[UberGoober]

The years passed and the big Honda suffered as it sat semi exposed to the elements behind the house. The hard plastic saddle bags filled with water and their once bright red felt linings rotted away. The seat split and its orange foam spilled out into the elements where it eventually hardened and chipped away little by little. Chrome parts pitted, then rusted and the once shiny paint faded to a dull hopeless looking shade of black. Generations of spiders made their homes in the various nooks and crannies of the bike and their webs collected still further debris. Tires went hard and cracked with age while grass grew up through the spokes only to wither and die at the end of each season.

Each spring the process repeated itself and eventually the bike sat there so long that it ceased to be a vehicle and became a part of the house and yard. As we kids lived out our childhoods and grew into adulthood, the idea that the bike had itself once been a running, moving thing slipped away from our conscious minds and our own brief obsession with it faded from memory. At least until the day I brought home my own motorcycle.

My Kawasaki was an amazing bike. At just 550ccs, it was just a mid size bike, one of many imported in the early 1980s to get around tariffs that Harley Davidson had successfully lobbied the US Government to enact in order to protect the American motorcycle industry. Fast and smooth, the Kawasaki was thoroughly modern and just like Wayne’s 300 had a decade earlier, it got the attention of every kid in the neighborhood.

Wayne’s son, Kenny, was especially excited. At 17 he was a decent enough driver, but he wanted to ride in the worst way. Knowing that there was no way he was going to get on my bike, he soon determined that the best way to get on the street was to get the 300 back out. So, like countless motorcycle obsessed teenagers before him, Kenny hatched a plan.

I wish I could say that Kenny pulled the bike out and restored it, but that isn’t what happened. Together, he and I pulled the old Honda away from the side of the house and rolled it out into the yard. We spent about 10 minutes pulling grass out of the spokes and then turned to the garden hose to wash away a decade’s worth of cobwebs, dead bugs and leaves. Rolling the bike up onto the carport, Kenny put air in the tires and added some lawn mower gas whatever liquid was sloshing around in the bottom of the bike’s tank. He pulled and cleaned the spark plugs and then jimmied the bike’s ignition lock into the “on” position with a screw driver. As far as he was concerned, the bike was ready to go, so he started kicking.

He kicked once, then twice and on the third kick the old bike fired and struggled into a smoky uneven idle, It was amazing to behold. The old bike actually sat there and ran, sputtering at first, belching smoke as Kenny worked the throttle open and closed, but it still ran. After a minute of revving, Kenny pulled in the clutch, kicked it into gear and rolled the old bike forward across the carport, down the driveway and into the street. After a moment of amazement, I followed on my Kawasaki.

We spent about 30 minutes out on the road with the old bike, me following slowly behind as the old beast chugged its way down one of the back roads that ran around one of the local lakes. The loop completed, Kenny brought the old bike back home, revved it one last time and slid it back into its usual spot under the eaves. As far as I know, it never moved again.

Looking back now, I know how dangerous that ride was. Any of 100 things could have gone wrong, hell, we didn’t even know if the brakes worked until we hit the first stop sign – fortunately they did. The ancient tires could have burst, the engine could have blown up or frozen at some critical moment and spilled Kenny onto the street, but none of that happened.

After a decade of maltreatment and non use, the old bike had shown us that it was more than the sum of its parts. It had real spirit. It really was one of those magical motorcycle moments.