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.

Wheels, Pt 2

The summer after 11th grade in Augusta, my parents decided I needed a change of scenery. They asked Mema to look for jobs in Atlanta. For some years, she had been nannying for divorced millionaires. Her current boss, finding her looking at the want ads, literally fell to his knees and asked what he had done wrong, and hoe he could convince her not to leave. When she explained she was looking for a job for her grandson he offered me a job as a mechanic's assistant for the company he and his brother owned, on the spot. I had only met him once for five minutes a year before this. I got offered decent wages and a room in his mansion for the summer.

Clearly I would need wheels.

I talked my Dad into letting me use most of my meager savings to buy a motorcycle. We went down to the Yamaha dealer. I still vividly recall the colors, the way the metal gleamed, the smell of runner and vinyl, of gasoline and polish. The largest bike I could afford was a blue and white, gleaming, screaming, 100cc twin cylinder roadster, but it would reputedly go 65 or 70, so Dad limited me to the 80cc single "enduro" bike (street legal with a high pipe, and street tries that could handle some dirt). It was a bright green. The salesman grabbed another bike, explained the basics, and led me on a ride for a few blocks. I was sold. With a gold metal-flake helmet for only a little more, so was the bike. I was the proud owner of a G7S.

I rode it around Augusta the next few days, getting the feel of it. Then we borrowed the Beck's pickup truck, loaded my baby up, and took off for Atlanta. I rode in the back the two hour trip to make sure the bike didn't fall over. I spent my time going over every square centimeter (this was my first brush with metric nuts and bolts) of my ride, fiddling with this, playing with that.

Like everything but the XS-650 this bike was a two stroke. I knew the theory but had no experience with these. I couldn't find the carburetor; it was hidden away in a compartment by the crankcase. I found a metal knob like a screw with a rubber cover. I played with it, and put it back more or less where it started. or so I thought.

When we arrived at Mr. Hale's home, I started the bike to ride it down the ramp. Instead of its usual, happily burbling idle, it shrieked to maximum RPMs. "Something must have gotten stuck bouncing around in this truck. I'll ride it around and I'm sure it'll fix itself." Dad wasn't so sure, but knew how hard headed I was. They visited a while and headed back to Augusta.

I drove off to learn the area and "shake the problem out". Mr. Hale lived in the rich part of north Atlanta, all gigantic lots, huge trees, and meandering roads. Riding a motorcycle wasn't that different from riding a bicycle other than acceleration and speed, and a lot more thrilling. I'd gotten really comfortable with the bike and was happily racing from turn to turn, easily staying at the 35MPH limit despite the curves.

Suddenly a sign loomed in front of me: sharp curve ahead, 15MPH. My week of training in Augusta kicked in, and I let off the gas to engine brake. It shrieked on full bore toward the corner a second or two before I remembered that it now idled at full speed!

Somewhat panicked, I grabbed both brakes as I started into the turn. The lovely, grippy tires did their thing. The bike stood up straight. Bikes only turn when they are leaning. The road went left. We went straight, my baby and I. It had rained recently, and the tires plowed into the ground rather nicely. When we hit the tree root, they were almost dug in to the axles. The bike flipped up, poised for an instant perfectly vertical. Then we fell on forward into a driveway, head first, Miles on his back, still astride an upside down motorcycle, buzzing away like a billion angry hornets.

I was, of course, now facing back the direction I had come. I could see the shocked face of the driver of the car that had been behind me. He recovered just in time not to follow in my tracks and run me over. Screeching to a stop in the middle of the curve, he jumped out and ran over must as my motor spluttered to a stop (the gas was running out of the top of the tank rather than the bottom, and this motor was gravity fed).

"Can I help you?"

"Yes! Get this thing off of me!"

He helped. I thanked him. I twisted the forks back roughly into alignment. The headlight and rear view mirror were broken, along with the clutch handle mount, but that went back into place, and the clutch worked so long as I was careful. I rode off. He followed, much farther back.

When I got to Mr. Hale's house, I took off the helmet. That's when I realized it had a big scrape. I knew my head was hard, but it wasn't that hard. I was sold on helmets for life.

Inside, I ran into Mema in the kitchen. I hugged her. "What's wrong?" she asked. "You seem stiff."

"Oh, nothing. I had a little accident, no big deal." I walked on past and she screamed. My tee shirt was torn and bloody on the back. I hadn't really felt anything with all the adrenalin pumping. Until now. She doctored me up, and the shirt became my first shop rag.

Then she made me call my parents and tell them. At least she was on an extension, reassuring them. Especially Mom. Moms really don't like to hear things like that.

The next morning she followed me to the nearest Yamaha shop. They had to order parts, and it was a week before the bike was ready. It cost me $39 and change, most of a week's wages.

"Oh, and we reset the idle. Did you mess with that?"

"I don't think so. How do you do that?"

"This little screw knob under this rubber cap."

"Oh."

"So you did mess with it?"

"Yeah."

"Don't mess with things you don't understand. You could have died, or at least blown up your engine."

Oops.

Another lesson learned. Idle hands and all that.