Two wheeled adventuring has been a fixture of my life ever since my childhood best friend taught me how to ride without training wheels. As a bike messenger, I discovered the cult of the single speed and a surrogate family for life, but it was unsanctioned alley cat racing that proved to be my gateway drug to the fascinating world of spandex and energy gels.
Delivering packages proved to be so addictive that messengers created competitions that simulated the work day. This one was shot at Cycle Messenger World Championship no. 25 in Toronto. The event hosted messengers from 13 countries.
Believe it or not the sanctioned road races were often scarier than the unsanctioned alley cat races.
There came a time when I had to be realistic about things. Racing bikes up and down the West Coast demanded a very specific lifestyle. Every weekend was either spent racing or training to race and on top of that, I wasn't getting any younger, and this was definitely a young man's game. I had to ease off the throttle. So I spent a year racing a diminished calendar, and then I just ride for fun.
It was during those long, meditative fun rides that the plan for the next several years revealed itself to me and I made peace with hanging up the spurs.
With my racing days behind me, my knees a little worse for wear and a few new zeroes in my bank account thanks to finally boarding the professional train, a new kind of two-wheeled wonder called out to me. It started with this little guy:
This was my 1979 Honda CB400 Hawk. We were born in the same year and our connection was immediate and deep.
I took minimal steps customizing it because I loved its "survivor" look. The kickstart added extra cool factor when leaving the scene.
Though we shared the same political views, the little Honda was a bit too little. It would soon be time for something new.
Though I loved Smokey (lovingly named for the amount of burnt oil smoke that accompanied him everywhere he went) after some time, I grew weary of his eccentricities: constantly tweaking the carburetors every time the weather changed, and not really stooping so well, to name a few. I also dreamed of longer rides and realized I needed a bike that could do highway speeds comfortably and not get blown around by every passing truck. It was time for something new.
Enter my 2013 Triumph Scrambler, inspired by the large displacement dirt devils of yesteryear, but with throughly modern conveniences like working disc brakes and fuel injection. This majestic picture was taken just before I began change just about everything on the bike.
Never underestimate the potential of an outdoor workshop.
With everything lower, blacker, lighter and noisier, the Triumph had truly become just that. A triumph, not just of engineering and design sense, but also a personal one. Having done all the repairs myself was deeply gratifying, not to mention a huge learning experience. It felt necessary to get my hands dirty and have a project outside the demands of my clients in the ad world.
The new tires, shocks, pipes, lowered front profile and remapped computer for more power, made the bike a dream to ride. But after a while I started to feel something was missing. I realized later that it was the fact that all the mods I’d wanted to make had been done and I missed getting my hands dirty.
A solution would soon present itself…
This was what my 1985 Honda XL600 looked like the day I somehow managed to ride it home from somewhere out on Long Island. Note the ergonomic hole chewed out of the seat. Not detectible in this photo is the fact that the front brake caliper is rusted to a state of absolute uselessness.
Needless to say, my hands would soon be very dirty again. Before long though, this vintage beast would be up and running. New brakes, new tires, a new stator cover that didn’t leak oil and a new seat would get this little guy ready just in time for a dirt ride in New Jersey’s Pine Barrens. Along the way, there would be some much needed professional help. Side note: I am now very keen to learn the art of welding.
