This just came in a few minutes ago: Janus is announcing their new 450cc Gryffin Scrambler. I rode the street version when I visited Janus Motorcycles a couple of years ago and I thought it was great. At 330 pounds and with a 450cc engine, the new Gryffin sounds good to me. Here’s the Janus press release.
JANUS MOTORCYCLES ANNOUNCES DEVELOPMENT OF GRYFFIN 450 SCRAMBLER
Goshen, Indiana
Janus Motorcycles, maker of small-displacement motorcycles with hand-crafted components and highly-customizable color combinations announces the development of their Gryffin 450 Model.
The Gryffin 450 uses the same simple, reliable, and enduro-inspired SWM 445cc, 30hp power plant as their popular Halcyon 450. With a 21’’ front wheel and 17’’ rear, high exhaust, and adventure-minded details, the Gryffin 450 is designed to be an ultra-lightweight scrambler that is configurable for adventure riding, trails, and general on- and off-road riding. It draws inspiration from classic scramblers of the 50s and 60s.
Weighing in at 330 pounds, the Gryffin 450 is featherweight in the scrambler class, and the XR400-derived SWM engine provides impressive power-to-weight in its lightweight chassis.
Janus Senior Design Engineer, Charlie Hansen-Reed, led the design on the project. “The Gryffin 450 is a close sibling to our Halcyon 450, but with some key changes that really make it excel off-pavement. The longer suspension travel, wheel size, lower seat height, and larger fuel tank will be really welcomed by our off-road riders.” He adds, “and trimming another 30 pounds off our already featherweight 450 chassis will be a huge bonus for trailering, van-lifers, and for any adventuresome rider’s peace of mind and confidence.”
Still available to customers will be the whole range of color options, pinstripe options, and other various aesthetic and functional items that differentiates Janus’ manufacturing process. Additional new options on the Gryffin 450 roadmap include motocross footpegs, headlight cage, pannier racks, highway bars, skid plate, tire selections, and pillion seat.
All Gryffin 450s will include hand-formed and beaded fenders, hand-formed and welded stainless steel exhaust, hand-welded chassis and forks, Brembo brakes, hand-painted graphics and pinstripes, and hundreds of permutations of color, pinstripe color, graphics package, leather/canvas bag options, and other customizations.
Janus Motorcycles builds their highly-individualized motorcycles to order and documents much of their design and build process on their Youtube channel. “Our customers and riders love to be a part of the iterative process. We’ve invited them along as we developed our 250 line and our Halcyon 450, and we’re excited to invite them alongside us as we finalize the design of the Gryffin 450 and push it into production” Founder and CEO Richard Worsham shares: “We invite anyone to follow along with us this year as we test, develop, and build our exciting new model.”
Janus opened reservations of the first Gryffin 450s to the public today, February 23rd. All orders placed in the first 30 days of sale will be a part of the First Edition, with serial-numbered plates, limited edition race plates, unique engraved components, and commemorative packages. Bikes will be built in order of reservation, with the first expected to be finished in July of 2024.
Riders can place a reservation for an order fee of $2995.
I grew up in a town small enough that our junior high school and high school were all in the same building. It was 7th through 12th grade, which meant that some of the Juniors and Seniors had cars, and one guy had a motorcycle. That one guy was Walt Skok, and the motorcycle was a ‘64 Triumph Tiger (in those days the Tiger was a 500cc single-carbed twin). It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, with big downswept chrome exhaust headers, a cool tank with a dynamite chrome rack, chrome wire wheels, and the most perfect look I had ever seen on anything. I spent every spare moment I had sneaking out into the parking lot to stare at it. Some things in the world are perfect, a precise blend of style and function (things like Weatherby rifles, 1911 handguns, C4 Corvettes, Nikon DSLRs, and 1960s Triumph motorcycles).
A ’64 Triumph Tiger, just like the one Walt Skok owned.
Back to the Triumph: One day Walt started it (I had been drooling over it for a month before I ever heard it run), and its perfection, to me, was complete. In those days, a 500cc motorcycle was enormous. When Walt fired it up, it was unlike anything I had ever heard. It wasn’t lumpy and dumpy like a Harley, it wasn’t a whiny whinny like a Honda, and it wasn’t a tinny “wing-ding-ding-ding-ding” like a Suzuki or a Yamaha (they were all two-strokes back then). Nope, the Triumph was perfect. It was deep. It was visceral. It was tough. The front wheel and forks literally throbbed back and forth with each engine piston stroke. To my 12-year-old eyes and ears it was the absolute essence of a gotta-get-me-one-of-these. It looked and sounded like a machine with a heart and a soul. I knew that someday I would own a machine like this.
Fast forward a few years, and I was old enough own and ride my own Triumphs. I’ve had a bunch of mid-‘60s and ‘70s Triumphs…Bonnevilles, Tigers, and a Daytona (which was a 500cc twin-carbed twin back then, a bike known as the Baby Bonneville). I was a young guy and those British motorcycles were perfect. They were fast, they handled well, and they sounded the way God intended a motorcycle to sound. I had a candy-red-and-gold ’78 750 Bonneville (Triumph always had the coolest colors) that would hit an indicated 109 mph on Loop 820 around Fort Worth, and I did that regularly on those hot and humid Texas nights. Life was good.
Fast forward another 50 years (and another 40 or 50 motorcycles for me). We saw the death of the British motorcycle empire, the rise and fall and rise and impending fall of Harley-Davidson, this new thing called globalization, digital engine management systems, and multi-cylinder ridiculously-porky motorcycles.
So here we are, today. My good buddy Gerry, then the CSC service manager, owned this ultra-cool Norton Commando. And good buddy Steve, the CSC CEO, bought the bike and put it on display in the CSC showroom. We had a lot of cool bikes on display there, including vintage Mustangs, Harleys, Beemers, RX3s, RC3s, TT250s, and more. But my eye kept returning to that Norton. I’d never ridden a Norton, but I’d heard the stories when I was younger.
A selfie, sort of. A stunning motorcycle.
Back in the day (I’m jumping back to the ‘60s and ‘70s again) guys who wanted to be cool rode Triumphs. I know because I was one of them. We knew about Nortons, but we didn’t see them very often. They had bigger engines, they were more expensive than Triumphs, and their handling was reported to be far superior to anything on two wheels. Harleys had bigger engines and cost more than Triumphs, but they were porkers. Nortons were faster than Triumphs (and Triumphs were plenty fast).
A lot of guys who rode Triumphs really wanted to ride Nortons. Nortons were mythical bikes. Their handling and acceleration were legendary. In the ‘60s, the hardest accelerating bike on the planet was the Norton Scrambler. Norton stuffed a 750cc engine into a 500cc frame to create that model, like Carroll Shelby did with the AC Cobra. I remember guys talking about Norton Scramblers in hushed and reverential tones back in the LBJ and Nixon years. You spoke about reverential things softly back then.
Fast forward again, and here I was with Steve’s 1973 Norton Commando right in front of me (just a few feet away from where I used to write the CSC blog). Steve’s Norton was magnificent. It had not been restored and it wore its patina proudly.
“Steve,” I said, “you need to let me ride that Norton.”
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll have Gerry get it ready for you.”
Wow, I thought. I’m going to ride a Norton. I felt like the little dog who finally caught the bus and found himself with a mouthful of bus. What do you do when that happens?
I sat on the Norton that afternoon. It felt big. The pegs were set far to the rear and my hips hurt immediately from the bike’s racing ergos (and maybe a little from the femur and spine fractures I suffered in a motorcycle accident a few years before that; I don’t bend as easily as I used to). Maybe I shouldn’t have asked to ride this beautiful beast. Maybe my mouth had written a check my body couldn’t cash.
But I was committed. The Norton went back to Gerry so he could get it ready for me to ride. There could be no backing out now. I was nervous, I was excited, and I was a little giddy. The only bikes I had ridden for the last 7 or 8 years were 150cc Mustangs and the 250cc Zongs. Lightweight bikes. Singles. Under 25 horsepower. Electric starters and all the amenities. Modern stuff. I thought about riding the 850 Norton. It dawned on me that I had not even heard it run yet. I realized I liked electric starters. I hadn’t kick started a bike in probably 35 years. The Norton was an 850, and it was kick start only. No electric starter. Hmmm.
When I arrived at the plant, Steve pushed the Norton outside for me. We both tried to figure out where the ignition key went (it’s on the left side of the bike). We tried to guess at the ignition key’s run spot (it has four or five positions). We picked the second one and I tried kicking the engine. It was a complicated affair. You had to fold the right footpeg in, and when you kick the starter, you had to try to not hit the gear shift lever on the right side of the bike. We kicked it a couple of times. Hmmm again. Lots of compression. Then Steve had to run back into the plant to take a phone call. I tried kick starting the Norton a couple of times again. Not even a cough from the engine.
I played with the key and clicked it over one more notch. Another kick, and the mighty 850 fired right up. Ah, success!
The Norton settled into an easy idle. It was wonderful. It sounded just like Walt Skok’s Triumph. I was in the 7th grade again. I looked around to see if Steve had seen me start it, but no one was there. It was just me and the Norton. Okay, I thought, I’ll just ride around in the parking lot to get the feel of the clutch, the throttle, and the brakes.
Whoa, I thought, as I let the clutch out gingerly. That puppy had power! The Norton was turning over lazily and it felt incredibly powerful as I eased the clutch out. I tried the rear brake and there was nothing (oh, that’s right, the rear brake is on the other side). I tried the front brake, and it was strong. Norton had already gone to disk brakes by 1973, and the disk on Steve’s Commando was just as good as a modern bike’s brakes are today.
I rode the Norton into the shop so Gerry could fill the fuel tank for me. The Norton has a sidestand and a centerstand, but you can’t get to either one while you are on the bike. You have to hold the bike up, dismount on the left, and then put it on the centerstand. The side stand was under there somewhere, but I didn’t want to mess around trying to catch it with my boot. It was plenty scary just getting off the Norton and holding it upright. It was more than a little scary, actually. I’m riding my boss’s vintage bike, it’s bigger than anything I’ve been on in years, and I don’t want to drop it.
Gerry gave me “the talk” about kick starting the Norton. “I don’t like to do it while I’m on the bike,” he said. “If it kicks back, it will drive your knee right into the handlebars and that hurts. I always do it standing on the right side of the bike.”
Hmmmm. As if I wasn’t nervous enough already.
I tried the kickstarter two or three times (with everybody in the service area watching me) and I couldn’t start the thing, even though I had started it outside (when no one was around to witness my success). Gerry kicked the Norton once for me (after my repeated feeble attempts) and it started immediately. Okay. I got it. You have to show it who’s boss.
I strapped my camera case to the Norton’s back seat (or pillion, as they used to say in Wolverhampton), and then I had a hard time getting back on the bike. I couldn’t swing my leg over the camera bag. Yeah, I was nervous. And everybody in the shop was still watching me.
With the Norton twerking to its British twin tango, I managed to turn it around and get out onto Route 66. A quick U-turn (all the while concentrating intensely so I would remember “shift on the right, brake on the left”) and I rode through the mean streets of north Azusa toward the San Gabriels. In just a few minutes, I was on Highway 39, about to experience riding Nirvana.
This is what a motorcycle instrument cluster should be. The Enfield Interceptor Gresh and I tested in Baja was very similar.
Wow, this is sweet, I thought as I climbed into the San Gabriels. I had no idea what gear I was in, but gear selection is a somewhat abstract concept on a Norton. Which gear didn’t seem to make any difference. The Commando had power and torque that just wouldn’t quit. More throttle, go faster, shifting optional. It didn’t matter what gear I was in (which was good, because all I knew was that I was somewhere north of 1st).
A photo stop along the East Fork Road. That’s East Fork, as in the East Fork of the San Gabriel River.
I looked down at the tach. It had a 7000-rpm redline and I was bouncing around somewhere in the 2500 zip code. And when I say bouncing around, I mean that literally. The tach needle oscillated ±800 rpm at anything below 3000 rpm (it settled down above 3000 rpm, a neighborhood I would visit only once that day). The Norton’s low end torque was incredible. I realized I didn’t even know how many gears the bike had, so I slowed, rowed through the gears and counted (the number was four).
A shot from the rear. I was shooting with a Nikon D3300 DSLR (an entry-level digital camera) and the Nikon 16-35 lens.
The Norton was amazing in every regard. The sound was soothing, symphonic, and sensuous (how’s that for alliteration?). It’s what God intended motorcycles to be. Highway 39 is gloriously twisty and the big Norton (which suddenly didn’t feel so big) gobbled it up. The Norton never felt cumbersome or heavy (it’s only about 20 lbs heavier than my 250cc RX3). It was extremely powerful. I was carving through the corners moderately aggressively at very tiny throttle openings. Just a little touch of my right hand and it felt like I was a cannon-launched kinetic energy weapon. Full disclosure: I’ve never been launched from a cannon, but I’m pretty sure what I experienced that day on the Norton is what it would feel like. Everything about the Norton felt (and here’s that word again) perfect.
I was having so much fun that I missed the spot where I normally would stop for the CSC glamour shots. There’s a particular place on Highway 39 where I could position a bike and get some curves in the photo (and it looked great in the CSC ads). But I sailed right past it. I was enjoying the ride.
When I realized I missed the spot where I wanted to stop for photos, it made me think about my camera. I reached behind to make sure it was still on the seat behind me, but my camera wasn’t there! Oh, no, I thought, I lost my camera, and God only knows where it might have fallen off. I looked down, and the camera was hanging off the left side of the bike, captured in the bungee net. Wow, I dodged a bullet there.
The view from above. It was a glorious day.
I pulled off and then I realized: I don’t want to kill the engine because then I’ll have to start it, and if I can’t, I’m going to feel mighty stupid calling Gerry to come rescue me.
Okay, I thought, here’s the drill. Pull off to the side of the road, find a flat spot, keep the engine running, put all my weight on my bad left leg, swing my right leg over the seat, hold the Norton upright, get the bike on the centerstand, unhook the bungee net, sling the camera case over my shoulder, get back on the bike, and all the while, keep the engine running. Oh, yeah. No problem.
This is what a motorcycle should look like. Why can’t other manufacturers do this? Oh, wait, Enfield did…
Actually, though, it wasn’t that bad. And I was having a lot of fun.
I arrived at the East Fork bridge sooner than I thought I would (time does indeed fly when you’re having fun). I made the right turn. I would have done the complete Glendora Ridge Road loop, but the CalTrans sign told me that Glendora Ridge Road was closed. I looked for a spot to stop and grab a few photos of this magnificent beast.
That’s when I noticed that the left footpeg rubber had fallen off the bike. It’s the rubber piece that fits over the foot peg. Oh, no, I thought once again. I didn’t want to lose pieces of Steve’s bike, although I knew no ride on any vintage British vertical twin would be complete without something falling off. I made a U-turn and rode back and forth several times along a half-mile stretch where I thought I lost the rubber footpeg cover, but I couldn’t find it. When I pulled off to turn around yet again, I stalled the bike.
Hmmm. No doubt about it now. I knew I was going to have to start the Norton on my own.
We (me and my good buddy Norton, that is) had picked a good spot to stop. I dismounted using the procedure described earlier, I pulled the black beauty onto its centerstand, and I grabbed several photos. I could tell they were going to be good. Sometimes you just know when you’re behind the camera that things are going well. And on the plus side of the ledger, all of the U-turns I had just made (along with the magnificent canyon carving on Highway 39) had built up my confidence enormously. The Norton was going to start for me because I would will it to.
And you know what? That’s exactly what happened. One kick and all was well with the world. I felt like Marlon Brando, Steve McQueen, and Peter Fonda, all rolled up into one 66-year-old teenager. At that moment I was a 12-year-old kid staring at Walt Skok’s Triumph again. Yeah, I’m bad. A Norton will do that to you. I stared at the bike as it idled. It was a living, breathing, snorting, shaking, powerful thing. Seeing it alive like that was perfect. I suddenly remembered my Nikon camera had video. Check this out…
So there you have it. A dream bike, but this time the dream was real. Good times, that day was.
If you like reading about vintage iron, check out our Dream Bikes page!
One of my gifts this past holiday season was a great read: Killers of the Summer Moon by David Grann. I didn’t pick up on the author’s name initially, but Grann was already known to me by an earlier nonfiction work of his, The Lost City of Z.
Killers of the Flower Moon is about the Osage Native American murders that occurred in Oklahoma in the early part of the last century. The story basically goes like this: The Osage tribe lost their land but retained the mineral rights. Oil lay under the Osage land, which made the Osage tribe members wealthy. Through corrupt local government white people could get themselves appointed as “guardians” (which essentially allowed them to control the Osage tribe member funds), and if the person whose funds they controlled died, the money went to the white person controlling those funds. You can imagine what this led to: The Osage members started dying in large numbers under mysterious circumstances. The local and state governments had little interest in addressing the issue and the murders continued. It was a young J. Edgar Hoover’s newly-minted FBI that solved the case. That, all by itself, made for a fascinating story, made all the more interesting by it being true.
At the end of the book, Grann found a way to make the story even more interesting. The scale and scope of the murders were significantly greater than even the FBI realized, with Osage murders both preceding and following the years covered by the FBI investigation. Grann’s personal research brought this latest revelation to light.
I recently posted a Wayback Machine blog on riding in the rain, and Carl Bennett (a new friend from the UK) added a comment about one of his rain rides. Carl’s input was interesting on several levels, one of which was the included web address. I poked around a bit on Carl’s site and found a blog post titled “Lobo.” Well, one thing led to another, with the result being Carl’s permission to publish “Lobo” here on ExNotes. I enjoyed reading it and I think you will, too.
– Joe Berk
By Carl Bennett
As a name for a motorcycle it’s okay. It means timber wolf, in Spanish, but maybe that means Mexican. Oooops, I meant Microsoft Spanish, for whom Spanish means Old Spanish. Obviously in global internet land, Microsoft’s 14-year-old-in-Ohio sensibilities reign supreme. Which is a whole other story. And this one is about me. Like all my others, as yours are all about you and Charles Dickens’ were about him. And especially Martin Amis’s were all about him. God, were they about him. I don’t know if he ever had a motorcycle. Hunter Thompson definitely had several, but as he wrote himself, Mister Kurz, he dead.
Lobo was the name of the band that sang A Dog Named Boo, so long ago that I can’t even admit I know the tune. I heard it during my formative years, the ones still a-forming.
Like Arlo Guthrie on his motorcycle I don’t want to die. Despite drinking kettle de-scaler yesterday morning, calling NHS 111 and having a not-great day thinking I might actually die of this, which wasn’t helped by eating a whole packet of spicy beetroot. I love that stuff, except they really ought to put a reminder on the packet of what happens when you look in the toilet bowl, to tell you that you almost certainly will live more than another three days and if you don’t, it won’t be anything to do with beetroots, unless a beetroot lorry runs you over. The gist being that I’d quite like to stay alive for the foreseeable future.
So obviously, I bought myself a motorcycle for Christmas. Unlike the song, although I’ve got my motor running, first time every time, but hey, it’s a BMW. On which I have no intention of hitting the highway like a battering ram, nor like anything else. What did you expect? I’ve absolutely no wish to hit the highway because I know from past experience it bloody hurts. Thankfully, my off-bike excursions were few and decidedly minor, but I remember spending an afternoon in Gene Fleck’s Meadow Inn bar in Wisconsin with the road closed while an emergency crew searched against the clock to find someone’s foot. I’d seen him and his girl earlier in the day on a Harley, riding like an accident looking for somewhere to happen, which it duly did.
I wasn’t prepared for the change. And no, that wasn’t why I got a motorcycle again. I did it because life is short. I did it because I wanted to smell the grass and the trees and the fields I passed through. I did it because I wanted to do it again before I die.
Where I began the process I laughingly call growing-up, there wasn’t any public transport to speak of. There were infrequent busses, taxis weren’t a thing for a 16 or 17-year-old in a Wiltshire town and even if being chauffeured to places by my Mummy was an option the way it seems to be for kids today, I’d have died of self-loathing to ask. Probably. After I had the lift, obviously. All of which meant that at 16 I did what was the fairly normal thing and bought a Yamaha FS1-E. It wasn’t just me. Look at the sales figures. Back then, you had a moped only as long as it took to get a motorcycle, which was your 17th birthday. Thanks to some bureaucratic insanity, or more likely in England, nobody could be bothered to check the sense of the rules, or read them properly, a 17-year-old could perfectly legally if predictably briefly stick a sidecar on a Kawasaki Z1, stick L-plates on it and set off for the obituary column of their local paper, when there were such things.
Not me, baby. I bought a Honda CB 175. I had an Army surplus shiny PVC button-up coat. It felt like, it looked like, it probably was something a dustman on a motorcycle would look like, as a friend of mine thoughtfully pointed out in case it was something I’d overlooked. It had to go, even though it didn’t very fast. I put it in the Wiltshire Times. Nobody even rang the phone number. I put the price up 30% the next week and got about 20 calls. I sold it to the first one who came to see it, even though he asked for a discount. Which he didn’t get. I didn’t bother to tell him about the 30% discount he could have had the week before.
Then it was probably my favourite bike, the Triumph T25, the kind of thing that now sells for over £4,000 any day of the week and which then you felt lucky if you could raise £200 on it. It was fun, and I learned some good lessons on it. One of them being that if you ignore that little triangular sign warning you there’s a junction ahead then you’ll go about three-quarters of the way across it before the twin-shoe Triumph brake stops you. Nothing came. Nothing did on back lanes around Tellisford in those days.
The Triumph got swapped for a Norton 500 that ran for two weeks out of the two years I had it. It sent me spinning down the road like a dead fly in Cardiff one black ice night, after I’d left the electric fire warmth of some girl’s flat (nothing doing there; never was, with anybody), lost the bike out from under me at about 5 mph, came to a halt against a parked car and had some Welshman peer down at me to tell me “Duh, it’s icy mind.” I left Wales as soon as I could and bought another Triumph, a real 1970s post-Easy-Rider identity crisis machine. It was a 650cc Tiger engine, shoehorned into a chrome-plated Norton Slimline frame. Instead of the rocker clip-ons you’d expect, it had highish handlebars and cut-off exhausts. Just header pipes in fact, but with Volkswagen Beetle mufflers smacked into them in a Bath carpark, with Halford’s slash-cut trim bolted on the ends. I wasn’t a rocker, but I thought it rocked.
It took two weeks to get the petrol tank the way I wanted it, a deep, deep black you could lose your soul in, sprayed on then sanded, sprayed on then sanded, sprayed on then sanded about fifteen times in the kitchen of my definitively smelly Southampton student flat, the kind of place that gave Ian McEwan the idea for The Cement Garden, only a bit less appealing. On the first trip out on that gloriously glossy bike I rode up to Salisbury, escorted by a girlfriend whose parents purported to believe that she had her own spare room at my university halls of residence, the ones I’d left months before. We got to her parents’ newish house in the summer sunlight, said hello, put the bike in the driveway. Then decided we’d go to a local pub because a) Wiltshire, b) nothing much else to do until her parents went out, or c) that’s what people did.
I started the bike, but it didn’t fire first time, so I tickled the Amal carburetor and tried again. There was no air filter on the carb – there often wasn’t in those days – so when it backfired the spurt of flame came straight out into the open air and set light to the petrol that had trickled down the outside of the carb float bowl. I appreciate that these are words that younger readers won’t even recognise, but we had to. I had my leather jacket on, a full-face Cromwell ACU gold-rated helmet, and long leather gloves, so I just reached down nonchalantly to switch the fuel tap to Off. No petrol, no fry, as Bob Marley didn’t sing. Except I didn’t turn the petrol off. I managed to pull the rubber petrol feed line off instead. The flames came up to chest level.
My first thought was to run for it, but my second was that I’d just put three gallons in the tank and I seriously doubted I could run faster than that. All I could think of to do was reach into the flames and turn the petrol tap off, so that’s what I did. I couldn’t see past my elbow in the flames, but it worked or I wouldn’t be telling this story. The insulation on the electrics had burned off so the horn was fused on until I got out my trusty Buck knife (something else we took entirely as normal in the West Country) and cut what was left of the wires. My girlfriend’s mother saw the whole thing from the kitchen. She waited until the flames had gone out before she came out to tell me I’d dropped oil on her driveway.
There was a break after that, for university and unhappily London then Aylesbury and Bath until luck and an unusual skillset saw me in Chicago, on a 650 Yamaha that might or might not have been technically stolen, blasting around Lakeshore Drive and the blue lights area, under half the city, overlooking some huge American river, me and an Italian buddy from summer camp on his bike, living if not the dream then certainly some kind of alternative reality. To this day I don’t know why I did that. No insurance, no clear provenance to the bike, certainly no observance of the speed limits, and only my trusty grey cardboard AA international driving licence that didn’t mention motorcycles. But nothing happened. Back then that was all that mattered.
A gap of some years and then a BMW R1000, a bike that vibrated so much that a trip from London to Wiltshire left me literally unable to make a sentence for about fifteen minutes. It felt good though, that lumpy, dumpy, so-solid bike. I traded that one for a Harley-Davidson Sportster which is what I thought was the ultimate motorcycle ought to be before I found out that I needed to spend £200 a month pretty much every month to get it the way it ought to have left the factory before their accountants had a say in the recommended retail price. It got stolen, we recovered it and instead of putting it back in showroom metal flake purple turned it jet black, bored it out to 1200, and put Brembo four-pot brakes and a fuel-injector on it before it transmogrified into a laptop and a laser printer, when laser printers were a long way from the couple of hundred a good one is now.
And somehow that was 30 years ago. This time the iron horse is a BMW F650, almost as old as when I stopped riding for a while, but with a documented 13,000 miles on it. My idea of common sense says changing the oil and the filter and swapping out the original brake lines and replacing them with stainless steel would first of all look cool but possibly more importantly, be quite a sensible way of not relying on thirty year old rubber. I mean, would you? On any Saturday night?
In the intervening coughty years I’ve either sold or given away my original Schott jacket, the gloves, the Rukka, the Ashman Metropolitan Police long boots and the Belstaff scrambler boots. The Cromwell helmet and the Bell 500 open-face are long gone. I need everything, from the toes upwards and I find that most of the names I grew up with such as Ashman or Cromwell just don’t exist any more. I bought another Bell, but a full-face ACU gold Sharp 5-rated lid this time. I got some gloves, some chain lube and a tube of Solvol Autosol to keep the chrome shiny. I found some leather jeans and my old not-Schott jacket that I bought in Spain and after only three applications of neatsfoot oil and old-fashioned dubbin and hanging it over a radiator it’s now soft enough to be wearable and looks, I think, pretty darned good, even if it doesn’t have a single CE rating to its name. I’ve skipped the red Hermetite that used to decorate every pseudo-serious biker’s jeans.
Of the kids I knew that got in Bad Trouble on a bike, one was drunk and showing off. He died. My cousin lost his job and an inch off one leg when he was swiped by a car that ignored him on a roundabout. One in Wiltshire rode his bike under a combine harvester. He died too. It wasn’t really funny and I try not to think of him looking like SpongeBob SquarePants, with his arms and legs sticking out of the straw. He’d had a 20-year break from bikes and had just picked up an early retirement pension payoff. He didn’t read the T&Cs that said you still can’t ride like an arse. The American guy I didn’t ride around Chicago with lost his foot and they didn’t find it in time to put it back on. For all I know it’s still in a field in Wisconsin.
CE-rated armour wouldn’t have helped a single one of them. I’m certainly not saying safety gear isn’t worth the effort, or I wouldn’t have specced out my new helmet so carefully. But motorcycles aren’t the safest thing. You have to watch your sides, your front and what’s underneath you, as well as your back.
Like what you read hear? Check out (and subscribe to) Carl Bennett’s blog at Writer-Insighter.com!
I guess a bike can still be a dream bike if you owned one and then sold it. I still dream about my Triumph 1200 Daytona, so it qualifies. It was a fantastic bike. A real locomotive. Crude, strong, powerful, and fun. And fast. Wow, was it ever fast!
Somewhere in New Mexico on the 2005 Three Flags Rally with my ’95 Daytona 1200, a bike I still dream about.
I first saw a 1200 Daytona at a CBX Honda meet (yeah, I had one of those, too). It was at a guy’s house somewhere in Hollywood, and this dude also had a black 1200 Daytona. Well, maybe that’s not quite right…I saw one at the Long Beach Show even before then, but I didn’t really appreciate what it was all about. This CBX guy was laughing and telling me about the Daytona’s design.
“What they did, har har har, was basically just hang an extra cylinder off the right side of the motor, har har har,” he said. “Here, har har har, take a look at this, har har har,” and with that, he walked behind the Daytona and pointed to the engine. Holy mackerel, I thought. It had been a 900cc triple. Now it was a 1200 four, and the added girth of that extra cylinder stuck out of the frame on the right. They didn’t even re-center the engine in the frame. Anything this crude, I thought, I had to have. Har har har, the CBX guy was right. This was a machine worth owning. I had to get me one.
I guess the feeling passed (they usually do), but that bike stuck in my mind. I had pretty much forgotten all about that Daytona until one day when I received an email, way back in ’02, from my riding buddy Marty. It seemed there was a brand-new 1995 Triumph Daytona on Ebay. 7 years old, never sold, and the dealer in Wisconsin was auctioning it off on Ebay. In 2002.
Jesus, I was still on dial up Internet in those days. I can still hear the squelching when I logged onto AOL to get to the Internet. This can’t be right, I thought, as I studied the Ebay listing. I called the dealer. He was a Ducati and Kawasaki guy now, somewhere in Wisconsin. Used to be a Triumph dealer. He got the Daytona when he was still selling Triumphs, he had put it on display (it was stunning), nobody bit, he was anxious to sell, he lost the Triumph franchise years ago, and he was finally getting around to unloading the Daytona. Yep, it’s brand new, he told me. Never registered. 0.6 miles on the clock. $12,995 back in ’95. I already knew that. It was beyond my reach back then.
I did the only thing I could think of. I put in a bid. Using dial up. On Ebay. My friend Marty was shocked. So was I.
Over the next several days, the price climbed. Then it was D-day. Then H-hour. Then M-minute. The bid was $7,195. For a 7-year old, brand new, originally $12,995 motorcycle. I waited until there were just a few seconds left and I put in a bid for $7,202. On dial up Internet. Nothing happened. That was dial up for you.
The auction ended, my dial up Ebay was flashing at me. I swore up a blue streak, cursing the genes that had made me a cheap SOB who wouldn’t pay extra for broadband. I used dial up to save a few bucks, and now it had cost me big time. I thought I had let that dream bike get away. Then Ebay announced the winner, and it was me.
Yahoo! (No, Ebay and AOL!) I won! Whoopee!
My dream come true, after arriving from Wisconsin by air. I had visions of flying to Wisconsin and riding back, but when I called, the dealer’s wife told me he was out front shoveling snow…I know. Stunning. Mine. A dream come true.Beauty like this can drive ya buggy. The aftermath of a CLASSIFIED high speed run across central California on Highway 58.
A few days later, I had the bike, and my dream came true. I put 20,000 miles on it, I rode the thing from Canada to Mexico on the 30th Anniversary Three Flags Rally with Marty (I was the only Triumph among the 400 bikes that rode the event that year), and then I sold it. A dream come true, and I sold it. I know, I know. What was I thinking?
I can still dream, I guess, and I often do, of that big yellow locomotive with one cylinder hanging off the right side…
I thought I would repost a blog I wrote in 2019 about riding in the rain. It’s been raining nonstop here in So Cal for days. When I say nonstop, that’s what I mean. Ordinarily when you get caught in the rain, it lasts for a while and then stops, and then maybe starts again. With this atmospheric river (the meteorological term) we are experiencing, it has literally been constant rain. I’m staying warm and cozy with a cup of coffee here in my home, but looking out the window, I’m reminded of past rides in the rain…and with that intro, here’s our previous blog.
Wow, it has been pouring here for the last week, with little respite other than this past Sunday. Sunday was nice. Every other day this week and the tail end of last week has been nonstop rain. Big time. Buckets full. And my iPhone just started buzzing with a flash flood warning for this area. Wow again.
So I’m sitting here at the computer, enjoying a hot cup of coffee, looking out the window, and I’m thinking about what it’s like to ride in the rain. We’ve all had those rides. Those memories stick in my mind. I remember every one of those rides like they happened yesterday.
The first was the return leg of my first international motorcycle foray, when good buddy Keith Hediger and I rode up to Montreal and back. That was in the early ‘70s, and we didn’t call them adventure rides back then. They were just motorcycle rides. I was on a ’71 CB750 and Keith was on a Kawi 500cc triple. It rained the entire length of Vermont at about the same intensity you see in the video above. We had no rain gear. It wasn’t cold, but it sure was wet. We were soaked the entire day. Wouldn’t trade a minute of it. It was a great ride.
Another time was on the second ride I ever did in Baja with good buddy Baja John. It was pouring when we left at 4:00 a.m., and it didn’t let up for the entire day. I was on a Harley then, and we finally stopped somewhere around Colonet to checked into a cheap Baja hotel (a somewhat redundant term, which is becoming less redundant as Baja’s march in to the 21st century unfortunately continues). Leather, I found out on that trip, makes for lousy rain gear. I went hypothermic, and I had the shakes until 4:00 the following morning. It made for a good story, and the rest of that trip was epic. Down to Cabo, back up to La Paz, on the overnight ferry over to Mazatlan, out to Puerto Vallarta and Guadalajara, back up to Nogales, and a thousand-mile one-day dash to make it home on New Year’s Eve. Wouldn’t trade a second of it.
Riding with Marty on the ’05 Three Flags Classic, we were caught in a downpour the second day out as we rode along the Dolores River in Colorado. It was a magnificent ride, with Marty on his K1200RS and me on my 1200cc Daytona. It wasn’t a drizzle. It was a downpour, just like you see in the video above. I remember it vividly, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Colombia had lots of rain, but it only hit us hard on the very first day. It was raining hard that first morning as we rode out of Medellin and into the Andes early on that fine Colombian morning, but it lightened up by breakfast. I had real rain gear and the only issues were visibility and passing 22-wheelers on blind curves, as my Colombian riders did with gleeful abandon. Exciting times. But good times, and certainly ones I remember. Colombia was an adventure for the ages. I wouldn’t trade a second of it for anything else.
I’d have to say the heaviest rains I ever rode through were in China, where it rains a lot. It probably rained 25% of the time on that trip, and the first few days were the worst. Imagine riding up into the Tibetan Plateau, in the dark, on dirt roads, in rain way heavier than what you see in the video above. That’s what it was like, and I loved every mile of that ride. I wouldn’t trade it for anything else on the planet.
You might be wondering…why no photos? Well, the simple truth is that my cameras on each trip were tightly wrapped in plastic bags, and I wasn’t about to break them out in the rain. That’s something I guess I forgot to mention in my earlier blog about what to bring on a Baja trip: Garbage bags. They take up almost no space when you’re not using them, and they work great for keeping stuff dry when you ride in the rain.
The year was 1997 and the Ducati V-twins had been dominating magazine covers for years. Not to be outdone, two Japanese manufacturers produced similarly-configured V-twins (actually, L-twins). Honda had the SuperHawk, and Suzuki the TL1000S. I’ve always liked Suzuki better, so I went with the TL1000s. Suzuki offered the TL in two colors….a forest green with red accents; and bright red with yellow accents. For me, it had to be red.
My ’97 TL1000S, somewhere in northern Baja.
I bought my TL at Bert’s in Azusa. If I recall correctly, I negotiated the guys down to $8700 out the door, and part of that was a Yamaha 650 twin I traded in. I had bought the Yamaha used from a guy in a course I taught at McDonnell Douglas, thinking the Yamaha would be like my old Triumph Bonnevilles but reliable. The Yamaha was a bust. It was too heavy, it had cheap fasteners, the Hopper/Fonda riding stance was awful, it didn’t handle, and it lacked the low-end grunt of my earlier Triumphs.
I remember riding the TL home from Bert’s. The riding was awkward with the bike’s low bars and high footpegs, but I got used to it and I made it less punishing with a set of Heli-Bars. The Heli-Bars were slighly taller and wider (you got about an inch more in each dimension, which made a difference).
A stop for fuel in Catavina. The guys sell gasolina from bottles along Mexico Highway 1.
The TL was the fastest and hardest accelerating motorcycle I ever owned. It would wheelie in third gear if you weren’t paying attention, and it went from zero to 100 in a heartbeat. The bottom end torque was ferocious. Fuel economy was atrocious, and it had a tendency to stall at low rpm. But wow, did it ever look good. Did I mention it was fast?
My friend Marty had an Aprilia V-twin (a Mille, I think, or something like that), another bit of Italian exotica, that cost even more than the Ducati. Marty’s spaghetti-bender was more than twice what I paid for my TL. We swapped bikes once on a day ride and I came away unimpressed. My TL was faster.
Baja a few years ago. Younger, thinner, and hair that hadn’t turned gray yet. That motorcycle made me look good.
I wanted the look of a sport bike, but I’m not a canyon racer and the exotic look didn’t do anything for me once I had ridden the TL a few times. Then something funny happened. My Harley died on a Baja ride. I nursed my Harley home, parked it, and took the TL. Surprisingly, it did a good job as a touring platform. And I could ride at speeds the Harley couldn’t dream about. In those days, if there were speed limits in Baja, I didn’t know about them.
That first big trip on the TL instead of the Harley cinched it for me. I bought sportsbike soft luggage and used the TL on many rides after that. 700-mile days in Baja became the norm (I could make Mulegé in a day; the TL wouldn’t break a sweat). The only downside was the abominable fuel economy (the fuel light would come on after 105 miles), but a one-gallon red plastic fuel container and a bungie cord fixed that. It was Beverly hillbillies, but it worked. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a hillbilly (somebody’s got to shoot those road signs).
TL1000S touring. The bike was a surprisingly good touring machine.
Even with the TL’s mid-30-mpg fuel economy, I only ran out of fuel twice. Once was on the Bodfish-Caliente Road (one of California’s best kept secrets). I didn’t have my gas can with me; Marty rode ahead and returned with a gasoline-filled water bottle he hoped wouldn’t dissolve (it didn’t). The other time was on Baja’s long stretch headed south to Guerrero Negro. That road runs straight as an arrow, and I ran the TL at a surprisingly comfortable 145 mph (still well below the TL’s top speed). The TL was fuel injected and when it ran dry it was like someone shut the ignition. I poured my extra gallon in and made it to the next Pemex station. The guys I rode with were still far behind.
I had fun with the TL, but I dropped it a lot more than any other bike I had ever owned. All the drops were my fault. The low-mounted sport bars restricted steering, and once when pulling into my driveway, there wasn’t enough to keep the bike upright. Before I realized it, the bike and I were both on the ground (my first thought was to wonder if anyone had seen me). The next time the bike was in my driveway, facing slightly downhill. I started it to let it warm up, and the bike rolled off the sidestand. Again, my first thought was if anyone had seen me. The third time was more dramatic. The TL had a slipper clutch; you could downshift with reckless abandon. The clutch would slip and not skid the rear tire. It was cool, until I used it diving hard into a corner. The curb was coming up quickly and I wasn’t slowing fast enough. The slipper clutch was doing its thing, but when I touched the front brake, that was enough to unload the rear wheel. It broke loose and I fishtailed into the curb. I went over the bars, executed a very clean somersault, and came to rest in the sitting position looking straight ahead. I had been watching the Oympics on TV the day before and I remember thinking (as I completed my dismount) I could be a competitor. A woman in a station wagon saw the whole thing. She rolled down her window and I half expected to see a sign with a 10 on it (like they do at the Olympics). “Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I answered. “I’m a gymnast and I’m practicing.” The window went up and she disappeared.
I loved the looks of the TL. Yeah, the carbon fiber was faux, but I didn’t care. In those days I was running a factory that made carbon fiber aircraft stuff and I never understood the attraction. Even with fake carbon fiber, the TL was a motorcycle that looked fast. And it was.
Serious miles were easy on the TL1000S.
Suzuki only made the TL for a few years. Some guy in the UK killed himself in a speed wobble, the bike got an Internet rep as a tank slapper, and that killed sales worldwide. Suzuki had a recall to add a steering damper, but the damage had been done. Bert’s installed the damper on my TL, I couldn’t feel any difference , and my bike never went into a wobble (either before or after the recall). My hypothesis is that the UK guy rolled on too much throttle exiting a corner, lifting the front wheel with the bike leaned over. That will induce a wobble, you know. There was another recall to fix the low speed stalling issue. I guess it worked; my bike never had a low speed stall after that.
Suzuki offered a more radical fully-faired version called the TL1000R (I didn’t like its looks), but the TL-R didn’t survive, either. The engine, however, proved to be a winner. Today, 25 years later, a detuned version is still soldiering on in the ADV-styled V-Strom. I never owned a V-Strom, but I should have. Everybody I ever talked to who owned one loved the V-Strom. Me, I loved my TL.
Joe frequently posts of the magical experiences in Baja and one he focuses on heavily (for good reason) are the tours in Guerrero Negro to see the gray whales and their babies. Having experienced that twice I concur with Joe’s description of this fabulous encounter, however, the tour operators for the gray whales won’t let you disembark the panga to swim with these giant mammals. I know this because I have asked to jump overboard to swim with the whales during both tours I was on. This to me (with my ever-questionable judgment) seemed like the next logical step in being able to enhance the experience.
Two weeks ago, as I entered La Paz I instantly was drawn to the many advertisements for tour companies offering opportunities to SWIM WITH WHALE SHARKS! This was what I was yearning for! A tour boat will bring you out to a marine preserve, provide you with a safety briefing, a wet suit, flippers, a mask, and snorkel and you are ready to swim with whale sharks. The boat will approach these fish (they are the largest fish in the world growing to upwards of 40 ft). We were ready to go with legs hanging over the panga as it slowed down near a whale shark and one by one we jumped off the boat into the warm waters of the Sea of Cortez. It was very much like exiting an aircraft as a paratrooper.
Once in the water the guide, who is also in the water with you will point out the whale sharks (in case you cannot spot a 40-ft fish). You can see these magnificent sharks swimming and grazing on krill. We were fortunate enough to have several around us, which got a bit harrowing as they were almost vertical in the water spinning like some type of aquatic ballerina while drawing in water filled with krill. As we began to close in on them we can feel ourselves being pulled into their mouth like a whirlpool. I instantly became aware of their size and power.
It was at this moment I am certain the people topside heard some colorful Bostonian language being funneled up through my snorkel when I was too close for my own comfort. The whale sharks are peaceful and aware you are there and not a threat to them, but they are also aware they are bigger, better swimmers, and you are in THEIR habitat. One thing to keep in mind is that they will not move for you and if you get in their path, they may push you or run you over. This was an incident we all clearly wanted to avoid.
There were only four of us on the tour and we performed four dives over about 2 hours. Their overwhelming size and our proximity to the whale sharks never got old, and our adrenaline never died down. We used Red Travel Tours out of La Paz. Our guides Siyad and Mario were well informed and they had a passion for ensuring we had a once-in-a-lifetime experience while respecting nature. They were both genuinely as excited as we were when swimming with the whale sharks and educating us on the ocean they live in. For anyone traveling in Baja this is an experience and a tour company you want to go with to see whale sharks.
The good news is when I was recently on the range with my Remington Custom Shop Model 504 the air was dead still and I had the range to myself. The bad news is the 5-shot 50-yard groups were just so-so, and I didn’t have anything to blame that on but myself. Well, maybe. I only tried two kinds of ammo (an old box of Remington Target 22 and a new box of CCI standard velocity ammo). You have to play around trying different makes (just like you would experiment with different reloads) to find ammo that a rimfire rifle really responds to. I’m not there yet. But I’m having fun along the way.
Representative 5-shot, 50-yards groups from the Custom Shop Model 504. I’m expecting to see groups in the .250-.300 range from this rifle (I’m not done yet).
Sue and I were in Rapid City, South Dakota, several years ago exploring Mt. Rushmore and the Black Hills. We took a lot out of that trip…we saw Mt. Rushmore during the day and in the evening, we saw bunch of stuff in the Black Hills area, we went out to a little-known Minuteman Missile National Park, we saw the Badlands, we stopped in Wahl Drug, we went to Devil’s Tower, and of course, I had to check out what I now know to be one of the best gunshops in the country: Rapid City’s First Stop Gun and Coin. I could have spent the entire day there, but we had other things to see and do. After our visit, I started checking out what First Stop had listed on Gunbroker.com, and it wasn’t too long after that that I saw a Remington Custom Shop Model 504.
High end walnut, as is appropriate on a Custom Shop Remington rifle. The recoil pad might be more appropriate on a .416 Rigby, but it looks great on this rifle.
I didn’t even know what a Model 504 was, I’d never handled or shot one, but I knew what the Remington Custom shop was all about. The rifle had my interest. It was not cheap, but that was maybe a dozen years ago and when you see a Custom Shop Model 504 come up for sale today (which hardly ever happens), the ask is about three times what I paid. I’ve never seen another Custom Shop 504 in person; I’ve only seen them on the rare occasions one appears on Gunbroker and in a couple of Internet reviews.
Remington wanted a high end .22 bolt rifle in the early 2000s to compete with the offerings from Kimber, Browning, Ruger, CZ, and others, and the Model 504 was the result. Remington had three versions: A Sporter model, a heavy barreled Varmint version, and the Custom Shop 504 you see here. Remington built the 504 from 2004 to 2007. The Custom Shop Model 504 was the flagship and it had it all: A machined steel receiver, a highly polished deep blue finish, a free-floated barrel and glass-bedded action, highly figured walnut, a subtle forearm tip, a super smooth action, cut checkering, a recoil pad that might be more at home on a .300 Weatherby, and a barrel from the super-exotic Remington Model 40 target rifle. I didn’t know any of this at the time I hit the “buy now” button, but I knew any Remington Custom Shop rifle is a collectible item.
The Model 504 receiver is glass bedded.The Custom Shop markings on the 504 barrel.A very subtle forearm tip.
My rifle came with the rings of unknown origin and Bausch and Lomb mounts. I first mounted Bushnell scope, a scope set up to be parallax free at 100 yards. But I typically shoot a .22 at 50 yards. I next put an old Weaver 4×12 variable scope (adjustable for parallax) on the rifle, and when I adjusted for 50 yards it had no parallax. I don’t know how repeatable that old scope is (and as you’ll notice from the photo above, the groups seem to move around a bit), so one thing I’m going to do in the future is put another scope on the rifle, mostly likely Mueller’s 4×12. I have a Mueller scope on another rimfire rifle and I know it is good. I like the looks of the old Weaver the 504 is wearing now, but when I tried adjusting it, there didn’t seem to be much correlation between the adjustments I was making and where the bullets were going.
The Weaver scope mounted on the Model 504.
Something that had me scratching my head are the plastic inserts on the scope rings between the scope body and the rings. I’ve never seen this on any other rifle, but from what I’ve read on the internet, they work well for other shooters (even on heavily recoiling rifles, which a .22 is not). The scope appears to be secure.
The plastic scope ring inserts. I had never encountered this before.
The Model 504 magazine is apparently scarcer than an honest politician. Only one magazine was included with my rifle. Now that I am shooting it more (it’s no longer a safe queen), I thought it might be a good idea to pick up a couple of spare mags until I saw their price. When you can find one on Ebay or Gunbroker, they go for around $200. I think I’ll be careful with my one magazine and keep looking; maybe I’ll get lucky and find one in a gunstore’s discounted junkbox (most old line gunshops have these).
The difficult to find and very expensive Model 504 magazine.High end walnut, starboard side.High end walnut, port side.
It may be that the Model 504 is just not that accurate. My findings are consistent with what other 504 reviewers have published (in fact, my gun is turning in tighter groups than what others have previously published). Recognizing that the Custom Shop model used the same barrel blanks Remington used for the Model 40 .22 rifle, I would have expected more. Maybe it’s there and I just haven’t found it yet. At least that’s my hope.
Good buddy Paul sent this very recently released video from Lipsey’s to me last night:
The video is just under 10 minutes long and it’s worth watching. To me, this new J-frame Smith addresses most of the shortcomings I’ve noticed with my concealed carry J-frame revolver. Here are my thoughts:
I like it.
The ideal of a .30 caliber 6-shot is intriguing (in addition to the 5-shot .38 Special version Lipsey’s is also offering). I know most concealed carry handgun encounters are settled in less than two shots, but having an extra round (one over the standard 5 shots) makes sense to me.
I notice the grips don’t go below the bottom of the grip frame, which would be a problem for me. Getting my little finger caught under the grip frame is what makes shooting a J-frame revolver uncomfortable (in fact, it’s downright painful after a shot or two). I do like the G10 material grips, though. I have those on my Sig Scorpion 226 and it is the best grip material ever, in my opinion. I would like a set of G10 grips that extend lower than the bottom of the grip frame, like the Altamont grips I put on my J-frame. These would be very comfortable.
The sights are a much-needed upgrade. The stock Model 60 and other J-frame sights are a joke.
The aluminum frame means light weight, which I guess is good for carrying the gun all day, but those little J-frames can have fierce recoil. My stainless steel Model 60 packs a punch; the aluminum version recoil will be worse. I suppose the assumption for most is that the gun will be carried more than it is shot, and that makes sense. But, still, that’s going to be a lot of recoil.
The J-frame endurance package is sorely needed. I shot the hell out of my Model 60 doing rapid fire at 7 yards and it quickly went seriously out of time. That was an expensive fix. Mine also had excessive headshake. I was able to address it with a shim kit, but it should not have been necessary.
It will be interesting to see what this new Lipsey’s/Smith and Wesson J-frame revolver costs and if it gets approved in California. My prediction is that Lipsey’s will later release a .357 Magnum version (not that anyone would need it, but it would probably sell well). I also predict a 9mm version. 9mm is the most popular centerfire handgun cartridge in the world, and I believe a 9mm version would sell well, too.
