Day: September 12, 2018

Dream Bike: 1969 Honda SL350

Highly desirable, as would I be if I owned one (or so I thought): The 1969 SL350 Honda.

The year was 1969 and things were happening. On the world stage, Vietnam was going full tilt with no end in sight; on the home stage, I had finished high school and was enjoying my summer working at the California Speed and Sport Shop (I’ve got to do a blog about that place someday). I was 18 years old, I had a Honda 90, Triumph 650s ruled the streets, and the pizza in New Jersey was the best in the world. Stated differently, life was good.

My cousin Marsha was seeing a cool guy named Don. Don was a little older and infinitely cooler than me and my friends, a perception he solidified one summer night when he arrived on a brand-new Honda SL350. Wow. Candy blue with white accents, downswept pipes and upswept mufflers, a high front fender, knobby tires, and a look that was just right. Honda offered the SL350, if I recall correctly, in candy apple red, candy blue, and candy gold, and the bike in any of those colors had a silver frame. It was perfect. Say what you want about Asian aesthetics; in my opinion, Honda nailed it. Make mine any color, but I would prefer blue (like Don’s) or the candy red. Nah, scratch that…as long as I’m dreaming, make mine candy red.  Yeah, that’s the ticket.

The SL350 looked (and sounded) the way a motorcycle ought to look and sound. In my testosteroned and teenaged mind, I would have instantly become infinitely cooler and better looking on an SL350. Every young lady in New Jersey would want to go out with me if I had an SL350, or so I imagined.

Up to that point, my dream bike was a Triumph TT Special (it had similar tucked-in headers and lots more power), but damn, that SL350 looked right. I would have bought one, but by the time I had enough coin to get a bigger street bike Honda had introduced their CB750, and that got the nod.  But I’ve always wanted an SL350.

The SL350 was Honda’s answer to Yamaha’s DT series of dual-purpose bikes, but that wasn’t why I thought it was cool. Yeah, you can play spec-sheet expert and point out that the SL350 weighed more than the Triumph TT Special and had way less power, or that the DT Yamahoppers did better both on and off road, but I don’t care. And I know that the SL350 “only” had 325cc and it “only” had a top end just north of 80 mph.   My answer to that?  Please see Response No. 1: I don’t care.

The SL350 is one of the ones that got away. It hit all the right notes for me (your mileage may vary), and I still want one.

There’s more!  See our other Dream Bikes here!

Long Way Back

Highway 41. Falling safes and ACME dynamite country. Beep beep!

Highway 41 runs from the Gran Quivira ruins to Highway 380. Forty miles of easy dirt, (unless it rains), the road really doesn’t go anywhere I need it to go but I still take the route if I’m going north/south to Santa Fe and have time to kill. I have lots of time to kill.

The consequences of not keeping your rig in shape?

There are old ranches in New Mexico. This dry land requires thousands of acres to support cattle or whatever hybrid, cactus-eating animals they raise out here. Access to these ranches is via roads like 41. The road cuts through warning signs and fence lines working its way past lonely muster stations that no longer thunder with the sounds of hooves and bellowing cattle. Time continues to function out here, hour by hour degrading nails and planks, erasing the best efforts of past generations. It’s a bygone landscape that appeals to a kid raised on a steady diet of Road Runner and Wiley Coyote cartoons.

Highway 41. The red pin is Gran Quivira.

I’d like to think I could have made a stand out here, been a solitary man roping and fence-mending in the bitter wind of a New Mexico winter, surviving by my wits and taming this vast, high desert. I would have mail ordered rockets and catapults from ACME, the cartoon version of Amazon. I’d build windmills and log cabins. I’d eat snakes and shoot quarters out of mid-air with a six-gun that I took out of a dead man’s holster. Then I’d write a Rustic’s poem about the dead man titled, “His Noted Life Was Not In Vain.” I’d have all the trappings of America’s western lore and I would have shouldered it in stride. A life without comfort or ease would be met with a steely-eyed stoicism that concealed deep emotions surging through my fully realized cowboy-self.

A time gone by.
Bring it on, and I’ll still be standing!

Highway 41 is remote, the kind of road that makes you worry about tires or if you have enough water. There’s no cell phone reception and you’ll want your rig in top shape to travel out here. I keep my rig in just-above-collapse shape. Clapped out with three broken engine mounts appeals to my cowboy-self. After climbing a small ridge, 41 becomes increasingly populated by ghosts. Bent and weathered power poles spread their arms, holding nothing. I should have brought more water and a jar of peanut butter.

If you have the time, and the back road leads somewhere you don’t really need to go, I recommend taking Highway 41. There’s adventure in every movement. Joy in discovering a structure that still stands despite it all. America’s private history is waiting to be discovered, starting with the insignificant bits first. It’s on us to record the passing of the Old West. We can be witnesses for unheralded battlefields where stoic cowboys fell to Time and Nature.