Ghosts of Motos-Past

I'd never spent a moment thinking about motorcycles until a conversation with my mother while away at school lit a smoldering and stubborn fuse. 

In the dorms in Madison - you could hear the buzzing din of scooters at any hour. Honda Metropolitans, Yamaha Vinos, all manner of brightly colored step-through convenience. 

I never thought much about the scooters. Sure,  the campus is far flung, and some scooters seemed cool. I don't remember if I brought it up casually up over that off-white clamshell dorm phone, but a routine conversation went fatefully awry one sunny afternoon. I remember this clearly, because it's a point of  fierce contention between my mother and I:

*Mom: "Why don't you get a moped or little motorcycle or something."

Me: "OK."

That was it - from the moment of that simple call and response my soul has become increasingly devoted to the hunting, grooming, and occasional slaughter of motorbikes. 

I like to think it was a chime, a bell ring that set off a resonance that awakened a deeply buried avocation. The blood is there: My grandfather, uncle and cousin are (or were) legendary, at least in my mind, as ingenious mechanics and technicians. My cousin is a professional mechanic who works wonders with ancient steel bricks commonly referred to as "Mercedes". Whispers of long gone BMW Isettas, 2002s, Jaguar XK150s and other impossible cars flickered about at rare family gathering. Over the years, their advice and wisdom  tossed me about like a trembling and confused little ship in the daunting and wild mechanical ocean, but they are to me, an oil-soaked pedigree. 

Within weeks of the conversation,  I had Batavus Starflite - a tiny, top tank yellow beast. Pedal start, 50cc, weighed as much as my leg. On the first ride, I had to use the pedals to help get up a steep hill on the way home. 

I could have left it alone, I should have. But I put a turbo pipe on it. I tried to find a bigger carb. I painted it black, then with brilliant color change paint. I probably ruined it with my triumpant march toward tack, but I loved it. Sold it on, and got a Tomos Targa LX. Bought it from a guy who rented them in the Dells. He told me his favorite job ever was as a bricklayer. Cheers to him. I remember installing the turbo pipe, fresh bought, in the grass outside scootertherapy in Madison. The girl working there came outside to watch - "I guess you want to go fast NOW, eh..."

eh indeed. 

And i did, until it was stolen. Then, Honda Twinstar, a Honda MB5. I ruined the MB5 and learned what a piston ring did all at once. p next on the block, a Honda cb350, I ruined that one with something that started simply - changing a headlight bulb. Never tracked down the problem with it. I loved it, and miss it. 

Soon, a Honda cb550. Big, Bad, Brown. Soon, it had a supersport tank, turned bright orange, earned clubman bars and a sparco taillight, a brilliant machine. 

I'd still have it, had Stan Tulmanowicz, son of a polish acrobat who defected to the US during a trapeze tour, decided to sell his BMW. To be continued...

* My mother can't bare the thought that her suggestion got me into bikes. As a mother, she's terrified over me riding. Even though she always wants to ride my bikes, and waxes about her past exploits on various cool bikes.