Wheels, Pt 3 - Flogging my Yamaha 80 to Death

My Yamaha 80 was a pretty low maintenance bike, but I worked on it all the time, partly to learn, partly to keep it at peak performance, and partly for the sheer joy of it. During the summer in Atlanta, I also discovered more limits. For instance, 80 inch pounds of torque was what the book called for on the head bolts. I didn't really know how much that was, but I found out how much too much over 80 was when one of the head bolts snapped on a lunch break at work.

Mac, the supervisor, let me take the afternoon off to go to the Yamaha shop again. Miraculously, they had a bolt / nut washer combination in stock, and a head gasket, which I needed by the time I got there. I will never forget the ping! sounds that came from the base of my poor bike's cylinder head as I rode the 15 miles (over 20 counting wrong turns on unfamiliar highways). I cringed every time I heard one. The more throttle, the more pings. And by the time I arrived back at work they were almost constant. One of the mechanics I assisted helped me estimate 7 foot pounds as I put it back together. I'd been waay over. A quick ride to make sure it was OK, and back to work I went, out two hours wages plus the cost of the parts and gas and oil.

I found where the carburetor hid, where the air path was, and applied silicone sealant to make sure it was as waterproof as possible. Many was the time I rode in water up over the engine, steam bubbling away from the head and exhaust.

As the year wore on, the bike would occasionally splutter and die in the rain. After a few minutes of drying out it would start and run fine again. Years later I heard of deteriorating spark plug wires or caps causing this, but at the time I had no clue.

I don't recall how much oil it burned, but the gas tank held 1.9 gallons, and I got anywhere from 50MPG to close to 100, depending on how I rode it. Top speed was 50, though Yamaha claimed 55 (I had several people clock me). It would beat anything around off the line up to about 30, was still quick to 35, OK to 40, worked to hit 45, and only went 50 if I laid down on the tank.

Gas was cheap; I vividly recall the first time I spent $1 to fill up with 1.8 gallons.

Mr. Hale's neighborhood in Atlanta was the perfect place to learn to ride. It had wide, windy roads with short straight sections; it was very low traffic; the huge houses were set back from the road amidst trees so the sound didn't bother anyone. I read a lot and rode a lot. I honed my craft.

Later, back in Augusta, I would spend all the time I could on the dirt roads near the river, learning to accelerate and brake on slippery sand and mud, how to slide on purpose while accelerating or slowing, how to work berms, how to handle bumps, holes, and washboards, how to ride through almost anything. This came in handy both on the street (especially in rain or gravel) and in the woods.

I loved riding in the woods! There were several places within a few miles of my house to ride. To this day I have no idea who owned these areas, but there were trails used by hikers, bicyclists and motorcyclists, and no signs. I learned how to deal with long, steep hills (going down terrified me, but if you go up, you have to go down!). I dropped the bike crossing a stream and spent 15 minutes fighting to get it out.

I got between railroad tracks and followed them for a mile before deciding to get off, and getting stuck with a wheel on each side of the track. I finally managed to get it free about one minute before a train showed up. (Yes, this is recurring theme.)

I got my first ticket on this bike. A motorcycle cop pulled me over on King St in Augusta for going 45 in a 35 zone, up a 20 degree hill. He claimed he had been following me for at least a mile; if so, he was so far back there's no way he could have known how fast I was going. I explained to the judge that there was no way this bike could have been going 45 up that hill (40 would have been a legit ticket). He stared in disbelief. "It's a motorcycle, isn't it? You were probably going faster than that!" The cop just stood there and leered. I later found out he was the police chief's son, and most of the judges just went along with whatever tickets he wrote.

I learned to jump with it, first on small ramps in my back yard, later between the yard at Langford Junior High and the elementary school next door. There was a short, steep hill between Langford's football field and the other school's playground, varying from two to eight feet and 30 degrees to 75 degrees. I would race across the football field and hit the hill, going anywhere from 5 to 15 or 20 feet in the air. Once I came down front wheel first, and went about 10 feet on that wheel, wobbling the whole way, just missing a large, concrete block. Again, a lesson learned the scary but easy way.

I played around with stoppies (a term I would not hear for years). I wasn't that great at them, but they were fun.

My friends and I had always spent lots of time walking and riding bicycles together, even after we had our licenses. Now Martin O'Rourke and I sometimes went places on this bike and his ten speed, swapping who rode what. One day we were practicing jumps in my back yard. He decided to see what would happen if he started from a dead stop at the bottom of the low ramp (three feet long, 8 inches high). He gave it the gas, and ended up chasing the bike, wheelied over a bit backwards, until he finally managed to turn the throttle back to off. The bike stopped fast, the tail light caught him in the crotch, and they both fell over, Martin in pain, the bike buzzing happily. I fell over, too, laughing too hard to do more, even though I knew how much that had to hurt.

Joe Beck decided he wanted top learn to ride. Joe was a close friend, but he wasn't super coordinated. He was also afraid of the bike, which he didn't realize until he took off across my yard on it, white knuckled, white eyed, frozen in terror. He ran into bushes and a tree, finally being knocked down. He had bloody knuckles; the bike had a broken clutch handle mount. Again.

I gave several friends, including Fran Martin, their first motorcycle rides. I was a little nervous taking Fran to a football game on the bike because her boyfriend was the biggest guy on the team. But he was apparently cool with it. I gave my girlfriend, Becky, a brief ride, but she had hated bikes since a close friend had died on one.

As college approached, I got nervous that everyone would laugh at a college guy on an 80cc bike. My Dad assured me this was not the case, but I refused to listen. By then the bike had 4m000 mile son it, many of them high RPM dirt miles. It smoked, ran poorly, had a horribly bent rim from riding home with a nail in the tire, and the rear tire was almost bald. I sold my baby for $125 (helmet included), and took only my ten speed to college.

Two of the coolest guys in my dorm shared a 50cc bike.