#1 Thread starter
This is Why I Ride
I always wanted to find an old bike in a garage or a barn and rescue it, make it whole again, and give it a new life. I just never thought it would be mine...
Until about six years ago, I was a rider. I, and the people I hung out with, believed that the difference between us and everyone else was that we rode. Not just on Sundays, but all week, all year. Only heavy snowfall was enough to stop us, and that didn�t always do the trick. For years, I was putting somewhere between forty and sixty thousand miles a year on a stable of streetbikes, and that doesn�t include my addiction to roadracing.
It�s a Saturday afternoon in Ridgecrest, California, and I�m home again. About a year ago, I�d been seduced by the introduction of the CBR900RR, and had sold my trusty 1990 VFR750F to pay for one. After a year of riding a streetbike that was faster, lighter, and much more nimble than my racebike, I missed the comfort and all-around ability of my VFR (sold at about 70,000 miles). The buyer of my original bike had crashed it hard, but I wanted another VFR�and it had to be RED, as in Very Freaking RED. That left only 1990 and 1991 model years, and I began my search. I found a very nice gentleman in Ridgecrest who had a minty 1991 VFR, and who wanted a CBR900RR. We loaded up the RR in the trailer and left for Ridgecrest the next day. Now, after seeing the bikes, we�ve decided we�re close to a deal and are on a test ride. The CBR900RR looks great on the road, and I�m going to miss it, but the VFR is far more comfortable, and I feel like I�ve come home. We close the deal, and everyone�s happy.
The 1990-1993 Honda VFR750F is not everyone�s cup of tea. For many, it was neither sharp enough in the corners nor powerful enough on the straights. It was, truly, a jack of all trades. For me, the VFR allowed me to do everything I wanted in supreme comfort, from long-distance fully-loaded touring to backroad brawling, all at about seven-tenths, which is a pretty comfortable place to be on the street. I fell in love the first time I rode a VFR, with that locomotive engine, and after my fling with the CBR900RR, I swore never to be without one again. It�s the S-Class Mercedes of the sport-touring world, and I kept my promise�mostly.
I�m looking at a disaster. The bike has been parked in the race trailer, since I don�t currently have a garage, and it�s been hot out�very, very hot, 100 degrees plus in the shade. Inside the trailer it's even hotter, and my Fox shock has just puked its guts all over the rear wheel and tire of the VFR, and, in my post-divorce funk, I�m not at all sure that I want to do anything about it. Disgusted, I close the door and walk away.
Right when I need it most, my best friend and closest ally has deserted me. I can�t afford to get the shock rebuilt or replace the tire, as I�m still paying for my divorce, and just got home from a vacation I probably should not have taken. The bike has served me well, taking me to work on the coast (six hours round trip, rain, snow, or shine) one day a week for the last year, carrying me on my snow-country commute daily, and acting as my sole transportation as this divorce thing grinds on and on. The only humor in my life goes like this: �Do you know why married men die before their spouses? Because they want to.� I�ve just finished over 3500 VFR miles through the western states on the first real vacation I�ve taken in years, and at least the bike waited until I got home to quit. Buried in work and paper, depressed, broke, and far from my riding buddies, I walk away.
Over the years, the bike grows dusty, patiently waiting. Several times it nearly reaches the top of my �to do� list, but something else always comes up. Working long hours, starting a new family, and getting little sleep, the bike is never far from my mind. Every winter, I vow to work on the bike the following summer, and every summer, I envision spending winter evenings getting it ready to ride. Nothing, however, actually happens. The bike patiently waits, the project getting bigger and bigger as the carbs lacquer up and the mice nest in the bodywork. The bike begins to show the effects of long-term unprotected storage as bicycles fall against it, tools are leaned on it, and life goes on around it.
[image: user posted image]
1991 VFR six years sitting...
As the seasons pass and the big parts of my life begin to fall back into place, I find that there�s a hole that only one thing can fill�and it�s sitting in my garage. The survivor of multiple moves, several harsh winters, and even more hot summers, the VFR begins calling me back, gently at first, and then more strongly. Finally, the day comes when, after a long discussion with my new wife, we clear out the garage, lay down a piece of carpet, and roll out the bike. Unfortunately, this is as far as it goes for now, as the key is�somewhere. The steering is unlocked, so it�ll roll, but that�s as far as we get. I find myself getting lost in daydreams of times past�
It�s about four in the afternoon, and hotter than the hinges of Hell. I�m stopped at Stovepipe Wells in Death Valley, and it�s the middle of August. I�m getting interesting looks as I shovel ice from the soda machine into the pockets of my Aerostich suit, but nobody�s laughing. The thermometer on the porch reads 122 degrees, and the bike is running like the day I bought it. There is no other bike that I would ever, ever, try something this stupid on. Unsupported motorcycle touring in the desert is best done in February, if at all. I charge outside looking to get some airflow into my helmet, only to find the bike tipped way over to the left, the sidestand buried in the softened asphalt. I know better, but the heat�s affecting my head�I left the sidestand plate sitting on the tankbag while I went inside. I saddle up and head off into the heat, enjoying every miserable minute. This is why I ride.
While I�m daydreaming at work, my wonderful spouse Tina finds the key, and we�re back on track. My new10-year-old stepdaughter, Cori, assists me in removing the bodywork, wheels, shock, and forks to get the project moving. Cori, the captain of our tournament paintball team, is discovering that she�s very interested in this project, and I am kept busy answering a blizzard of questions as we work. Orion, my 3-year-old, helps out by holding tools and parts as we work.
[image: user posted image]
Working on the baby
This has become quite the family project, and I wonder why we didn�t start sooner. Fox Racing Shox, although they no longer manufacture motorcycle products, has issued an RA number for the needed repairs, and we drive an hour to the �local� Honda shop to drop off the wheels for new tires and the fork legs for new seals. We remove the last of the mouse nests from the bodywork and airbox, and drain the old fuel from the tank and carbs. This is starting to get exciting�
I�m running solo, flying up toward Monitor Pass in the Sierra Nevada, when I spot something in the road. Intrigued, not sure of what I saw, I grab the binders and turn back. Sure enough, there on the yellow stripe at Hell�s Kitchen, is a small owl. I don�t know if it�s a full-grown, small owl, or a baby large owl, but it�s sitting right on the stripe, watching traffic whip by inches away on both sides. I park and run out to the owl, scooping it into my gloved hand, and return to the shoulder. The owl, unperturbed and apparently uninjured, perches on my glove and looks at me. I slide it onto a grip and dig for my camera. Pictures taken, I walk with the owl to the very side of the road, and the owl flies off, looking quite healthy. It lands nearby in a small tree, looks at me, bobs its head once, twice, and then flies out of sight. It�s not all about the riding.
We add distilled water to the radiator and coolant reservoir, happy to find that not quite all of the coolant has evaporated during the years of neglect. We change the oil and filter, and set up an auxiliary fuel tank. A new battery�s been on the charger, and we put that in place. We hit a small stumbling block when we discover that the throttle cables are stuck, but a little lube and some time puts them right, and we�re ready to try the starter. I don�t expect much, but can�t resist giving it a try�
We pull the plugs and turn the engine over a few times to get some oil into the system, replace the plugs, and�nothing. After checking everything, I find that Orion has �helped� us by putting the run switch back to �off� like we had it when we were first turning it over. Thanks, little dude. Pushing the starter button, we are rewarded with a few hopeful chuffs, and then it starts. It�s running on maybe two cylinders, choke full on, but it is running! After a few more false starts, it picks up the remaining cylinders, and we have smiles all around. It won�t, however, come off the idle jets, and it won�t run without full choke. Still, it�s a great beginning!
Some days, it just can�t get any better. I�m running through the Colorado Rockies, on a road whose name I can�t recall, and it is a glorious late summer day. At the highest elevations, the trees are just beginning to suggest that Fall is on the way, and the day is bright and clear�crisp. Temperatures were cool in the morning, but it�s warmed up nicely, and I just can�t get in a hurry, despite the fact that I am truly hauling. It�s a great road, the pavement is brand new, and there is no�zero�traffic. I�m comfortable, the bike is running great, and all is well in my world. This is why I ride.
Two days ago, I was high in the Canadian Rockies, and it was snowing. The road was wet, and the large flakes coming down in the early morning looked like big cottonballs as they wafted past the bike. The road was wet, and the bike was dirty, and it was glorious. This, too, is why I ride.
After a lengthy discussion, it is revealed by the �local� Honda shop that it will take �at least� $800 to go through my lacquered-up carbs. I�ve done plenty of carburetor work, and I know that �carburetor� is a French word that means, �don�t mess with it.� I�ve never done a set of V-4 carbs, however, but for $800, I can sure learn. Before I get in too deep, however, I call an old riding buddy to let him know I�m getting the bike going again, and he tells me about Yamaha carburetor cleaner. �Just follow the directions� he says, and I do. This stuff is magic. Without disassembling the carbs, or even removing them from the bike, we�re coming off idle beautifully, starting and running easily. I�ll probably need a second application as things get loosened up and sucked into the carb jets, but this is a LOT better than $800! Highly recommended.
With things looking up in the engine department, I splurge and upgrade the brakes. One of the few areas where I�ve been mildly disappointed in the VFR has been the braking�it�s a big heavy bike and can take considerable effort to haul to a stop. I call cyclebrakes.com, and pretty soon I�ve got a box on the way with new steel lines for the front and back brakes, and also for the clutch. I�ve also gone a little nuts and bought a pair of floating rotors for the front wheel, since it�s unclear how much longer they�ll be available for this bike, and the Honda rotors are twice the price. A set of Galfer Green kevlar pads tops off the order, and we�re good to go.
I�m riding with a friend out to Willow Springs International Raceway to watch an AMA superbike race, droning across the Carizzo Plain, when a pallet suddenly appears from beneath the truck that we�ve been waiting to pass. It�s rolled basically into a ball, and wood is flying everywhere as it skids, bounces and rolls directly at me. Oncoming traffic prevents a swerve left, and I�m not sure I have room to go right without taking out my buddy. I brake as hard as I dare, and then roll on the throttle. According to witnesses, I get roughly three feet of air when I hit, the pallet acting as a launch ramp. I land hard, front wheel first, and get a violent wobble, which is quickly damped by this excellent machine. Pulling to the shoulder, I stop to shake for a while. This reminder that you must always be on, paying attention and thinking, has come at a very cheap price, a small ding in the lower bodywork from the pallet. I feel alive, and this, too, is why I ride.
The brake parts have arrived, miscellaneous fasteners and bits have arrived, and the wheels and forks are ready. Fox has called and the shock is in the works. It�s time to start cleaning bodywork and doing reassembly. Once again, Cori is pressed into service and proves herself adept at fitting small fasteners into smaller spaces. She�s learned the names of the tools, and is a careful and meticulous worker. We�ve cleaned all the electrical contacts, the front end is together, the brakes and clutch are bled, and we�re just waiting for the shock to arrive. The bodywork project is long and tedious because on my final tour, I had carried a set of soft luggage, and had duct-taped (in red of course) the bodywork for protection from rubbing. When I walked away from the bike, I didn�t take the tape off, and now it�s a real mess. Slowly and carefully, though, that Italian red paint is coming to life.
The shock arrives and is installed uneventfully, we throw on a new chain and sprockets, and Cori�s small hands and fingers are employed once again scrubbing layers of grime from the VFR wheel spokes. Her mother complains that Cori�s hands smell like Simple Green, so she must be doing a good job! The DMV is consulted and the tax man paid, and new tags have arrived. Insurance is close behind, and this dream is quickly gathering steam and turning into a reality.
Finally, all is in order for final assembly. We�re missing a few small non-critical pieces like the rear fairing lowers which disappeared into moving boxes a few years ago, but overall, we�re ready to go. Cori and I spend the better part of 14 hours on a Saturday rubbing out and polishing bodywork, and getting the final assembly just right. At last, FUNBIKE stands finished under the garage lights, pronounced ready to roll at first light.
Sunday arrives, and I can barely contain myself. It�s been a while, so I resolve to take things really easy while I get my skills back. First stop: the gas station. Pulling into the gas station, all of the pumps are full, so I pull about 10 feet in back of a small white car and wait for�
DISASTER! The idiot woman in the white car comes out of the station, throws her car into reverse, and uses all ten feet I�ve given her to pick up speed. As soon as I see her reverse lights come on, I�m on the horn, and as soon as she�s moving, I start yelling for all I�m worth�I can�t move because I�m nose-down into the driveway and I have short legs�but none of it matters. My pride and joy, after over six years of waiting and a very long month�s work, lies under her rear bumper.
�Pissed� does not begin to describe my state of mind. A bystander calls 911 thinking there�s going to be bloodshed, but, several long, deep breaths later, I�m almost under control. By the time I�ve made it the three blocks back home, I am well and truly in tears. 40 years old and crying over a motorcycle? Believe it. Cori is in tears as well when she sees the pieces, and once again, I�m waxing homicidal.
Insurance battles are fought, and eventually, bodywork pieces begin arriving by UPS. Once again, FUNBIKE is ready to go, and our first stop is a different gas station. The path was long, and there�s plenty to do this winter when, among other things, we�ll pull the emissions canister and put a REALLY BIG HORN in its place, but we are well and truly back on the motorcycle road. For the little summer remaining, my 3-block commute to work expands to include a 40-mile roundtrip up and down our local volcano, just to get back into the swing of things.
[image: user posted image]
1991 VFR After Resto (left)
[image: user posted image]
1991 After Resto
It�s a glorious fall day, crisp, with woodsmoke in the air. This is a special time, as it�s Cori�s first ride on the motorcycle that she helped to restore at every step. Some small things remain�we�ll do some paint repair this winter, while the bike�s laid up�but today it is perfect. I can hear her shrieks of excitement even through our helmets, and she�s hitting me on the shoulder, calling for me to go faster as we bend through the curves heading back towards town. She�s earned this, and I roll on a little more throttle as the road bends back onto itself yet again, descending 3000 feet in just a few miles. Gray squirrels getting ready for winter flash past, fat and bushy, busy in the leaves and in the trees. It just doesn�t get any better than this�except maybe when you share it with your kid. This, truly, is why I ride.
Respectfully Submitted,
Alleycatdad
Steve Alley
1991 VFR750F--FUNBIKE
7/14/05--two minor grammatical edits to satisfy spouse!
I always wanted to find an old bike in a garage or a barn and rescue it, make it whole again, and give it a new life. I just never thought it would be mine...
Until about six years ago, I was a rider. I, and the people I hung out with, believed that the difference between us and everyone else was that we rode. Not just on Sundays, but all week, all year. Only heavy snowfall was enough to stop us, and that didn�t always do the trick. For years, I was putting somewhere between forty and sixty thousand miles a year on a stable of streetbikes, and that doesn�t include my addiction to roadracing.
It�s a Saturday afternoon in Ridgecrest, California, and I�m home again. About a year ago, I�d been seduced by the introduction of the CBR900RR, and had sold my trusty 1990 VFR750F to pay for one. After a year of riding a streetbike that was faster, lighter, and much more nimble than my racebike, I missed the comfort and all-around ability of my VFR (sold at about 70,000 miles). The buyer of my original bike had crashed it hard, but I wanted another VFR�and it had to be RED, as in Very Freaking RED. That left only 1990 and 1991 model years, and I began my search. I found a very nice gentleman in Ridgecrest who had a minty 1991 VFR, and who wanted a CBR900RR. We loaded up the RR in the trailer and left for Ridgecrest the next day. Now, after seeing the bikes, we�ve decided we�re close to a deal and are on a test ride. The CBR900RR looks great on the road, and I�m going to miss it, but the VFR is far more comfortable, and I feel like I�ve come home. We close the deal, and everyone�s happy.
The 1990-1993 Honda VFR750F is not everyone�s cup of tea. For many, it was neither sharp enough in the corners nor powerful enough on the straights. It was, truly, a jack of all trades. For me, the VFR allowed me to do everything I wanted in supreme comfort, from long-distance fully-loaded touring to backroad brawling, all at about seven-tenths, which is a pretty comfortable place to be on the street. I fell in love the first time I rode a VFR, with that locomotive engine, and after my fling with the CBR900RR, I swore never to be without one again. It�s the S-Class Mercedes of the sport-touring world, and I kept my promise�mostly.
I�m looking at a disaster. The bike has been parked in the race trailer, since I don�t currently have a garage, and it�s been hot out�very, very hot, 100 degrees plus in the shade. Inside the trailer it's even hotter, and my Fox shock has just puked its guts all over the rear wheel and tire of the VFR, and, in my post-divorce funk, I�m not at all sure that I want to do anything about it. Disgusted, I close the door and walk away.
Right when I need it most, my best friend and closest ally has deserted me. I can�t afford to get the shock rebuilt or replace the tire, as I�m still paying for my divorce, and just got home from a vacation I probably should not have taken. The bike has served me well, taking me to work on the coast (six hours round trip, rain, snow, or shine) one day a week for the last year, carrying me on my snow-country commute daily, and acting as my sole transportation as this divorce thing grinds on and on. The only humor in my life goes like this: �Do you know why married men die before their spouses? Because they want to.� I�ve just finished over 3500 VFR miles through the western states on the first real vacation I�ve taken in years, and at least the bike waited until I got home to quit. Buried in work and paper, depressed, broke, and far from my riding buddies, I walk away.
Over the years, the bike grows dusty, patiently waiting. Several times it nearly reaches the top of my �to do� list, but something else always comes up. Working long hours, starting a new family, and getting little sleep, the bike is never far from my mind. Every winter, I vow to work on the bike the following summer, and every summer, I envision spending winter evenings getting it ready to ride. Nothing, however, actually happens. The bike patiently waits, the project getting bigger and bigger as the carbs lacquer up and the mice nest in the bodywork. The bike begins to show the effects of long-term unprotected storage as bicycles fall against it, tools are leaned on it, and life goes on around it.
[image: user posted image]
1991 VFR six years sitting...
As the seasons pass and the big parts of my life begin to fall back into place, I find that there�s a hole that only one thing can fill�and it�s sitting in my garage. The survivor of multiple moves, several harsh winters, and even more hot summers, the VFR begins calling me back, gently at first, and then more strongly. Finally, the day comes when, after a long discussion with my new wife, we clear out the garage, lay down a piece of carpet, and roll out the bike. Unfortunately, this is as far as it goes for now, as the key is�somewhere. The steering is unlocked, so it�ll roll, but that�s as far as we get. I find myself getting lost in daydreams of times past�
It�s about four in the afternoon, and hotter than the hinges of Hell. I�m stopped at Stovepipe Wells in Death Valley, and it�s the middle of August. I�m getting interesting looks as I shovel ice from the soda machine into the pockets of my Aerostich suit, but nobody�s laughing. The thermometer on the porch reads 122 degrees, and the bike is running like the day I bought it. There is no other bike that I would ever, ever, try something this stupid on. Unsupported motorcycle touring in the desert is best done in February, if at all. I charge outside looking to get some airflow into my helmet, only to find the bike tipped way over to the left, the sidestand buried in the softened asphalt. I know better, but the heat�s affecting my head�I left the sidestand plate sitting on the tankbag while I went inside. I saddle up and head off into the heat, enjoying every miserable minute. This is why I ride.
While I�m daydreaming at work, my wonderful spouse Tina finds the key, and we�re back on track. My new10-year-old stepdaughter, Cori, assists me in removing the bodywork, wheels, shock, and forks to get the project moving. Cori, the captain of our tournament paintball team, is discovering that she�s very interested in this project, and I am kept busy answering a blizzard of questions as we work. Orion, my 3-year-old, helps out by holding tools and parts as we work.
[image: user posted image]
Working on the baby
This has become quite the family project, and I wonder why we didn�t start sooner. Fox Racing Shox, although they no longer manufacture motorcycle products, has issued an RA number for the needed repairs, and we drive an hour to the �local� Honda shop to drop off the wheels for new tires and the fork legs for new seals. We remove the last of the mouse nests from the bodywork and airbox, and drain the old fuel from the tank and carbs. This is starting to get exciting�
I�m running solo, flying up toward Monitor Pass in the Sierra Nevada, when I spot something in the road. Intrigued, not sure of what I saw, I grab the binders and turn back. Sure enough, there on the yellow stripe at Hell�s Kitchen, is a small owl. I don�t know if it�s a full-grown, small owl, or a baby large owl, but it�s sitting right on the stripe, watching traffic whip by inches away on both sides. I park and run out to the owl, scooping it into my gloved hand, and return to the shoulder. The owl, unperturbed and apparently uninjured, perches on my glove and looks at me. I slide it onto a grip and dig for my camera. Pictures taken, I walk with the owl to the very side of the road, and the owl flies off, looking quite healthy. It lands nearby in a small tree, looks at me, bobs its head once, twice, and then flies out of sight. It�s not all about the riding.
We add distilled water to the radiator and coolant reservoir, happy to find that not quite all of the coolant has evaporated during the years of neglect. We change the oil and filter, and set up an auxiliary fuel tank. A new battery�s been on the charger, and we put that in place. We hit a small stumbling block when we discover that the throttle cables are stuck, but a little lube and some time puts them right, and we�re ready to try the starter. I don�t expect much, but can�t resist giving it a try�
We pull the plugs and turn the engine over a few times to get some oil into the system, replace the plugs, and�nothing. After checking everything, I find that Orion has �helped� us by putting the run switch back to �off� like we had it when we were first turning it over. Thanks, little dude. Pushing the starter button, we are rewarded with a few hopeful chuffs, and then it starts. It�s running on maybe two cylinders, choke full on, but it is running! After a few more false starts, it picks up the remaining cylinders, and we have smiles all around. It won�t, however, come off the idle jets, and it won�t run without full choke. Still, it�s a great beginning!
Some days, it just can�t get any better. I�m running through the Colorado Rockies, on a road whose name I can�t recall, and it is a glorious late summer day. At the highest elevations, the trees are just beginning to suggest that Fall is on the way, and the day is bright and clear�crisp. Temperatures were cool in the morning, but it�s warmed up nicely, and I just can�t get in a hurry, despite the fact that I am truly hauling. It�s a great road, the pavement is brand new, and there is no�zero�traffic. I�m comfortable, the bike is running great, and all is well in my world. This is why I ride.
Two days ago, I was high in the Canadian Rockies, and it was snowing. The road was wet, and the large flakes coming down in the early morning looked like big cottonballs as they wafted past the bike. The road was wet, and the bike was dirty, and it was glorious. This, too, is why I ride.
After a lengthy discussion, it is revealed by the �local� Honda shop that it will take �at least� $800 to go through my lacquered-up carbs. I�ve done plenty of carburetor work, and I know that �carburetor� is a French word that means, �don�t mess with it.� I�ve never done a set of V-4 carbs, however, but for $800, I can sure learn. Before I get in too deep, however, I call an old riding buddy to let him know I�m getting the bike going again, and he tells me about Yamaha carburetor cleaner. �Just follow the directions� he says, and I do. This stuff is magic. Without disassembling the carbs, or even removing them from the bike, we�re coming off idle beautifully, starting and running easily. I�ll probably need a second application as things get loosened up and sucked into the carb jets, but this is a LOT better than $800! Highly recommended.
With things looking up in the engine department, I splurge and upgrade the brakes. One of the few areas where I�ve been mildly disappointed in the VFR has been the braking�it�s a big heavy bike and can take considerable effort to haul to a stop. I call cyclebrakes.com, and pretty soon I�ve got a box on the way with new steel lines for the front and back brakes, and also for the clutch. I�ve also gone a little nuts and bought a pair of floating rotors for the front wheel, since it�s unclear how much longer they�ll be available for this bike, and the Honda rotors are twice the price. A set of Galfer Green kevlar pads tops off the order, and we�re good to go.
I�m riding with a friend out to Willow Springs International Raceway to watch an AMA superbike race, droning across the Carizzo Plain, when a pallet suddenly appears from beneath the truck that we�ve been waiting to pass. It�s rolled basically into a ball, and wood is flying everywhere as it skids, bounces and rolls directly at me. Oncoming traffic prevents a swerve left, and I�m not sure I have room to go right without taking out my buddy. I brake as hard as I dare, and then roll on the throttle. According to witnesses, I get roughly three feet of air when I hit, the pallet acting as a launch ramp. I land hard, front wheel first, and get a violent wobble, which is quickly damped by this excellent machine. Pulling to the shoulder, I stop to shake for a while. This reminder that you must always be on, paying attention and thinking, has come at a very cheap price, a small ding in the lower bodywork from the pallet. I feel alive, and this, too, is why I ride.
The brake parts have arrived, miscellaneous fasteners and bits have arrived, and the wheels and forks are ready. Fox has called and the shock is in the works. It�s time to start cleaning bodywork and doing reassembly. Once again, Cori is pressed into service and proves herself adept at fitting small fasteners into smaller spaces. She�s learned the names of the tools, and is a careful and meticulous worker. We�ve cleaned all the electrical contacts, the front end is together, the brakes and clutch are bled, and we�re just waiting for the shock to arrive. The bodywork project is long and tedious because on my final tour, I had carried a set of soft luggage, and had duct-taped (in red of course) the bodywork for protection from rubbing. When I walked away from the bike, I didn�t take the tape off, and now it�s a real mess. Slowly and carefully, though, that Italian red paint is coming to life.
The shock arrives and is installed uneventfully, we throw on a new chain and sprockets, and Cori�s small hands and fingers are employed once again scrubbing layers of grime from the VFR wheel spokes. Her mother complains that Cori�s hands smell like Simple Green, so she must be doing a good job! The DMV is consulted and the tax man paid, and new tags have arrived. Insurance is close behind, and this dream is quickly gathering steam and turning into a reality.
Finally, all is in order for final assembly. We�re missing a few small non-critical pieces like the rear fairing lowers which disappeared into moving boxes a few years ago, but overall, we�re ready to go. Cori and I spend the better part of 14 hours on a Saturday rubbing out and polishing bodywork, and getting the final assembly just right. At last, FUNBIKE stands finished under the garage lights, pronounced ready to roll at first light.
Sunday arrives, and I can barely contain myself. It�s been a while, so I resolve to take things really easy while I get my skills back. First stop: the gas station. Pulling into the gas station, all of the pumps are full, so I pull about 10 feet in back of a small white car and wait for�
DISASTER! The idiot woman in the white car comes out of the station, throws her car into reverse, and uses all ten feet I�ve given her to pick up speed. As soon as I see her reverse lights come on, I�m on the horn, and as soon as she�s moving, I start yelling for all I�m worth�I can�t move because I�m nose-down into the driveway and I have short legs�but none of it matters. My pride and joy, after over six years of waiting and a very long month�s work, lies under her rear bumper.
�Pissed� does not begin to describe my state of mind. A bystander calls 911 thinking there�s going to be bloodshed, but, several long, deep breaths later, I�m almost under control. By the time I�ve made it the three blocks back home, I am well and truly in tears. 40 years old and crying over a motorcycle? Believe it. Cori is in tears as well when she sees the pieces, and once again, I�m waxing homicidal.
Insurance battles are fought, and eventually, bodywork pieces begin arriving by UPS. Once again, FUNBIKE is ready to go, and our first stop is a different gas station. The path was long, and there�s plenty to do this winter when, among other things, we�ll pull the emissions canister and put a REALLY BIG HORN in its place, but we are well and truly back on the motorcycle road. For the little summer remaining, my 3-block commute to work expands to include a 40-mile roundtrip up and down our local volcano, just to get back into the swing of things.
[image: user posted image]
1991 VFR After Resto (left)
[image: user posted image]
1991 After Resto
It�s a glorious fall day, crisp, with woodsmoke in the air. This is a special time, as it�s Cori�s first ride on the motorcycle that she helped to restore at every step. Some small things remain�we�ll do some paint repair this winter, while the bike�s laid up�but today it is perfect. I can hear her shrieks of excitement even through our helmets, and she�s hitting me on the shoulder, calling for me to go faster as we bend through the curves heading back towards town. She�s earned this, and I roll on a little more throttle as the road bends back onto itself yet again, descending 3000 feet in just a few miles. Gray squirrels getting ready for winter flash past, fat and bushy, busy in the leaves and in the trees. It just doesn�t get any better than this�except maybe when you share it with your kid. This, truly, is why I ride.
Respectfully Submitted,
Alleycatdad
Steve Alley
1991 VFR750F--FUNBIKE
7/14/05--two minor grammatical edits to satisfy spouse!