think such a complete system failure was possible on a motorcycle, dead battery or no.

Within a few moments, the group returned to see what had become of us. Santiago, being the seasoned touring rider that he is, had a set of jumper cables with him. The hope was that a jump would at least get me back to the B&B where I could call the boys at BCM and get their recommendation on what to do. This was much more complicated than it ought to have been, unfortunately. I had to pull out tools, remove the seat bolts and the side cover in order to even access the battery. Thankfully the jump worked. The bike fired back up and with the two machines tethered to each other for five minutes or so, I had enough borrowed juice for the 750 to run on its own. I quickly bolted on the seat, tossed my tools back in my panniers, suited up and rode back to the B&B. With my bike safely at port, the rest of the fleet rode on, but The Mrs stayed. Always good company, that one.

Before they left, Joe said something wise and timely. “Nathaniel, sell all these old bikes and buy one that works.” I couldn’t help but chuckle. Was he right? Were my expectations of vintage motorcycling too ambitious? On the one hand, here I was with yet another broken motorcycle on the Alma trip. And yet, right next to it was the previous year’s problem bike, which was running like a top. His words stuck with me though, even today.

The group rumbled away and I rang up BlueCat Motors to get their recommendation on how to best limp the bike home to the Twin Cities. Talking with Jeff and Robb I learned a couple of key things. On motorcycles with CDI ignitions, they won’t just run under their own power like bikes of yore. The capacitors in the ignition need a good strong current in order to feed spark to the engine. So if some component of the charging system fails, the bike is left to run just on the battery — which it can do, but only for as long as there’s sufficient power in the battery. I’d never thought of a motorcycle this way. I’ve always thought it was gasoline that drove a bike forward. It is, but not without spark. I usually think of the bike’s electrical system as supplementary to the work of internal combustion, but with the charging system down, it’s just as true the other way ’round. My electric motorcycle was broken.

I went in search of the lady of the house, who kindly led me to the man with the battery charger I’d been offered the night before. My best bet at this point was to fully charge the battery, then ride it straight to BlueCat Motors in St. Paul if I could make it. Since I’d possibly ridden the entire 90 or so miles out to Alma under battery power alone, chances seemed good I could make it back. Charging the battery would take time, so The Mrs and I took the opportunity to walk around downtown Alma on a lovely, sunny autumn morning.

It’s a charming place — the kind of town where if you could make a living there, why wouldn’t you just build a modest little house on the hill? If you had the Mississippi slowly strolling by your front porch, wouldn’t you just want to sit for a while and watch it pass? The cool autumn air fought with the mid day sun for control of our comfort, but neither side could quite prevail. Broken down motorcycle notwithstanding, walking along the river was a nice stretch of serenity — a welcome change of pace on the end of an anxious season of seemingly endless bike repair.

We returned to the 750 about an hour later to find it well charged. There was nothing else to do but try to make it back to the Twin Cities. I bump started the 750 for the third time that weekend. If nothing else, I was very pleased with myself for getting so good at that. We left Alma without ceremony, just the two of us. It was sad knowing that the rest of the group was still out carving up the alphabet roads. That’d be one part of last year’s trip we wouldn’t get to repeat. What’s more, the trip home now had the dark specter of mechanical failure hanging over every mile. Would the bike make it? Would I have to jump it again? Would I have to get towed?

With trepidation, we retraced our miles up the Great River Road and crossed the Mississippi over into Hastings, MN. As we did, we saw two familiar faces in our rear view mirrors. It was Santiago and Lynn on their V-Strom! I was glad to see them. An additional wingman was a comforting sight on this uncertain journey. Thanks to I-94 construction, we hit a traffic snarl on the outskirts of Hastings. The first 100 yards of stop-and-go traffic was more than the CB750 could handle. Its already taxed battery ran out of juice once again. This meant I had to push the old thing across three lanes of oncoming traffic, which turned out to be more embarrassing than it was difficult. Santiago and I attempted to jump the bike back to life again without success. The irony of it all was crushing and hilarious. We’d tried to go to Alma and back, and one of our bikes had broken down in Hastings. Is this town some sort of bermuda triangle for old Hondas?

Thoroughly set back, the trip to Alma had now fully transformed into a rescue mission for the CB750. The logistics would be simple, but they’d be obnoxious. The Mrs would ride her motorcycle home and return for me in her car. Meanwhile I’d pull the battery from the CB750. On her return, we’d drive home with the battery, hot charge it, then return to the bike. Then I’d reinstall the battery and try — again — to ride home. That’s what we did. About three hours later, under cover of night, the electric CB750 finally rolled wounded into our Eagan garage. It sat where the CM400 had sat a year ago — broken, disappointed, but home. Like a year ago, I was both frustrated that it’d gone wrong, and satisfied for having overcome the challenges of bringing a wounded bike home without shelling out for a tow truck. Frustrations aside, we’d still had fun on this trip, and that’s what ultimately mattered. We’d spent great time with great people and on any trip, that’s what really counts.

In the end, the bike was easier to fix than my pride. Our triumphant return to Alma was to be the pay off for all the wrench work I’d done that season. I’d pulled it of, but just barely. I was humbled by the 750. I still had more to learn. On the bright side though, I’ve now replaced an entire charging system. Scratch that off the know-how list. As inconvenient as the breakdown was, I’m now that much more capable a mechanic because of it. I also know that I’ll return to Alma and the Great River Road, hopefully this year. Yet I can’t help but feel a little bit of relief that when I do, I’ll be coming from Chicago and none of our bikes will have to pass through Hastings, MN. Seriously, what is it with that place?

Photo credits to Santiago and Wil for some of the images in this post.

We’d already struck out once that morning. Answering an ad on the southwest edge of the Chicago metro, we came face to face with the vagaries of Craigslist and the severe neglect of what was once a fine Japanese riding machine. What had looked fire engine red in the photos was more the faded color of cheap red wine. The tires had the worse case of dry rot I’d ever seen. I was amazed they still held air. The battery was shot. There were scrapes and cracks in the poorly-installed body panels. The ad described this Elite as “very nice” but I struggled to find anything nice about it beyond its custom reupholstered seat. Although that, like the rest of the scooter, was filthy.

Though it would start off of a jump, the thing ran terrible too — sputtering and backfiring when it would run at all. This was further indictment of this guy’s neglect. For due diligence, I ran the bike around the block to see if the engine ran any better with a little throttle on it. It didn’t. The engine pulled well, but it backfired off throttle. The brakes were completely out of adjustment. The whole bike rattled and groaned.

What a disappointment. This was my first actual ride on any Elite 250, and despite its neglected ills, I could tell there was a good bike under there. It had a good soul. This wouldn’t be the Elite for me, but this test ride did at least confirm that some Elite 250 somewhere would be the right scooter for me. The fit was good, the power was there and it simply felt right. Now I just needed a good one.

The search would have to continue elsewhere. I felt bad for that scooter though. Under all that grime and neglect, there was a stellar machine in there somewhere. Someone willing to spend a couple days and $300 could easily make it roadworthy again. As charitable as I was feeling toward the machine, however, it wasn’t something I could actually ride home. So I wasn’t going to buy it at any price — let alone the nearly $2,000 this guy was asking for it. Thinking back, I would like to return with the scooter equivalent of child protective services. “We’re sorry sir. The Elite is going to have to come with us.” Then after some rehabilitation, the merlot-colored machine could get its own Sarah McLachlan commercial.

Shaking the dust from our tires, I fired up Evernote on my iPhone to look at other local Elite 250s I’d saved from Craigslist. Perhaps one of those might be available for viewing while we were out and about. I set my sights on my second-choice Elite. I’d spoken with the seller about a week earlier when the CB750 had sold. His Elite was an ’86 – black with gold pin striping. While the Elite in my childhood memory was red, the black and gold has its own nostalgic anchor point in my memory.

You see, my first car was an ’87 Honda Prelude 2.0 Si. It was black with gold pin strips and gold wheels. I loved that car the way you can only love your first car. Its angular lines and gray plastic trim gave it an uncanny family resemblance to the Elite family of scooters of the same era. So if black and gold is what I wound up with, that was actually fine with me. Especially now that I’d seen the red in person. The black and gold could be a fun tribute to that Prelude of old.

With this second scooter’s seller on the phone again, I asked him if he’d have time to show the bike that morning. “Well, I want to get it sold, so I suppose I’ll make time. When can you get here?” It’d take us about 90 minutes to get from where we were, in Shorewood, to where this Elite was in northwest Indiana. Thankfully Bree was up for the adventure. With the course laid in, we headed east in the hopes of a better bike — speculating as to what we could do with the rest of our riding season now that Bree’s Buddy 125 might finally have a scooter playmate.

This second Elite was out in the sticks. Lazy country two lanes snaked through the wooded countryside. After months in the concrete jungles of Chicago, it was nice to be out in the boonies for a change. Better yet, the sun had come out. Everything was fresh and damp and just bursting with new spring green. We passed little swamps, thick woods and the occasional cleared plot of farmland. Once we’d successfully navigated around a closed railroad crossing in our path, we wound our way down a long driveway figuring we’d either find a scooter at the other end, or get murdered.

The gravel driveway weaved back and forth about 200 yards before finally opening up into a small complex of residential buildings — two large garages and a modest house. The middle building, the main garage, had its doors wide open and a big, bright yellow Harley out front. Inside was our seller, a friendly, steady man with deep-set eyes and a pervasive coolness. He reminded me of an American Patrick Stewart. He came out to greet us puffing a mild tobacco through a small pipe. Inside the garage was a Triumph TR3 with its nose missing and its engine exposed. Next to that was a long, british racing green Jaguar coupe. He was surprised a guy my age knew what the TR3 was. This was the start of the dance. Though we were talking about cars, we were also sizing each other up. Would we make a deal, or did this guy have no idea what he had? Was I somebody he’d have to convince about this scooter? After a few minutes talking old british cars and new german bikes, we made our way to the far building to take a look at his Elite.

The big door came up and there it was. As soon as I saw it, I was especially glad it was the black and gold Elite. It was the color I really wanted all along, despite the red Elite in my memory. Looking as spaceship-like as ever, this Elite was in much better shape than the one we’d seen earlier that morning. Tires were in good shape, and none of the body panels were cracked, although there were contact scratches on the right side and full-on, low-side drop scrapes on the left. However, the panels themselves were undamaged. More of it was shiny than wasn’t, and it didn’t look like it’d been washed anytime lately either. This wasn’t a “posed” machine. It just was.

Best of all, the bike was showing less than 4,000 miles on the odometer. Over its 26 year life of leisure, this Elite 250 had averaged less than 150 miles a year. The low miles was a big plus. I wasn’t looking for another project machine. I wanted a runner. Would this be it? The proof would be in the starting.

The seller was confident. “It ought to fire right up. But for the record, I haven’t run it since a couple weeks ago — back before we first talked on the phone. So it’s cold. I didn’t warm it up before you got here or anything, so what you see is what you get. But it ought to just start right up.”

It didn’t.

The starter turned over enthusiastically, but the motor still didn’t fire after a couple of tries. I wasn’t actually worried about this. It was simply amusing to watch the look on the seller’s face as the engine defied his prediction. On the third try the engine finally fired. Rather than the sickly, grumbling idle of the earlier machine, the black and gold Elite idled steadily and rev’d easily. It didn’t sputter or stall. It just ran. No ceremony. No drama. Just that familiar lawnmower sound of a high-compression Honda single.

“Would you mind if I ran it up the road and back?” I asked, excited that this machine had so much promise. The seller agreed and looked at me as if to say “why are you still here?” I donned my helmet and scooted back down the long, gravel driveway in search of pavement.

I have to say, it doesn’t get much more enjoyable than an empty country road and a zippy two-wheeler. With the blurry green countryside passing by on both sides, the Elite and I became fast friends. Even on just 10″ wheels, it was stable, planted and comfortable. The 250′s 19 hp were more than enough power to get me and the big scooter well out of our own way. The notoriously soft suspension was comfortable, if a bit bouncy. All the gauges worked. All the electrics and lights did their thing. The whole bike felt solid, tight, straight and powerful. In a word: healthy.

I returned to the seller and did the deal. I didn’t even try to haggle with the guy. His price was fair, he was a straight shooter and the bike was exactly as he’d described it, if not a bit better. Best of all, he hadn’t murdered us at the end of his long, long driveway. In fact, he even double-checked the air pressure in my tires before I set off for home.

With Bree as my caged navigator, we set off for the back roads return trip northwest to Evanston. The Elite felt happy to be ridden again. The winding backroads were a perfect place to get to know it. More than anything, it was terrific to be back on a scooter. It’d definitely been too long. I’d forgotten just how much stupid fun they are. Sure, motorcycles are thrilling and wonderful, but there’s something special about a good scooter. In particular, it’s that magical sense of speed you get from small wheels and light steering. A scooter can give you a thrill at 35 mph that on a motorcycle requires double that speed. The Elite was no exception. It was fun from the instant I’d jam on the throttle and pick up my feet.

I chased Bree’s xB through the backroads of Indiana and up the whole length of Chicago’s iconic Lakeshore Drive. This included a bit of Chicago stop-and-go traffic on the LSD as well. Nearly two hours of scooting and no real discomfort, either. That’s always a good sign. I had to sell my Blur 150 because it hurt to ride the damn thing. On the dash I was able to watch the Elite’s temperature gauge rise and fall with our forward progress. Good to see the coolant system was working. Continuing up Sheridan, only a couple of people tried to run over me. At least I know the horn works. Brakes aren’t bad either.

Buzzing through Rogers Park, it was fun to catch my reflection in the shop windows. The Elite 250 is not a pretty machine. I’m not going to pretend it’s as good looking as a Vespa of the same age. It’s just not. It’s perfectly proportioned to me as a rider, but it’s the epitome of clunky, 1980′s design. For me though, that’s a lot of its charm. It’s not something you see very often. It’s not a common object of desire. It’s simply a machine from my youth, and yes, it’s kind of ugly. Was anything timelessly beautiful born in 1985? Alright, anything else?

Aesthetics aside, bringing a 1986 Honda Elite 250 out of the Indiana countryside and back into the wild turned out to be one hell of a way to spend a Cinco de Mayo. When we finally arrived home, The Mrs took the Elite for a quick spin around the block and reported that though the looks hadn’t grown on her any, she definitely felt inspired toward another scooter of her own. For me, it was the first step in closing a circle opened all those years ago. It was the beginning of satisfying an itch that had been planted deep in my young brain. Pulling into my garage and parking the Elite next to the GL and The Mrs’ CM400 felt so right. Welcome home, little Elite, we’ll soon have you good as new.

I reinstalled her battery, added several quarts of fresh oil and stuck my key in the ignition. As expected, the CM fired up straight away — its familiar, happy buzz filling the garage. I checked the chain tension and inspected all the lights while the motor warmed up a bit. Everything was as it should be. I hopped on for a quick jaunt down to the corner gas station to put air in the tires. The little Honda was just as peppy and fun as ever, and as Evanston echoed with the raspy buzz of 27 angry tablespoons, it became that much more our new home. Hello, neighborhood, there are motorcycles afoot. Hope you don’t mind the noise.

Returning to my garage shop, I decided to go ahead and summer-ize the CB750. Why not ride all three bikes in one day? I already had the tools out and that bike already had oil in it. Piece of cake. Just like the CM400, the CB750 fired up straight away. Unfortunately, it also immediately started leaking gasoline from the fuel passages. My father-in-law had warned me about this on his own inline fours. He leaves the carbs wet over the winter with stabilized gas in the tank. I’d drained these, and that had allowed the old o-rings to dry out. Lesson learned. Next time I winterize any motorcycle, I’m going to start with stabilized fuel and actually flush fuel through the carbs over the course of the winter. But for now, I shut off the engine and closed the petcock. The 750 would have to wait for another day.

With her bike already warmed up, I pulled the CM400 ’round front and returned for the GL1100. Its new fuel pump was churning away nicely, so it started right up. I pulled around in front of our house and the two bikes sat next to each other, shining in the afternoon sun. We donned our riding gear and headed out into traffic together for the first time since late September of last year. Being new to the Chicago area, I wasn’t even really sure where to go. I knew of basically two roads worth traveling in our area — Lakeshore Drive and Sheridan Road. I wasn’t in the mood to fight the traffic down to LSD, so we opted to head north on Sheridan towards Wisconsin.

What a gorgeous little road! Its rich with architecture, scenery and even occasional views of Lake Michigan. It even has some genuinely twisty parts. As we ventured up toward Wisconsin, Sheridan turned out to be a great choice for our first ride out because of its low speed limits and sparse traffic. The road surface is really rough in places, but on motorcycles, it’s not really a big deal. After spotting a pair of Ferrari F50s coming the other way, we turned off into a lake-side park we’d discovered earlier. The bikes, the sunset, the lake — it doesn’t get much better.

Returning from the beach, we trundled home into the setting sun. Sheridan had been great, but given its speed limit, I think it’s going to make a better scooter destination than motorcycle route. That’s the real challenge at this point — figuring out where to ride. The Twin Cities are great for motorcycles basically wherever you go, but Chicago is a very different city. As much as we enjoy or motorcycles, that first real ride of the season had both of us thinking about scooters. With so many great roads up north of town for riding motorcycles, it’s definitely not an either/or proposition. But next time I cruise a long way on Sheridan, I want to do it on a scooter. More on that to come.

However, part of that move involved me trying to start my 1983 Honda GL1100 so that it might help us load its bulk into the moving truck. The old brute refused to run after his winter’s hibernation, so we were forced to recruit some extra hands and shove all 640 lbs of him into the back of the moving truck. We were successful, but that left me with a partly summer-ized motorcycle that, for what I could tell, wasn’t running. Remembering back to my 18 hour’s work in rebuilding the carburetors, the last thing I wanted to do was let sleeping bikes lie.

Before I could try again, I had some work to do. The battery had been run down in my previous starting attempt in Minnesota. Like most everything else on the GL, the battery is big enough to run a small car. So I put my automotive 12V charger on it to bring it back up to capacity. After a few hours of charging, I put the key in to see if the GL would fire up for me this time. It was about 20º warmer than that cold day in Minnesota the week before, so I had my fingers crossed that there wasn’t actually something wrong with the bike. Fuel on. Switch on. Clutch in. Bit of choke. Contact.

The GL chunga-chunga’d for a few turns, then fired, and to my amazement, ran. I was genuinely, pleasantly surprised. I expected to be trouble-shooting the bike for a week. Was it just that sensitive to cold? I didn’t spend long thinking about it, actually. If I’ve learned anything about working with these older bikes, it’s that they have moods. Usually it’s something mechanical, but sometimes they just don’t work, and it’s pointless to try to understand it. They just don’t want to. The best I can do is chalk it up to character and move on. At this point, I was just happy the thing ran. After all, given all the work its received in the past year, it had better. There was no good reason for the GL not to start in Minnesota, but it hadn’t. Nothing I could do about that. It was running now and that’s what mattered.

Thing is, because I hadn’t expected it to run, I wasn’t actually ready for it to be running. With any machine, especially a carbureted motorcycle, it’s unkind to the engine to just fire it up for a second and then shut it off. If you’re going to run it at all, it should have a chance to come all the way up to operating temperature. That way everything gets re-seated and splashed with a fresh squirt or two of hot oil. The best way to get temperature on the motor is actually to ride the motorcycle. Make the motor do a little work and it’ll be much happier, much sooner. This is especially true of these older Hondas, which tend to be grumpy, cold-blooded things when they’ve been sitting.

So there was nothing for it, I needed to ride this thing for its own good. I know, the sacrifices we make for our machinery, right? It was about 45 degrees out and well after sunset. I didn’t have a jacket handy, or even gloves. I hadn’t replaced the riding boots I threw out when we moved. I didn’t even have a clear shield for my helmet. Nevermind that I also hadn’t checked tire pressure or anything else on the bike. Nevermind that the throttle-side hand control had pulled loose because the throttle cables are too short. I’d have to keep it simple, but the bike couldn’t stay in the garage.

Blipping the throttle, I tried to keep the motor happy until I could get it backed out of our new garage. Tamping down into first, I eased off the clutch and gave the old boy a little throttle. The GL groaned forward. I gave it a little more juice to overcome the lag and off we went. My visor was up so I could see, and the brisk wind made my eyes water. I was just going to make the block a couple times to put some temperature on the motor. Nothing fancy, and definitely nothing fast. I opened up onto the main street in front of our townhouse and the GL surged forward in a way only that bike can — that tidal wave of torque coming off its boxer four.

I ankled up into second, then third and soon I was cruising faster than my eyes could stand. I slapped my visor down and the night streets became a blur of street lights and car headlamps. I could see through my darkened daylight visor, but not well. It didn’t matter though. As I’d opened the throttle, I realized that this little ’round-the-block jaunt was my first motorcycle ride of 2012. It was the long-awaited scratch to an itch I’d had since I put bikes away in November. It felt amazing — a catharsis of spirit — a fresh embrace of an old friend.

The ride was short, maybe ten minutes total. I’d gone about two miles winding my way up and back and around our neighborhood — never making it any higher than third gear or about 35 mph. It was enough, though. The bike was happy, cared for, and so was I.