my first bike ...

Many years ago my father brought home an old Honda CB350 he had received in lieu of payment for services rendered. It was old, ugly, beat up, didn't run, had no title. A fair and equal trade for around $500 worth of auto repairs.
My dad is nice to a fault.
"Sure. I know. Times are tough. Here's what I'll do for you. I'll swallow my labor costs and lose about $200 in spent parts money for a useless $20 motorcycle. Come back soon."
What a sucker.
A sucker with a heart of gold, who will die penniless and happy.

I had no interest in this mess of a so-called motorcycle. Go-carts, mini-bikes, Jeeps, music, skateboarding, girls ... I'm all about it. Especially the girls. Motorcycles? No thanks. My brother Jaison and Russ D. rode and crashed it a few times after my dad got it running. And then even they lost interest once it was no longer running. I have no idea what ever became of that heap. But I still remember how that nasty looking bike totally turned me off to motorcycles entirely.

Many years, two go-carts, two mini-bikes, two jeeps, countless skateboards and an unmentionable number of girls later I caught the "Bike Bug".

This fine fella, Jon Chadwell, would pop his head in a few times a week at the shop I used to work at and search around for old parts we had lying around for this "project Triumph" he was building. So out of pure curiosity, I asked if I could swing by his place and take a peek at it. Once I saw what he was building, I immediately thought, "That's frickin' awesome!" It no longer looked anything like the old Triumphs, whose appearance alone turned me off. It was HIS bike. Custom everything. It was bare, it was raw, it was all function, no fashion and I loved it. I immediately decided I needed to research motorcycles and find myself the perfect victim, I mean project. But first ... I'll have to acquire a motorcycle to learn to ride and conquer my fear of riding a motorcycle. Begin search. At some point during my search, Jaison was the highest bidder for a Suzuki GS-something, (I think GS500) on E-bay, to be picked up after purchase in Poughkeepsie.
Poughkeepsie, Arkansas that is.
He had no idea there was another Poughkeepsie. He drove from Poughkeepsie to Poughkeepsie and back in two days. He didn't even sleep when he got home. He rode it right away. My "Bike Bug" was getting worse.

My father was a better source of knowledge during my search than anything I came across on the internet. He had seen, ridden or fixed just about every kind of bike you could think of through the late '60s & the '70s. And this is what I wanted. No '80s plastic bikes or '90s crotch-rockets. I wanted either a British or Japanese street bike from the sixties or seventies. It didn't matter how much work it needed (I would have taken everything apart, running or not, to get acquainted with the whole bike anyway) but the price had to be right. I was looking to spend no more than $400. Good luck with that quest. Then finally ... I found it. In an advertisement in the classifieds of the Poughkeepsie Journal. $500 for a 1979 Kawasaki KZ440. bright red, low miles, recent tune-up, new tires, Runs good (I hate when people say runs good instead of runs well). So knowing nothing, I ask my father to come along as my purchase consultant / financial advisor / motorcycle expert. The KZ440 was kind of tall for my short legs but I can get used to it. It wasn't what I had expected but I was willing to settle. And the bright, bright red was totally not my style. But again, I'll settle as long as the price is right and I can just get on it and go. So we left the guy $50 as a good faith, "let us sleep on it over the weekend" kind of thing (and so I could scrounge together some cash). That was Saturday, June 18th 2005.

Monday through Friday my father and I would hop in his car at lunch time and head over to Uncle Ron's house. Well on this particular Monday, (Monday, June 20th 2005 to be exact) I was eager to buy this tall, bright red motorcycle. I was hung-over. I was hungry. And I was broke. So lunch time, I hopped in my truck, alone, headed to the bank for some bike money, hit up Pop's Deli for some lunch and then headed back to work. When I arrived my father wasn't back yet. And the boss looked a little concerned. I assumed she looked concerned because he wasn't back yet. So I avoided her and fed Homie (the shop cat) and got right back to work. Then she came out to my tool box to tell me the reason my father hadn't returned yet is because he was still at Uncle Ron's house.
"Okay. So is he coming back?"
"You should go over there. He needs to stay there until the ambulance takes your Uncle away."
WAIT. WHAT! You didn't tell me this the second I got in the door? What the hell is wrong with you lady? Is he okay? Did he have another seizure? (I didn't actually say these things. I only wish I had.)
Before I could think of anything to actually say the boss said:
"He's dead. I'm so sorry. I'll lock up. You should get over there and be with your dad."

George Ronald Cook, a.k.a. Ronnie or Uncle Ron died at 58 years old, in his bed, in his sleep (I can only hope) sometime between Friday night and Monday morning. He was a painter for Hudson River Psychiatric Center for almost 40 years. He had just recently retired and he quite obviously had no idea what to do with his new free time. He also had a malignant brain tumor he hadn't told any one about. He had been in and out of the hospital repeatedly dealing with seizures and fainting spells. But he always had a bad joke to tell. He was a sweet, moody, hermit who didn't want to bother anyone with his "condition". And he sure as hell wasn't going out like his mother. Suffering through all sorts of chemotherapy, sickness, strokes, etc... he even mentioned, one day over lunch, he didn't want to die in a hospital like his brother Danny. So he self-medicated with beer and pot and refused to sit around feeling sorry for himself or slow down. So there would be a family reunion/memorial service at Allen Funeral Home in my future. Bothersome how weddings and funerals are the only time I really see my entire extended family anymore. Bought a new suit and totally forgot about the motorcycle. I think about Uncle Ron a lot.

So the kind gentleman who was selling the Kawasaki transformed into a total douche bag in just a few days. He called my father to remind him that others were interested in buying his bike and wanted the rest of his money immediately. My father explained he was burying his brother in two days and asked for the man's patience. He called again and said someone offered more money. My father explained he should sell it to the higher bidder.
"But what about your $50?"
"Keep it. I've got more important things going on."
"I would really like you to pick up your money before I sell it to someone else"
"Keep it. I really don't care. It's $50. Go buy yourself a nice hat"
"I don't appreciate your sarcasm."
"I don't appreciate you hounding me with phone calls about your piece of shit bike and this trivial $50 after I've asked you several times to stop calling me and keep the money. My fucking brother just died you asshole! Keep the $50 and shove it right up your ass you heartless son of a bitch!"
Click
Well that's not gonna work out.
I'll resume my search for my first bike in a few weeks.

So after the funeral, everyone congregates back at "Uncle Ron's House" which used to be referred to as "Grandma and Grandpa's house". Then after Grandpa died on my 11th birthday, it was immediately called, "Grandma's House". When she died August of '98 it then became known as "Uncle Ron's". Now we simply call it "The Downing Estate" as it is located on Downing Road and seems to change family residents every 5-10 years. Anyway, during this dim reunion everyone was talking about the old days and wondering where all the time went and remembering funny things that Uncle Ron had done or said or things we had all done together. At some point, later in the evening, my father asked his Uncle Frank whatever happened to his old Honda and tells him of my search for an old Japanese bike. He tells my father and I it's still at his ex-wifes house in the garage, completely safe from weather, sun or wind damage, and if I want it, just go pick it up. It's all mine. WHAT? A FREE motorcycle? BINGO! I had to hide my excitement. How rude and thoughtless would it be for me to go pick up a motorcycle in my suit? Nah. That'll have to wait.

The day arrives. The following Saturday I grab my gloves, some tie-down straps and throw them in my truck and head over to Aunt Sandy's house (Uncle Frank's ex).
I search every inch of Aunt Sandy's garage to discover there is no bike anywhere. Aunt Sandy tells me she thinks one of her sons rode it about 20 years ago and left it out by the shed. Wait, what? It's been sitting outside, leaning against a shed for 20 years. I'm suddenly not as interested in this bike. I pull off a tattered, shredded blue tarp in several pieces to find the wheels have become one with the earth. About 4 inches deep, to paint a picture for you. The vinyl seat has rotted away and all but an inch of the foam was still left on the seat pan. But the gas tank hadn't a single scratch, ding, dent and there was no rust anywhere that i could see. AWESOME! Well I guess I'll just rock it back and forth until I get the wheels out of the ground. ORRR until I aggravate the entire colony of bees that had taken up residence in and around the old Honda. So as quickly as you can say "No God-damn Way!" I dropped the bike against an old snow blower (also rooted roughly four inches in the ground) and ran from the bees as fast as I could. So I made the bike mine by putting it's first dent and scratch in the gas tank only one minute after I had just put my hands upon it. So after some bee spray, some unsweetened lemonade with Aunt Sandy, a long wait, a few bee stings and an epi-pen. This hunk of shit is rolling on the back of my trailer. It's ROUGH! It needs everything. The engine is seized, the seat has rotted off, the tires and tubes are flat and obviously weather cracked and bald, the front shocks are stuck, the chain is rusted solid BUT ... the inside of the gas tank doesn't have a spot of rust, the frame is straight, it's free and has a clean title and I've never come across anything I can't fix!!!
We're as good as gold.
I'm now the proud owner of a 1975 Honda CB360T piece of junk with only 4000 original miles.

I'll keep the story of the rehabilitation/restoration process to myself. I could go into details for days about it. I only wish I had taken, and dated, pictures along the way to show the extreme amount of time and energy that I (with some help from my father fine tuning the timing) had put into saving this thing from the bone yard. And I'll add that during this time I found myself falling in love with this bike. It's style, simplicity, it's shape, size ... everything about it was likable. I was so into this bike that when people would say, "Oh you've got an old Honda?"
I would correct them and say, "It's a 1975 CB360T."
My Dad, Jai and Mike still bust my balls about that.
But I still correct people.
Once it was (sort of) road worthy I set-up my road test and passed with flying colors. The instructor said she was very impressed and couldn't believe I had only just started riding a few weeks earlier. Nice. Lil' pat on my own back. I guess I'm a natural. When I say it was "sort of" road worthy I mean, it wasn't safe at all for anyone else to ride who didn't know the kinks and idiosyncrasies of it. The front caliper piston was rusted inside the caliper. So occasionally if you used the front brake the piston would remain stuck out holding the front brake pads firmly against the rotor until you pulled over and bled the front brakes (which happened during my road test and I had to keep riding it anyway). ORRR other times you would apply the front brake and there would be nothing! It's okay, there's a rear brake. Safe enough. Simple solution: buy a new caliper piston. They're only about $100. That was my entire budget for the bike. And I had already exceeded that amount by about $200. I'll just ride it the way it is.
UNTIL ... one day on my way to work, I'm trying new and different back roads to Verbank from Red Hook and I find this beautiful, green, windy, strip of road. As I'm looking out across a great, green field on my left I suddenly spot a whole team of deer entering the right side of the street. I reach for the brake. NOTHING! I slam my foot on the rear brake. Bike slides sideways almost on it's side. Release brake. Bike stands right back up but now I'm heading for the tree-lined right side of the road. Deer scatter. Tree is getting closer. Stopped just in time. After about ten minutes of shaking and catching my breath. I decide it's time to drive the truck for a few days until I can fix the front brake. This fear passes before I fix the brakes and I ride it this way for another two month until the next near-crash experience and decide; it's time to park this old dog and look for a newer, safer bike.

ENTER SECOND BIKE:
Pennysaver ad. May 24th 2006 reads: 2003 Honda Shadow 600cc Mint condition, low mileage, 2,200 miles, Red, Great beginner bike $3700 914-804-55&7
(I cut out and saved the advertisement. Yup, I'm a dork.)

Great another red bike. I had checked out a blue 2003 VLX600 a few weeks earlier and it was beautiful. It looked like Honda did everything they could to make it look exactly like a Harley Davidson Sportster 883. And it really did look similar but it was lower and smoother looking. Which I really liked. But it is by no stretch of the imagination a Harley. I call it my Honda Davidson sometimes.

I call Hudson Valley Federal Credit Union.
APPROVED!
Seriously? Me? Okay.
Now to talk to Jana about this. She is not too cool with the money idea but okay with the newer, safer motorcycle idea, as we are planning on having a baby eventually and it's hard to do that if I'm dead. It's apparent to Jana, at this point, that this isn't a mid-life crisis or "Bike Bug" but that, in fact, I'm hooked and going to ride for the rest of my life. So after careful debate ...
IT'S ON BABY!!!

So I carelessly pushed my old CB360T into the porch and forgot about her for a year. Rode my 2003 Honda Shadow VLX600CD happily and didn't pay that old bike any mind.
But then one day, I started looking at the 360. And thinking. And scheming. And once those wheels upstairs started turning and the cobwebs were blown out, the flood gates opened and I was drawing up ideas for a bobber chopper. I was convinced this would be a huge mistake. A huge awesome mistake. If it works out ... great. If it's a total mess, now you just ruined an almost perfectly healthy motorcycle.

Frame is chopped & painted and it's starting to look like something.
Now we're having a baby.
So it sits during most of Jana's pregnancy. I even bought a replacement frame to put the whole bike back to stock two weeks after the birth of Kieran while doubting this chopper idea would ever safely follow through to completion. I was also convinced I would never have the time to ride once Kieran was born anyway. Might as well make it a whole bike again and sell it/give it away to someone who will ride it. I had almost completely given up on this bobber project.
Wait.
I don't give up.
I get shit done!
What is happening here?

So I decide, even after driving all the way to Northern New Hampshire to pick up this $50 E-bay replacement frame ... I'll hold off.
Maybe I'll feel differently in a few weeks. Or months.
That was 2 1/2 years ago.
Kieran is 31 months old now and my old bike, my first bike, is now my new bike again.
I can't believe how cool this thing is. It's tiny. And that's perfect, because I'm just a little guy. It's low. It's loud. It's rigid. It's basic. It's totally me.

I made myself the perfect bike for me.
And it's not red.
And it now has a brand new 303 stainless steel front caliper piston.
And a brand new leather seat.
Jaison kids that none of this would have happened if I had just found a replacement seat and an inexpensive caliper piston. And he may be right.
But in the end, it's all been worth it.
There's definitely something favorable to be said about old bikes. Or old anything for that matter. The expression, "They don't make 'em like they used to" is so true. I love my Shadow but it's no 1975 CB360T. And so, in a weird way, I suppose I owe you a thank you Uncle Ron. Today I could have been riding around on a bike I didn't like, that was too tall, too red, and previously owned by a giant asshole.
Thank you.
And I hope they have good beer up there.
I'll tell you some great stories of the stuff you missed if I ever get up there.