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"You found the Fifty," said Emile, the father of my Honey Bunches of Oats, and our weekend host. "I think it's stuck in gear." He was right. The gearshift lever on the clutchless Hondamatic was bent at an angle that smelled of field rock. An old car ramp made for the perfect wheel lift. A little fresh gas, a pull of the choke, and only three kicks of the starter was all it took to find combustion. The rear wheel spun lazily forward on the make-shift stand. It spun up a lot of memories.
Most of my youthful experiences surrounding dirt bikes ended in torn jeans and scabs that could be seen from space. These were on the 80 CC units that friends at the farm or the cabin had conned their parents into. I couldn't even convince Mama that a pull-start Briggs & Stratton job would be slow enough to reduce scarring. So I did what most kids did; I lied through my teeth. I'm sure that the use of "I Fell" was starting to lose its weight as an excuse for my injuries by the age of 14. In all that time, the Fifty had never presented itself as an option. I would see the odd Trail 70 in a garden shed, piled high with debris, with stories of how it would never run. I went on to four-wheeled things.
In Oh-Six, I finally went two-wheel legal, with a full-face helmet, riding gloves, and a copy of Proficient Motorcycling. I became something of a safe-nik, shaking my head at the countless logo-worshippers in the wrong lanes, inches away from donor card redemption. "Always ride like everyone is trying to kill you," said one of my coaches. "Just try not to take it personally." He was right. If you have yet to ride, the first thing you'll notice when you get behind the wheel is how much more you see happening. And yet, no amount of protective gear can save you from a Taurus and a yellow light broadside.
The trail is a different kind of danger. Rocks, pointy twigs, even wildlife can rapidly alter your route. There were no crash suits, or full-face helmets, or gauntlet gloves in the Vassar shed. Just a Fifty, fresh gas, and a half-mile trail cut by Emil's quad. I pushed the idling Honda off the ramp.
I'd heard tell that the Hondamatic could possess a three gear range, though the gearbox had somehow become a mixture of low and high as I twisted the throttle. I immediately headed for the quad-cut trail. There's no speedometer on a '78 Honda 50, a velocity report that probably would have added unwanted embarrassment. The rainy summer had left things a little gooey on the track. Choosing the correct track of the quad path became an art unto itself. Don't let the suspension bits fool you; a Fifty has no suspension. The ruts pounded both of our frames.
It was about that time that I left the Fifty, thanks to a losing bet on a lane change. There was no memory loss, no concussion. Just soiled jeans, and my genuine laughter. It didn't even stall. The single cylinder kept pumping, as the rear wheel cycled, and the gas dribbled out of the tank. Walking away from any motorcycle crash is a story worth telling. Even if it was at a blistering 19 miles an hour.
The Honda would throw me three more times that afternoon, all for the bargain price of a litre of gas. The Honey Bunches of Oats clan kept their laughter constant, as I commenced the hot-dogging session of the afternoon. The broken gearbox possessed a unique feature; a phantom neutral zone. By depressing the lever and holding it, enough neutral would occur to bring up the engine revolutions. Letting go of the lever resulted in wheelies that would make even a spectral Evel Knievel smile.
The youngsters present failed to approach the Fifty, possibly victims of this padded safety cage age. Honey Bunches of Oats did. This is what she learned the trails on as a girl. She was able to finally draw blood, after an exit that had her more concerned for her new spectacles than the gash they caused on the bridge of her nose. And still, laughter. (Not during the bandaging session.) Wiping out. Falling down. Sounds familiar. Sounds like Life. Think back to those heightened moments of exhilaration. The inner tube you were on flipping over as your friend's boat hit 40 miles per hour. Jumping the family car over the railway tracks. Being separated from your BMX bike as you hurtled down Garbage Hill. Forget about the torn swim shorts, or the grounding, or the bent rear rim on your BMX. Think about the flight. That moment in time where the landing, or the consequences, never came into view. Those tickets are hard to come by.
As the Fifty cooled, I worked on the parts list. Spark plug, air filter, and a manual on how to fix Hondamatics. Plus a buck twenty five for Emile's gas jar.
See you next weekend.
Most of my youthful experiences surrounding dirt bikes ended in torn jeans and scabs that could be seen from space. These were on the 80 CC units that friends at the farm or the cabin had conned their parents into. I couldn't even convince Mama that a pull-start Briggs & Stratton job would be slow enough to reduce scarring. So I did what most kids did; I lied through my teeth. I'm sure that the use of "I Fell" was starting to lose its weight as an excuse for my injuries by the age of 14. In all that time, the Fifty had never presented itself as an option. I would see the odd Trail 70 in a garden shed, piled high with debris, with stories of how it would never run. I went on to four-wheeled things.
In Oh-Six, I finally went two-wheel legal, with a full-face helmet, riding gloves, and a copy of Proficient Motorcycling. I became something of a safe-nik, shaking my head at the countless logo-worshippers in the wrong lanes, inches away from donor card redemption. "Always ride like everyone is trying to kill you," said one of my coaches. "Just try not to take it personally." He was right. If you have yet to ride, the first thing you'll notice when you get behind the wheel is how much more you see happening. And yet, no amount of protective gear can save you from a Taurus and a yellow light broadside.
The trail is a different kind of danger. Rocks, pointy twigs, even wildlife can rapidly alter your route. There were no crash suits, or full-face helmets, or gauntlet gloves in the Vassar shed. Just a Fifty, fresh gas, and a half-mile trail cut by Emil's quad. I pushed the idling Honda off the ramp.
I'd heard tell that the Hondamatic could possess a three gear range, though the gearbox had somehow become a mixture of low and high as I twisted the throttle. I immediately headed for the quad-cut trail. There's no speedometer on a '78 Honda 50, a velocity report that probably would have added unwanted embarrassment. The rainy summer had left things a little gooey on the track. Choosing the correct track of the quad path became an art unto itself. Don't let the suspension bits fool you; a Fifty has no suspension. The ruts pounded both of our frames.
It was about that time that I left the Fifty, thanks to a losing bet on a lane change. There was no memory loss, no concussion. Just soiled jeans, and my genuine laughter. It didn't even stall. The single cylinder kept pumping, as the rear wheel cycled, and the gas dribbled out of the tank. Walking away from any motorcycle crash is a story worth telling. Even if it was at a blistering 19 miles an hour.
The Honda would throw me three more times that afternoon, all for the bargain price of a litre of gas. The Honey Bunches of Oats clan kept their laughter constant, as I commenced the hot-dogging session of the afternoon. The broken gearbox possessed a unique feature; a phantom neutral zone. By depressing the lever and holding it, enough neutral would occur to bring up the engine revolutions. Letting go of the lever resulted in wheelies that would make even a spectral Evel Knievel smile.
The youngsters present failed to approach the Fifty, possibly victims of this padded safety cage age. Honey Bunches of Oats did. This is what she learned the trails on as a girl. She was able to finally draw blood, after an exit that had her more concerned for her new spectacles than the gash they caused on the bridge of her nose. And still, laughter. (Not during the bandaging session.) Wiping out. Falling down. Sounds familiar. Sounds like Life. Think back to those heightened moments of exhilaration. The inner tube you were on flipping over as your friend's boat hit 40 miles per hour. Jumping the family car over the railway tracks. Being separated from your BMX bike as you hurtled down Garbage Hill. Forget about the torn swim shorts, or the grounding, or the bent rear rim on your BMX. Think about the flight. That moment in time where the landing, or the consequences, never came into view. Those tickets are hard to come by.
As the Fifty cooled, I worked on the parts list. Spark plug, air filter, and a manual on how to fix Hondamatics. Plus a buck twenty five for Emile's gas jar.
See you next weekend.
Whether it's a project or pristine, tell us about your dream. Email Michael Clark at The Carport today. carport@mts.net
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50 Bent: Tales from the Trail
By Michael Clark
By Michael Clark
The riding gear collection was sparse, as I made a move for the metallic orange helmet on the top shelf of the tractor shed. Something brown and annoyed scurried out. After I completed the expected ritual dance of the Freak Out, I noticed the Honda Trail 50, hidden behind an equally-vintage Honda three-wheeler. The bent handlebars, the missing headlamp. The remote chance it would run. I wheeled it out into the morning sun.
SOMEWHERE NEAR VASSAR, MANITOBA: Helmet use shouldn't require a call to pest control.