The Grover Wheel

Well folks, it happened. Despite my protestations to the contrary, I have purchased a motorcycle. And, though I have not died so far, I fully expect that motorcycling will be a contributing factor to my demise later in my life (but more on that later in the post).

Earlier this year I had planned on purchasing a CBR250. The CBR 250, while looking like a sport bike, is actually one of the slower motorcycles available today. This fact has not stopped my friend Todd, however, from transforming his CBR250 into a hooliganmobile with the additions of an ungodly loud exhaust and blacked-out windshield. He has also simplified his bike’s operation by treating the throttle as a binary switch that operates either as “stopped” or “wide-open” thus moving at either “no speed” or “all the speed” when on the road.

Sadly, financial reasons prevented me from following his example in the purchase of a CBR250. However, the desire for a motorcycle, so well-cured by my previous attempt at riding (see my last post!) were re-kindled when I spent a week in Maine near the end of the summer. While there, my father and I rented 50cc scooters for a few hours of touring around the back roads of coastal Maine. This beautiful and sedate experience re-ignited a burning passion to have my own two-wheeled conveyance and to ride around like the supremely cool James Dean double I surely was.

For those of you familiar with scooters, enjoy your laughter. For those of you who are thinking “but you said you were terrified of motorcycles, why tempt fate with another two-wheeled devil-steed?” perhaps you need to go Google “scooter” and come back. I will wait (try Honda Metropolitan, as that was what I rode this summer).

Back? Good, now you see how un-threatening a scooter is. It’s about as similar to a motorcycle as a rabbit is to a lion. They are both mammalian, but there the similarities end. For those of you who are thinking, “Silly, bikes are not mammals!” then you’re either a smart-alecky troll or in desperate need of metaphor lessons. Perhaps both?

Anyway, the deeply un-threatening nature of the scooter allowed me to ponder anew the joys of two-wheel ownership. True, the scooters topped out at about 35mph and slowed to a laughably pedantic 15mph on steep hills, but I felt supremely cool riding around on my little 50cc steed. Passing a golf course, I even switched to riding one-handed so I could lean back on the seat and flash an upside-down “V” sign (the biker’s salute). I suspect that only P. Herman has looked more ridiculous on two wheels, but I was blissfully unaware of my absurd posing while I floated from curve to curve enjoying the wind on my face.

Upon returning home, I feverishly combed the classifieds looking for a motorcycle that would fit my budget. Sadly, I discovered that having a budget of “basically nothing” is less helpful than one might think when attempting to purchase even a cheap bike. However, with the help of my CBR-driving friend, I recently found a little Honda Rebel within my price range and gleefully snapped up the opportunity.

Cooler heads than mine might have overlooked this bike. Built in 1985, my particular Rebel has close to 16,000 miles on the clock, which I have been told is a lot. Apparently motorcycle miles are to car miles what dog years are to human years. I don’t know; I wasn’t paying much attention when it was explained to me.

Further contributing to the dubious condition of the bike was that the previous owner, one of roughly 10 previous owners who learned to ride on this bike, had attempted to strip the bike down with the goal of turning into a classic-style race bike. However, he, like most people faced with such a task, got bored and decided to simply buy a different bike. To sell the Rebel, he bolted on the parts that had been removed. Being a wise man, and one concerned with efficiency, he saved time by using what I estimate to be roughly half the needed bolts. To illustrate, when I started an inventory of the parts needed, I ended up spending about $10 at the local hardware store just in bolts. These are not fancy bolts; they are just bolts.

Bolts for the gas tank (previously held on by half the bolts it needed), bolts for the frame, bolts for trim pieces, and most worryingly, bolts for the rear brake. We discovered that the rear brake needed bolts when my friend graciously offered to drive the bike home for me. This kind gesture was rendered slightly more dangerous when, riding home in a downpour, he discovered that the lever that engaged the rear brake had fallen off completely. Worryingly, the previous owner had neglected not only to attach the brake lever to the brake pedal, but had left off the rather critical bolt that holds the rear brake itself to the bike.

Needless to say, I listened attentively to my friend’s swearing and muttered words like “deathtrap” and then proceeded to completely ignore them. We did put more bolts on, and I am sure that the bike will be fine. Bikes, like Frankenstein’s monster, sometimes just need more bolts.

More worrying is what the bike is doing to me. I have always been a relatively sane person who has turned up my nose at bikers with their deafening hell-steeds and need for ever-more-bafflingly-powerful bikes. Why, I asked, did they have to be so loud?

Well, I have an answer for that. Because motorcycle.

Something about that two-wheeled Loki has turned me into a babbling idiot. I have had the bike less than a week and am already considering ways to A) make it faster and B) make it louder.

These are not the actions of a sane person.

I can only assume that the bike is, in fact, trying to kill me. I suspect its plan is to either use A) speed or B) sufficient loudness as to drive my neighbors mad enough to do the job for it.

Either way, I guess the only way to find out is to keep riding. Where did I put my gloves again?