All the World’s a Shop

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Kevin Cameron has been writing about motorcycles for nearly 50 years, first for <em>Cycle magazine</em> and, since 1992, for <em>Cycle World</em>. (Robert Martin/)

I was on my way to visit a friend at Bennington College, and because much of my brain was focused on her, I neglected to bring proper two-stroke oil. So now I sat in the bright sun by the side of the road, sandpapering aluminum from the cylinder’s bore, my reward for trying outboard oil. A few strokes of a small file eased off the high spots on the piston, both injuries the result of a light seizure. I felt general optimism as I reassembled the cleaned-up parts and made ready to restart. Success! The rest of the trip went as planned.

Five years earlier, my college roommate and I had just gotten a bike into the elevator (standing up on its hind wheel) when here came the super, shouting at us to stop. We did not. The doors closed and we ascended. Motorcycle maintenance in college dorm rooms or apartments is an irresistible tradition. Later that day we were called before Mr. High-and-Mighty, who did his best to keep a straight face while suggesting we might not be gentlemen. Gentleman would not, he said, slam an elevator’s doors in the face of the long-suffering building manager. We would be required to apologize.

Continuing the mock trial theme, my roommate addressed the bench. “Sir,” he said, “permit me to point out that the elevator doors cannot in fact be slammed. They close at only one rate: that which is regulated by the manufacturer.”

“Ha. Hmm. Well, that may be, but I feel that an apology is still required.”

Apology offered. Apology accepted. Back to work.

Beware the Gunk Tank, and Tuners Playing a Tune

Another friend was even more ambitious. He not only had his Honda CB92 Benly 125 in his room, he also had set up a galvanized trash can lined with a plastic bag, where he diligently cleaned parts in Gunk degreaser when he should have been reading Jerome Kagan. As he was soon to discover, the same agents in Gunk that soften an engine’s baked-on gum and sludge also attack plastic garbage bags. In the dark of night he awoke to a sudden smell. The Gunk is escaping! He scrambled to contain the brown fluid before it could soften and curl the floor tiles.

In the days of three-dollar pistons, anyone could walk into a Honda dealer and also order a set of those lovely long-taper megaphones that summoned images of Jim Redman and Mike Hailwood. Here are a set of those beauties, installed on their head pipes and standing ready in a corner. When a music-student friend spied them, he put one to his lips and tried a few notes. Off we all marched to his room on another floor where, from a giant tuba case, he produced a mouthpiece. With a Music Minus One disc of a Bach horn concerto on the turntable he did a creditable job performing the solo.

<em>Cycle World</em> tested the Webco 350 kit for the Honda CB77 in October of 1963. (Cycle World Archives/)

Motorcycle magazines of the time featured project bike after project bike, and the one that caught our eyes was the Webco 350 kit for Honda’s CB77 305 twin. And we could fit it into a Yetman frame! And put mysterious Dell’Orto carburetors on it! Speeding toward our collective enthusiasm and leaving a trail of bubbles in its wake was a torpedo of our own launching: We didn’t know enough to make the result run properly. More work to do.

And one Saturday night in a motel close to a now-forgotten track, we learned why experienced riders and builders were telling us, “Real racebikes don’t have batteries.” One of our number, returning to the room late after some extracurricular activities (racebikes may change, but racers never do), tried to find his cot in the dark, tangled his feet in batteries and chargers, and spilled acid that compelled us to turn the rug 180 degrees before checking out.

Home Is Where the Wrench Is

Like so many others in the 1960s and ’70s, the phenomenon of the production roadracer rescued us. Instead of trying to be machinists, fabricators, welders, tuners, and riders, we could just park all that resisting streetbike iron and order a new 1965 Yamaha TD1-B made for the job, for $1,147 plus destination and setup. When it arrived we added gas, aired up the tires, and off we went. Well, not quite; the original tires were little more than rim protectors, so we swapped them for Avon “Green Dots” or, by 1967, Dunlop Triangulars.

The Yamaha TD1-B had a price tag of $1,147 in 1965. (Cycle World Archives/)

Now out of college and living in a rented two-family, we turned the basement into a race shop full of Yamaha TD1-Bs and Cs, complete with a proper non-leaking gunk tank and a too-big lathe, there not because it was useful but because it was free. Tools, parts, overhead lighting, and the possibility of 2 a.m. coffee and sandwiches as needed. Life lived in shops, vans, and at racetracks was life well lived.

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