frenchy750
08-20-2009, 11:56 AM
Someone on pashnit.com commented on the Kawasaki KZ 400 picture that I posted in my Crazy From the Heat (http://www.motorcyclistcafe.com/forums/showthread.php?t=7352) thread. My picture sent him on a pleasant trip down memory lane. Well, his comment sent me on my own trip down that pleasant avenue, and I wrote this long-winded response:
Way back in 1988 I bought my first motorcycle, a KZ 400, for $600, which, for me at the time represented my life savings; everything I earned mowing lawns, shoveling snow, babysitting, and the odd paying band gig or two.
At the time, while other kids were sneaking copies of Playboy and Penthouse around, along with Modern Drummer, I'd sneak copies of Motorcyclist and Cycle World into my bedroom. In my house, motorcycles were considered dangerous contraptions of death and dismemberment, completely forbidden.
Driving to and from band practice, I'd pass that sad looking motorcycle with the For Sale sign on it. The bike sat there for months, unpurchased, silently calling me. I knew there was no way my Mom and Dad would allow me to have a motorcycle, so I waited for that magical day when I could make my own decisions, the day I turned eighteen and became "an adult" (I still am waiting for the "adult" part.)
http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/photos/625310832_BqWEx-L.jpg
I withdrew everything I'd amassed from my bank passbook, borrowed a banged-up helmet, had a friend drive me over, made a deal and officially became a motorcycle owner. Having no idea how to ride a motorcycle never bothered me until I got on the thing and tried to ride home. The gods of riding smiled on my naiveté that day, and, though I had a few close calls, I arrived home alive.
I arrived home alive to a crying Mom (expected) and a strangely smiling Dad (unexpected). When I took Fiona on her first real ride the other day, I got a taste of my Mom's angst, and at that moment, I knew; I completely understood, what my Mom, seeing her son riding home on a dangerous motorcycle, must have been going through. Ah, the things kids unknowingly do to their parents.... Payback and all that I guess.
My sweet KZ had no rear turn signals, a fact that took me about a month to realize. The bike had wires back there, but the signals were missing. I called the gentleman I bought the bike from to inquire about the missing turn signals, and he offered to sell them to me for $50. I had to borrow the money for them. (I was such a shrewd businessman back then!) My Dad helped me figure out a way to install them, and after a few hours, a drill, soldering iron and and some duct tape, I had four working turn signals.
In the meantime, I took and passed the MSF safety course, mowed more lawns and bought a new, ridiculously expensive full-face helmet, and set out to learn to ride this motorcycle around my town, one mile at a time. My fondest memory of my little KZ 400 was when I took my then-girlfriend all the way to an amusement park about twenty miles away. At the time, this was quite an achievement, riding on the highway, and putting in about forty miles round trip, my longest ride to date. Of course, in a case of dramatic foreshadowing for nearly every long distance ride that would follow, it rained the whole way home.
My least fond memory of that little KZ 400 was crashing it in an intersection on the way home from work. I took a different route home, because I wanted to stop by a motorcycle shop and see about getting a brighter headlight for my ride. I came to an intersection (an intersection that has since been redesigned, I vainly like to think thanks to me) and was faced with the classic worst case scenario: the old woman in the other lane, waiting to turn left. I was still a brand new, wet-behind-the-ears tadpole rider, with exactly, I shit you not, 666 miles I'd put on the odometer, and I made the classic worst case assumption - that she could see me.
She didn't. She turned. I panicked. I locked up the front brake and BOOM! I was one with the asphalt. My new full-face helmet was scraped and scratched pretty bad, my favorite leather riding jacket was torn and scraped up, as were my elbows and hands, but, at the very least I was alive and more or less intact. The bike suffered a little, but not too much. The old woman would later say to me, "I thought I had plenty of time to turn. That's why I always tell my grandkids that motorcycles are so dangerous."
I replied, "They're only dangerous because of drivers like you!" There may have been a few more colorful words included in my response, but realistically, I was just happy to be able to reply at all. The ambulance driver that checked me over said pretty much the same, filling my head with graphic visuals of some of the more tragic motorcycle wrecks he'd seen in his day.
My brother came to get me in my pickup truck, and, through sheer anger alone, we were able to hoist that bike in the back of the truck without a ramp. I wanted to get home before Mom did, but I'd already used up my favors from the motorcycling gods that day. She was home from work early that day. Great.
Seeing the bike in the back of the truck, Mom cried even harder. I may have been naivé, but I understood danger pretty well. I parked the motorcycle for good. Though I would still go out and look under the tarp at the old KZ from time to time, I never thought seriously about riding it again.
'For good' lasted about, oh, I dunno... four years.
Eventually, I got that bike running again, and rode it again, just to prove to myself that I could. Well, that, and the fact that once bitten by the motorcycling bug, that desire to ride never completely goes away. I found that riding was still fun, and started saving up for my dream bike, a Harley Heritage Softail Classic. To help the Harley fund grow, I sold my first motorcycle to a vehicle-less friend for $650. (Along with my riding skills, my business skills had improved a little.)
As time passed, I lost touch with that friend, and that bike. A Honda Shadow, a Suzuki Katana, a Harley Heritage Softail Classic, a Hayabusa, a BMW Dakar and a Yamaha FJR have all, at one time or another, in their own way taken the place of that little KZ 400, though none have replaced the space in my heart that my first motorcycle will always own.
http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/photos/625327702_JmQwE-L.jpg
Way back in 1988 I bought my first motorcycle, a KZ 400, for $600, which, for me at the time represented my life savings; everything I earned mowing lawns, shoveling snow, babysitting, and the odd paying band gig or two.
At the time, while other kids were sneaking copies of Playboy and Penthouse around, along with Modern Drummer, I'd sneak copies of Motorcyclist and Cycle World into my bedroom. In my house, motorcycles were considered dangerous contraptions of death and dismemberment, completely forbidden.
Driving to and from band practice, I'd pass that sad looking motorcycle with the For Sale sign on it. The bike sat there for months, unpurchased, silently calling me. I knew there was no way my Mom and Dad would allow me to have a motorcycle, so I waited for that magical day when I could make my own decisions, the day I turned eighteen and became "an adult" (I still am waiting for the "adult" part.)
http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/photos/625310832_BqWEx-L.jpg
I withdrew everything I'd amassed from my bank passbook, borrowed a banged-up helmet, had a friend drive me over, made a deal and officially became a motorcycle owner. Having no idea how to ride a motorcycle never bothered me until I got on the thing and tried to ride home. The gods of riding smiled on my naiveté that day, and, though I had a few close calls, I arrived home alive.
I arrived home alive to a crying Mom (expected) and a strangely smiling Dad (unexpected). When I took Fiona on her first real ride the other day, I got a taste of my Mom's angst, and at that moment, I knew; I completely understood, what my Mom, seeing her son riding home on a dangerous motorcycle, must have been going through. Ah, the things kids unknowingly do to their parents.... Payback and all that I guess.
My sweet KZ had no rear turn signals, a fact that took me about a month to realize. The bike had wires back there, but the signals were missing. I called the gentleman I bought the bike from to inquire about the missing turn signals, and he offered to sell them to me for $50. I had to borrow the money for them. (I was such a shrewd businessman back then!) My Dad helped me figure out a way to install them, and after a few hours, a drill, soldering iron and and some duct tape, I had four working turn signals.
In the meantime, I took and passed the MSF safety course, mowed more lawns and bought a new, ridiculously expensive full-face helmet, and set out to learn to ride this motorcycle around my town, one mile at a time. My fondest memory of my little KZ 400 was when I took my then-girlfriend all the way to an amusement park about twenty miles away. At the time, this was quite an achievement, riding on the highway, and putting in about forty miles round trip, my longest ride to date. Of course, in a case of dramatic foreshadowing for nearly every long distance ride that would follow, it rained the whole way home.
My least fond memory of that little KZ 400 was crashing it in an intersection on the way home from work. I took a different route home, because I wanted to stop by a motorcycle shop and see about getting a brighter headlight for my ride. I came to an intersection (an intersection that has since been redesigned, I vainly like to think thanks to me) and was faced with the classic worst case scenario: the old woman in the other lane, waiting to turn left. I was still a brand new, wet-behind-the-ears tadpole rider, with exactly, I shit you not, 666 miles I'd put on the odometer, and I made the classic worst case assumption - that she could see me.
She didn't. She turned. I panicked. I locked up the front brake and BOOM! I was one with the asphalt. My new full-face helmet was scraped and scratched pretty bad, my favorite leather riding jacket was torn and scraped up, as were my elbows and hands, but, at the very least I was alive and more or less intact. The bike suffered a little, but not too much. The old woman would later say to me, "I thought I had plenty of time to turn. That's why I always tell my grandkids that motorcycles are so dangerous."
I replied, "They're only dangerous because of drivers like you!" There may have been a few more colorful words included in my response, but realistically, I was just happy to be able to reply at all. The ambulance driver that checked me over said pretty much the same, filling my head with graphic visuals of some of the more tragic motorcycle wrecks he'd seen in his day.
My brother came to get me in my pickup truck, and, through sheer anger alone, we were able to hoist that bike in the back of the truck without a ramp. I wanted to get home before Mom did, but I'd already used up my favors from the motorcycling gods that day. She was home from work early that day. Great.
Seeing the bike in the back of the truck, Mom cried even harder. I may have been naivé, but I understood danger pretty well. I parked the motorcycle for good. Though I would still go out and look under the tarp at the old KZ from time to time, I never thought seriously about riding it again.
'For good' lasted about, oh, I dunno... four years.
Eventually, I got that bike running again, and rode it again, just to prove to myself that I could. Well, that, and the fact that once bitten by the motorcycling bug, that desire to ride never completely goes away. I found that riding was still fun, and started saving up for my dream bike, a Harley Heritage Softail Classic. To help the Harley fund grow, I sold my first motorcycle to a vehicle-less friend for $650. (Along with my riding skills, my business skills had improved a little.)
As time passed, I lost touch with that friend, and that bike. A Honda Shadow, a Suzuki Katana, a Harley Heritage Softail Classic, a Hayabusa, a BMW Dakar and a Yamaha FJR have all, at one time or another, in their own way taken the place of that little KZ 400, though none have replaced the space in my heart that my first motorcycle will always own.
http://frenchy750.smugmug.com/photos/625327702_JmQwE-L.jpg