Adventure Motorcycle Books – Page 5

¿Quantos Pistones? (The Triples)

By Joe Berk

I suppose I could wax eloquent about all the magnificent three-cylinder motorcycles out there in the world, but in keeping with the theme of this series, I’m sticking (at least for now) with motorcycles I’ve owned or ridden. In those of the triple flavor, there have been three: A 1969 Kawasaki two-stroke H1 Mach III, a 2006 Triumph Tiger, and a 2007 Speed Triple. The first one (the Kawi 500 triple) didn’t impress me at all; the Triumph triples impressed me mightily.

Keith Hediger’s 500cc Kawasaki

Way back when I was in college, I had a 1971 Honda 750 (I’ll you about that bike when I do the ¿Quantos Pistones? blog on the fours). One of my ROTC buddies, Keith Hediger, had a 1969 Kawasaki Mach III. It was a real oddball: A 500cc, two-stroke triple that could stay with a Honda Four in a drag race (which was kind of amazing, considering the Honda’s 50% displacement advantage). Keith and I had this great idea that it would be a real adventure to ride from New Jersey to Quebec, Canada, and we set off to do just that.

A 1969 Kawasaki Mach III 500cc two-stroke triple, a bike that broke all the rufes.

New Jersey to Canada on two naked street bikes with no plan, no luggage, and no rain gear was not a great idea. That point was driven home when it started to rain somewhere in Vermont. It kept raining all the way up into Canada, and when we hit Montreal, we decided we had experienced enough adventure riding for one trip. But it was my first international motorcycle ride, and I had a chance to ride Keith’s Mach III when we switched bikes for a while.

My short ride on the Mach III convinced me of three things:

- - The Honda CB750 Four was downright luxurious compared to the Mach III.
  - The Mach III had a seat like a 2×4. It was uncomfortable as hell.
  - The Mach III was indeed every bit as powerful as the CB750 Four.

I didn’t ride the Mach III long enough or on the right kind of roads to assess its rumored widow-making handling, but the bike felt twitchy and unstable compared to my Honda. And that was it for me and triples for the next 2o or 30 years.

My decades-earlier short ride on the Mach II notwithstanding, I changed my mind about triples. I wanted a Triumph. It started at a Cycle World event (or maybe was it Cycle; I always get the two pubs mixed up) in Los Angeles. I was there on my ’92 Softail when it happened: I heard a Trimph Speed Triple enter the parking lot. It was a magnificent thing, kind of a pearlescent candy pink (which sounds weird as I type this), but wow, it hit all the buttons for me. The color (I would call it bubble gum pearl) just flat worked for me, and that exhaust note…it was just wonderful. It was kind of a mix between a small block Chevy with a big cam and a jungle cat’s snarl. Fierce, yet refined. Loud, but not obnoxious. Big power, but controlled. I knew that someday soon I would own a Triumph triple.

2006 Triumph Tiger

That someday soon arrived when I stopped at Doug Douglas Motorcycles in San Bernardino. In those days some 20 years ago now, Doug Douglas was an old school motorcycle shop. San Bernardino is regarded by many in southern California as the armpit of the state, and I guess I was of that opinion, too. At least until one of my riding buddies corrected me: “It’s more like the crotch,” he said. I think he was right.

My 2006 955cc Triumph Tiger. The haze in the background is real. I and buddy of mine were riding in the mountains north of Los Angeles during one of our many famous forest fires.

Anyway, I was riding through San Bernardino on my Harley when I stopped at Doug Douglas Motorcycles. Doug was an old guy even then, and he was famous, I guess, as a former motorcycle racer. He was a crusty, cagey old guy who picked up on my reaction when I saw the candy blue, tiger-striped Tiger you see above. He knew I was a goner before he ever said a word. Doug told me what it would be, out the door, and my fate was sealed. Folks, I’ve never paid the asking price for anything, and folks who know me, know I’m as tight was a turtle’s butthole (and that’s watertight). I looked at the Tiger and then Doug and I simply said, “Okay.”

I don’t remember exactly, but I think the Tiger was about $9,000. Sue hit the roof when I came home and told her what I had just done. Then I told her I needed a ride back to Doug Douglas so I could bring the bike home. She fumed for about half the trip until she finally asked me where the money was coming from. I told her I had some money left from selling my Suzuki TL1000S. “What did you do with the rest of that money?” she asked.

“That mother of pearl and black onyx bracelet I bought for your birthday,” I said. I hadn’t known it when I said it, but it turned out that was the perfect answer. Sue was sweet as a kitten for the rest of the ride. When we reached Doug Douglas’s place, I introduced her to Doug.

“You must be the world’s greatest motorcycle salesman,” Sue said. “My husband told me he said yes to your first offer, and that never happens.”

Old Doug scratched his chin and told her, “It’s true I’m a good motorcycle salesman, but I’m really much better at selling new living room and bedroom furniture.” Sue and I were perplexed at that one, until Doug added, “lots of guys who come home with new motorcycles end up buying new furniture within a few days of their buying a motorcycle from me…”

The Tiger was a wonderful motorcycle and I covered a lot of miles with it. The Tiger was Triumph’s “me, too” ADV machine, but it was god-awful off road. I was terrified on it every time I turned onto a dirt road in Baja, which was exactly twice. In soft sand it would scare the bejesus out of a former paratrooper (something I can speak to with authority). The Tiger was essentially a high-performance street bike with ADV styling. It excelled on mountain roads. It was tall and top heavy, but it was fast, it sounded wonderful, and I loved it.

2007 Triumph Speed Triple

The Tiger scratched a lot of my itches, but I still remembered that candy bubble gum Speed Triple, I fancied myself a hooligan, and I still had the urge to own a Speed Triple.

About a year after I bought the Tiger from Doug Douglas, I was in his dealership again and I saw the Speed Triple you see above. I didn’t buy it on that visit, but I thought about it a lot in the days that followed. I drove out there on a lunch break (I was still working then), made an offer, and it was mine.

I opted for a few doodads, including gold-anodized bits and pieces, the little flyscreen, and a set of Jardine carbon fiber mufflers. The result was what was unquestionably the most beautiful motorcycle I’ve ever owned. I remember I was getting a haircut one time downtown and a cop came into the barbershop. He asked if the Speed Triple was mine. I got an adrenaline rush thinking I had done something wrong, but nope, he just wanted to tell me it was a beautiful motorcycle.

The Speed Triple was beautiful and it photographed well, but it was buzzie and uncomfortable, and with its short wheelbase it was a little bit twitchy. I owned four or five motorcycles in those days, and the S3 was the one I rode the least. I sure liked looking at it, though.

One morning, I was headed to the University early in the morning for an 8:00 class. That was November 9, 2009. I exited the freeway and turned left, and I remember seeing a guy at a stop sign in a Camaro. We established eye contact. The next thing I knew I was being loaded into a helicopter, in great pain, with the blades’ downwash sweeping over me, thinking either I was having a really bad dream or I was being medevaced in Vietnam (which is kind of interesting, as I’ve never been in Vietnam).

My “I got screwed” photo. Trust me on this: It was as painful as it looks.

It wasn’t the Camaro guy at the stop sign, and it wasn’t even at that intersection. My S3/automobile altercation had occurred a block further west, which I learned 6 weeks later while I was still in the hospital. I have no memory of the crash (event amnesia, the doctor called it), but as crashes go, it was a relatively bad one. I had a concussion, two crushed vertebra, and two big fractures of my left femur. The femur was the big deal. One surgery while I was still in the hospital put a big metal plate down there to hold everything together while the fractures healed, and when that broke a year later, I had revision surgery to remove the now-broken plate and install a femoral rod so that the lower fracture (which had not healed) could do so. (Trust me on this: The words “revision” and “surgery” should never be used together.) I went on to ride other motorcycles throughout the western US, Mexico, Colombia, and China, so I guess the accident didn’t screw me over too badly. But it made an impression, and I’ll never use a motorcycle to commute to work again. The streets have a different personality during commuting hours, one best suited for a big car, or maybe an armored vehicle.

So that’s my story on the triples. Although the idea of a three-cylinder motorcycle may feel weird (and from an engineering perspective, maybe a little unbalanced or asymmetric), I believe a three-cylinder motorcycle makes a lot of sense. I think a triple has it all: Power, balance, handling, and (at least for Triumphs) the right ExhaustNotes.

Missed our stories on the Singles and the Twins? Hey, no problemo! Here they are:

¿Quantos Pistones? (The Twins)
¿Quantos Pistones? (The Singles)

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Buy A Bike In A Box!

By Joe Berk

Boy oh boy, it’s hard to believe a dozen years have slipped by. The year was 2013, and one of CSC Motorcycles’ early marketing campaigns for the CSC 150 Scooter was the “bike in a box” program. CSC sold its Mustang revival motorcycle as a kit, with assembly to be performed by the owner. It was a brilliant marketing campaign and it worked well. So well, in fact, that when CSC started importing the iconic RX3 250cc adventure touring motorcycle a couple of years later, an option available to consumers was to buy the bike in a pre-setup format and perform the setup themselves.

In an effort to hold the line on tariffs and keep prices down, CSC is returning to its roots for the San Gabriel 250, one of its best-selling models. Buyers can get the bike pre-setup, set it up themselves, and save a whopping $495. It’s easy to put one of these motorcycles together, and to make it even easier, CSC provides a complete “how to” video. It’s a great way to bond with your bike and to learn a bit about motorcycle mechanics in the process. For more info, visit the CSC website at www.CSCMotorcycles.com.

Would you like to learn more about CSC’s early days and the role yours truly and Joe Gresh played in helping to promote CSC Motorcycles? It’s all there in 5000 Miles at 8000 RPM.

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Indiana Jones Revisited

By Joe Berk

Yes, it really was like that. Somewhere along the Silk Road (the actual Silk Road) in China. I parked my RX3 when I saw the double rainbow, thinking someday I might use the shot in a blog about this adventure.

Almost 40 years ago, I saw my first Indiana Jones movie and it affected me profoundly. I started traveling the world stumbling upon lost empires. Things that have been swallowed by time, as they say. My motorcycle ride through Colombia had some of that. The Baja adventures have a bit of it, too. But none of the rides had more of an Indiana Jones flavor than did the ride across China. That ride was three years ago this month, and I still think about it every day. There were several things we saw in China that would have been right at home in an Indiana Jones movie. One was Liqian. I can best tell you about it with an excerpt from Riding China, the story of the ride with Joe Gresh across the Ancient Kingdom.

Gobi Gresh, aka Arjiu, stopping to smell the sunflowers in China.

The ride in the morning was just like yesterday. We rode the Silk Road at high speed, making great time in magnificent weather. I knew we were going to Wuwei (you could have a lot of fun with that name; it’s pronounced “woo wee”), but that was really all I knew about that day as we started out that morning. Boy, would this day ever be an interesting one!

It was to be a very full day, and Wuwei would be another one of those cities of several million people that seem to pop up in China every 50 to 100 miles. It was a huge city I had never heard of. China is an amazing place, and I was going to learn today it is more amazing than I could have imagined, and for a reason I would have never guessed. I’ve mentioned Indiana Jones movies a lot in this book. Today, we came upon something that could easily be…well, read on. This is going to be good.

After riding for a couple of hours, we left the freeway and entered a city called Yongchang. It seemed to be pretty much a regular Chinese city until we stopped. I needed to find a bathroom and Wong helped me. Wong is a big, imposing guy. He’s a corrections officer supervisor in Xi’an. He has a friendly look, but he can turn that off in a New York minute and become an extremely imposing figure. I saw him do that once on this trip, and I’ll tell you about that episode when we get to it.

Corrections Officer Supervisor Wong. He looks like a mischievous guy. This guy’s command presence was amazing. I saw him stop a car just by looking at it. Here, he’s enjoying the attention in Yongchang.

Anyway, I followed Wong through a couple of alleys and businesses until we came to an empty restaurant (it was mid-morning, and it had no customers). Wong spoke to the lady there, she nodded her head and smiled at me, and pointed to the bathroom. When I rejoined the guys back on the street, several women at a tailor shop (we had coincidentally stopped in front of a tailor shop) were fussing over Wong. He needed a button sewn on his jacket and it was obvious they were flirting with him. Wong seemed to be enjoying it. Like I said, Wong is a big guy, and I guess you could say he’s good looking. I think the women who were sewing his button on were thinking the same thing.

Beautiful young Chinese ladies. Mostly Chinese, anyway. The one on the left is entering my phone number in her contacts list.

Three teenage girls approached us and wanted to know about our bikes. Like many young Chinese, they spoke English (in China, you learn English as a second language in grade school; it is a strong advantage in Chinese society if you can speak English well). They wanted to practice with us. It was the routine stuff (“how are you?” “hello,” and things like that) until one of the teenaged girls looked directly at me and asked, “Can I have your phone number?” Gresh and I both had a good laugh over that. I actually gave her my phone number and she carefully entered it into her phone (and no, she hasn’t called me yet).

I was enjoying all of this immensely, taking photos of the girls, the seamstresses flirting with Wong, and the rest of China all around me. There was something different about one of those teenage girls. I couldn’t quite recognize what it was, but to me she definitely looked, well, different.

Yongchang statues. They don’t look as Chinese as you might think they should. There’s a reason for that.

It was at about that time that Sean approached me and said, “Dajiu, do you see those three statues over there?” He pointed to three tall statues that faced us, perhaps 300 yards away. I nodded yes. “If you look at their faces, you will see that they have Roman features.” Truth be told, I couldn’t really see it in the statues because they were too far away, but I grabbed a photo and later, on my computer, I could see something different. But before I looked at the photo, it all clicked for me. That’s what had my attention with that girl. We were literally in the middle of China and she didn’t look as Chinese as her two friends. She looked different.

All right, my friends, I need to go tangential here for a minute or two and share this story with you. Hang on, because this is real Indiana Jones stuff. No, scratch that. I’ve never seen an Indiana Jones movie with a story line this good (and I’ve seen all of them).

More than 2,000 years ago, before the birth of Christ, the two most powerful empires on the planet were the Roman Empire and the Han Dynasty. These two superpowers of their time enjoyed a brisk trade relationship along the Silk Road. Yep, the very same trail we had been riding for the last few days. Between them (in what became Iran and its surrounding regions) lay a smaller empire called Parthia. For reasons only the Romans understood, Rome thought it would be a good idea to attack Parthia. They sent several Roman Legions to war (and to put this in perspective, a Roman Legion consisted of about 5,000 men). To everyone’s surprise (including, I would imagine, the Romans), the Parthians kicked Rome’s butt.

Wow, imagine that. Rome, defeated on the field of battle by the much smaller Parthian Empire. To put it mildly, things did not quite go the way the Romans thought they would.

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All of this severely disrupted trade between the Han Dynasty and the Romans, and nobody liked that. “Why the hell did you do that?” the Han Dynasty asked Rome. “We had a good thing going and you screwed it up.” At least that’s what I’m guessing the conversation went like. You get the idea.

Cooler minds prevailed and the Romans realized, yeah, that was a dumb move. The Romans told the Parthians, hey, it’s over, let’s be friends again. The war ended, the Chinese were happy, the Romans were happy, the Parthians were happy, and trade resumed. All’s well that ends well.

Well, sort of. There was still that matter of those pesky Roman legions that had invaded Parthia. They didn’t come back from that war, and for two thousand years, no one knew what happened to them. The Romans probably assumed their Legionnaires had all been slaughtered. No one knew until an Australian dude and a Chinese guy, both University archeologist types (starting to sound a little like Indiana Jones yet?) put a theory together in 1957. Hmmm, maybe those Romans had not been killed after all.

The Parthians, being bright enough to defeat the Romans, were not about to let the Legionnaires go home and perhaps attack them again in some future war. They didn’t want to kill the Romans, either. I guess they were kinder, gentler Parthians. Here’s where those two Aussie and Chinese archeologists enter the picture. They hypothesized that the Parthians told the errant Legionnaires, “Look, we don’t want to kill all you guys, but there’s no way we’re going to let you go back to Rome. And there’s no room for you here, either. Your only option is to keep heading east. Go to China. Maybe you crazy warmongering Italians will find nice Chinese girls and settle down.” With that, and as one might imagine, a hearty arrivederci, the Romans continued their eastward march straight into the middle of China.

And folks, the prevailing wisdom today is that is exactly what happened (although the prevailing wisdom evidently hasn’t prevailed very far, as I had never heard the story until that morning in Yongchang). In fact, prior to this theory surfacing, folks wondered why the Chinese referred to the area around Yongchang as Liqian. That’s not a Chinese word, and it’s unlike the name of any other Chinese town. The folks who know about these things tell me it is an unusual word in the Chinese language.

Liqian is pronounced “Lee Chee On.”

Get it yet?

Lee Chee On? Liqian?

Doesn’t it sound like “legion?” As in Roman legion?

A Chinese man in Liqian. This guy could be the Marlboro Man for a Chinese cigarette company!

I found all of this fascinating. I saw more than a few people around the Liqian area that had a distinct western appearance, and they all consented to my taking their photos when I asked. They recognize just how special their story is. The Chinese government is taking note of this area, too. They are developing a large theme park just outside of Yongchang with a Roman motif. We visited that theme park, and while we were there, Sergeant Zuo gave a book to me (printed in both English and Chinese) about the place. It is one of the two books I brought back from China, and that book is now one of my most prized possessions.

Imagine that: Roman legions, resettled in the middle of China, in a town called Liqian. And I rode there. On an RX3.

Watch for our next Indiana Jones episode in China. It’s about the lost Buddhist grottos at Mo Gao in the Gobi Desert. There’s more good stuff coming your way. Stay tuned!

Want to read more about the ride across China? Pick up a copy of Riding China!

¿Quantos Pistones? (The Twins)

By Joe Berk

This was an interesting blog to write (and it was interesting on many levels). As you know, I’m writing a series of blogs on motorcycles I’ve owned with the machines organized by cylinder count. The idea is to consider all of them from my ownership perspective, rack up a bunch of (hopefully) fun-to-read blogs, and then wrap up with my opinion on which engine configuration is the best. I’ve already done the first one on the singles I’ve owned.

A word on the photos: I was surprised I had photographs of every bike I’ve ever owned. In recent decades, after I had become a half-assed amateur photographer, the photo quality is generally good. In earlier years, I was not a very good photographer, nor was my equipment very good. Some of the photos are in black and white, and most of the earlier ones were taken with a dinky little Minolta C-110 camera. Hey, you go to war with the army you have.

Between that first ¿Quantos Pistones? post and this one, something self-updated on my computer and my laptop went from simply taking my orders to predicting what words I’m going to type next and then filling them in, which I found to be wildly annoying. I thought it was in the WordPress software, but it wasn’t. It was in my Edge browser. Google helped me; I found the offending “feature” in the Edge settings and switched it off. I think these software weenies are changing things just to give themselves something to do. I wish they would stop. The folks who keep doing this sort of thing are going to have a hard time explaining themselves when they’re standing in front of the pearly gates. I’ll be there, too, as a witness for the prosecution.

Rant over; let’s get back to the main attraction.

As was the case in the blog on singles, I am again discovering this: Just when I think I’ve listed all of the twins I’ve owned, I remember another one. That sure has been the case here. I suppose I had better hit the Publish button before I remember another one.

Alrighty then: With the above as a backdrop, here we go.

1965 Honda CB 160

Okay, I’m cheating a little. This wasn’t my bike at all. It was my Dad’s. But I rode it in the fields behind our house quite a bit and I sort of considered it to be mine, and that’s why it’s on this list.

The 1964 Honda CB 160, That’s me on the bike in New Jersey, during the winter months, when I was 14 years old.

The little 160 was nice. It was the first motorcycle I ever rode and I had a lot of fun on it. Honda was making big inroads in the United States in the mid-1960s and they changed nearly everything in the motorcycle world. It was a fun time for a 14-year-old kid.

The CB 160 only stayed with us for a couple of months. Dad had been bitten by the bug. He wanted something bigger.

1965 Honda Super Hawk

As was the case with the CB 160, the Super Hawk was Dad’s motorcycle. But the same modifier applied: I used to ride it in the fields behind our house in New Jersey, so I’m including it here.

The Super Hawk, with its 305 cubic centimeters, seemed infinitely more powerful than the CB 160 (especially riding it in the fields behind our house). Dad had the bug, though. The Super Hawk would only last for a couple of months, too.

1966 Triumph Bonneville

Ah, this was a motorcycle. A Triumph Bonneville. I couldn’t believe it. It had been my dream machine for at least a couple of years, and now there was one in the garage. And you know what? Dad let me ride it in those same fields behind our house. I can’t imagine what he was thinking or why he let me do that. I never dropped it, though. God Almighty, it was powerful. And the sound….it was awesome.

The Bonneville was an amazing motorcycle. Dad and I had a lot of good rides on it. I wish we had kept it. On that sound comment above: Nothing, and I mean nothing, has a a more soul-satisfying exhaust note than a Triumph.

1978 Triumph Bonneville

I was living in Fort Worth, Texas, I was single, and I was an engineer at General Dynamics on the F-16 program. When I passed by the Triumph dealer I realized I hadn’t ridden a Triumph Bonneville since I was 16 years old, so I thought I’d stop by. An hour later I signed on the dotted line, and I owned a Bonneville again.

Another shot of my 1978 Triumph Bonneville.

It was a great motorcycle. There was an older guy who owned a Yamaha TT 500 at General Dynamics (his name was Sam), and we road all the farm roads in the areas around Fort Worth. We both had hay fever and Texas had terrible pollen, but the riding was great. My Bonneville would top out at exactly 109mph (the earlier T120 and then T140 designations notwithstanding), and that was enough. The bike was kick start only (which made it an anachronism in 1978), but I was okay with that, too. For awhile, anyway.

I sold the Bonneville. I’m can’t remember why; I did a lot of dumb things when I was young. Shortly after I sold the Bonneville, I realized I needed a motorcycle again. You know, to be a complete person. That led to my next acquisition. But to this day, I wish I had kept the Bonneville.

1979 Harley Electra-Glide Classic

I used to spend a lot of time at the Fort Worth Harley dealer drooling over their new bikes. The late ’70s were, in my opinion, the height of the Willie G styling years at Harley. It was also the absolute bottom for them from a quality perspectives, as I would soon find out when I finally bit the bullet and bought the bike I thought was the most beautiful motorcycle I’d ever seen: The 1979 Electra-Glide Classic.

Yours truly, with a full head of hair and a 1979 Electra-Glide Classic. I called it my optical illusion. It looked like a motorcycle.

The Electra-Glide was beautiful, but to call it a piece of crap would be insult to turds the world over. The bike couldn’t go a hundred miles without something breaking on it. It needed three top end jobs in the 12,000 miles I owned it (the first two were on the warranty, the last one was on me). I’d finally had it with that bike and what some folks like to call “The Motor Company.” Hell, the motor was the worst thing on that bike. And the brakes. And the clutch. And the starter. And the handling. And the….well, you get the idea. It was one of the last years Harley was owned by AMF, and when a Harley mechanic told me what that stood for, I finally got it. I smiled inwardly when I sold the bike, thinking to myself, “Adios, MF.”

On the way down to San Diego, with the Pacific Ocean in the background. I explored a lot of southern California on the Harley. It was the most unreliable motor vehicle of any type I ever owned.

After that awkward ownership experience, I swore I’d never buy another Harley. I didn’t keep that promise, though.

Even considering all the above, I wish I still had that ’79 Electra-Glide. It would be worth a small fortune today. It sure was a pretty motorcycle.

1976 Triumph TR6

Somewhere in the succession of events described above, I moved from Fort Worth to southern California. General Dynamics transferred me to the Pomona facility. I loved southern California and I hated GD/Pomona. Actually, that’s not entirely accurate. The company was okay, but my boss was a dickhead. So I did what I normally do in that situation: I quit and went to work for another defense contractor. While there, I worked with yet another defense company, and one of the guys there had a 1976 Triumph TR6 he offered to sell to me for $500. It was running, it was registered, and minutes later it was mine.

On Glendora Ridge Road on the 1972 Triumph Tiger. It was a great motorcycle.

The TR6 was a wonderful motorcycle. If there was a performance difference between it and a Bonneville, I didn’t have the asspitude to feel it. The single-carb TR6 actually felt stronger at low rpm than the Bonneville did. I loved that bike, too.

Another Glendora Ridge Road portrait. The Tiger had character, and I mean that in a good way.

The paint on the TR6 had oxidized pretty badly (the former owner kept it outside). I had this idea I would restore it (see above regarding my propensity to do dumb things when I was younger). I did a pretty good job turning the great-running TR6 into a basket case (again, see the preceding comments regarding my youthful decisions). The paint job I paid for on the fuel tank was a disaster, and then I lost interest in resurrecting the bike. I sold the basket of bits and pieces for what I had paid for the bike. I wish I still had that one.

1972 Triumph Daytona

The first motorcycle I ever went gaga over was a 1964 Triumph Tiger that a kid named Walt Skok rode to high school. In those days, the Tiger was a 500cc twin that looked a lot like a Bonneville. God, that thing was beautiful.

Triumph kept that 500cc twin in their line for years, ultimately adding a second carb and rechristening the bike as the Daytona. When the 650 line went to the oil-frame-configuration in the early 1970s, the Daytona (also known as the Baby Bonneville) did not; it kept the classic Triumph separate oil tank and peashooter mufflers.

I can’t remember who I bought the Daytona from (I bought it used), but I sure remember its looks. It was a deep candy metallic green with silver accents. It was bone stock and it was a wonderful ride. The handing was almost thought-directed…I could just think what I wanted the motorcycle to do and it would do it. One day, for no particular reason, I took it to the top of one of our streets that ran up into the mountains, turned it around, turned off the ignition, and started coasting downhill. I wanted to see how fast it would go with zero power (see my previous decision-making comments); the answer was exactly 70mph.

I never registered the Daytona over the three years I owned it; I just rode the snot out of it. I never got stopped or and I never had a citation for the expired plates. I can’t remember why I sold it, or who I sold it to. The Daytona was a wonderful motorcycle. I wish I still had it.

1992 Harley Heritage Softail

I didn’t keep my promise to never buy another Harley. A fried let me ride his ’89 Electra-Glide. It was a big, fat porker (the bike, not my friend), but Harley was getting a lot of press about their improved quality. I saw a blue Heritage Softail on the road one day, and I decided I need one. It was that simple.

I covered a lot of territory on my 1992 Harley Softail. This shot was in the mud flats near Guerrero Negro in Baja, a trip I made with good buddy Baja John.

I put a lot of miles on my ’92 Softail, and while it lasted, it was a great motorcycle. Good buddy Baja John and I rode our bikes to Cabo, we took the ferry across the Sea of Cortez, and we rode down to Guadalajara and then back up through mainland Mexico to Nogales (you can read about that adventure here).

The Harley died on me down in Mexico on another trip, and although I had regained a tiny bit of trust in Milwaukee, the dealers were still (in my opinion) basically incompetent. When my ’92 went belly up, the dealer wouldn’t touch it because it was more than 10 years old (I can’t make this stuff up, folks), so I took it to an unencumbered independent repair shop and had it rebuilt as a real motorcycle (you can read that story here).

What kind of killed the Harley dream was me forgetting to pick up milk one day when coming home from a ride on the Harley. My wife asked about the milk. I realized I had forgot it, so I went back out to run to the store. For whatever reason, I took my KLR, and it was as if I had been set free. The KLR was just so much better, I put an ad in the local Cycle Trader the next day and sold the Harley the day after that.

While I am on this subject of Harley twins, I will tell you that I always wanted a Sportster. One day the Harley dealer had to keep my bike overnight and he lent a Sportster to me. That changed my mind in a hurry. It was gutless. I know some of my readers ride Sportsters and others ride Big Twins. Mea culpa in advance. If you’d like to tell me how great your bikes are and how I have my head up my fourth point of contact, please leave a comment, or send in a draft blog (info@exhaustnotes.us) with pics and I’ll publish your rebuttal.

1982 Yamaha XS 650

This was a lucky find, or rather, it sort of found me. I was teaching a failure analysis class at McDonnell Douglas about thirty years ago, and the first evening when I connected my laptop to the projector, a photo of the Triumph Daytona (the one described above) briefly appeared in front of the class.

“Hey, I have one of those,” one of the older engineers in the class said. I asked if he was a Triumph fanboy (as I was). He told me that he didn’t have a Triumph; he had the Yamaha that was based on it. He offered to sell it to me in front of the entire class. I hadn’t even introduced myself yet.

“Let’s talk after class,” I said.

I turns out this guy had purchased the XS 650 new, rode it very little, and it had sat in his garage for several years. I bought it for $900. I think it was a 1982 model, but I can’t say that for sure. Being a Triumph rider, I always thought it would be cool to own one of the Japanese 650 twins. You know…better reliability, no oil leaks, smoother running engines, better fit and finish, and all that.

I found had a good shot (at least I think it is good) of my 1982 Yamaha XS 650 Heritage Special. To this day, I don’t know how Yamaha managed to make the bars so uncomfortable.

I didn’t keep the XS 650 long enough to assess its reliability. I did keep it and ride it long enough to find out that it had absolutely no personality, it didn’t have the bottom end torque that a Triumph did, it sounded more like George Jetson’s car than a real motorcycle (let’s see how many of you know who he was), its Phillips head screws reacted to a screw driver the same way butter reacted to a hot butterknife, and the “cruiser style” handlebars were the most uncomfortable I’d ever experienced. As you can guess, the XS 650 didn’t hang around long. I traded it in to lower the cash outlay on my TL1000S Suzuki.

1997 Suzuki TL1000S

Ducati was setting the world on fire with its L-twin performance bikes, and predictably, it was only a matter of time before the Japanese attempted to do the same. Two L-Twin Japanese motorcycles emerged in 1997: Suzuki’s TL1000S and Honda’s Super Hawk (not to be confused with their Super Hawk of the mid-1960s, as shown above in this Twins story). I opted for the Suzuki variant in red. I just liked the looks of it; I felt it was a prettier motorcycle than the Honda.

The Roadmaster. This thing ate miles and speed limits voraciously. I toured a lot of Baja on it. This photo was taken somewhere in northern Baja.

The Suzuki was the fastest and hardest accelerating motorcycle I ever owned. It would lift the front wheel when shifting from second to third at over 100 mph. I dropped it twice getting in over my head, but I never really damaged the bike or myself. I used the TL as a touring bike, and I covered large parts of Baja with it. It was a fabulous machine and I wish I still had it.

2020 Royal Enfield INT

My most recent twin is the Royal Enfield 650 INT. Enfield called it the Interceptor initially (which is a much better name), but they quickly changed it to the INT (my guess is because Honda threatened to sue them, as they already had a model called the Interceptor).

The Motorcycle Classics magazine centerfield showing the two Enfields Gresh and I used for touring Baja. It was a fun trip.

Gresh and I conned Enfield North America into loaning us two bikes (a 500cc Bullet and the new twin INT) for a comparo ride in Baja. We had a great trip, trading bikes off each day and blogging extensively about our impressions. I liked the INT so much I bought one shortly after we returned. It’s a great bike at a great price and it has all the performance I’ll ever need, both as a street bike and as a touring bike.

So there you go. I’ve owned a lot of twins. To me, a well-engineered twin makes a great street bike.

You know what? In searching for photos of my old twins, I found another single I’d forgotten all about. It was my Triumph Cub.

I never put the Cub on the street. I just rode it a bit in the fields behind my apartment building and then sold it. It was crude compared to other bikes of the era, but it was nice. It would be worth way more today than what I paid for it or what I got when I sold it.

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A Decade Ago…

By Joe Berk

Man, the years do fly by: It was just over a decade ago we did the inaugural CSC Baja ride!

Those were good times and the RX3 was a great motorcycle. I was shocked when Zongshen stopped making them, but I guess those guys knew what they were doing. We had a lot of fun on those annual excursions.

I need to get back down to Baja again. Maybe I’ll do so next year. I’d like to say hello to the whales!

If you’d like to learn more about our Baja adventures, pick up a copy of Moto Baja! It was a fun book to write. Doing the research that allowed me to write it was even more fun.

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Nepal: The Everest Base Camp Trek That Never Was

By Mike Huber

Day 1

The phone in my hotel began ringing, I fumbled for the receiver as I looked at my cell phone stating the time was 00:02. I had slept pretty hard and woke up thinking I was in Marrakesh, Morocco. I had one hour remaining before my Sherpa was due to arrive at my hotel. As I became a bit more aware it hit me that none of what just went through my head made any sense. Suddenly a pounding on my hotel door began echoing through my head. Ok, it was my Sherpa, but I was in Katmandu and not Morocco. Dammit, it happened again: I lost track of where I was. To add to the matter, the Sherpa was an hour early or I was an hour late. Either way there was a gap in communication somewhere and it was time to get going.

Having just spent two days exploring and meandering through the vast number of temples in Kathmandu, the time had come for me to load up my gear and begin a 12-day trek to Everest Base Camp. Once having my wits about me and double checking all my sensitive items were in tow, my Sherpa and I began our walk to a local bus stop where we would catch a shuttle to Ramechhap Airport. My flight was set to depart at 0700 that morning.

The 5-hour shuttle ride to Ramechhap was anything but smooth. Most of the roads through this portion of Nepal were under construction so there was no sleep to be had by anyone along the ride. Eventually the rough van ride came to an end. I had arrived at Ramechhap Airport with enough time to grab myself a coffee and my Sherpa a hot tea prior to checking in for what was to be a quick flight to Lukla Airport.

Lukla is the world’s most dangerous airport. It sits at around 9,000 feet in altitude and the runway is literally a giant ramp. This airport even on good days faces some heavy dangers for aircraft due to winds and very low visibility. It is also the start for the Everest Base Camp (or summit) treks and during the high season is very bustling for such a small hub with only that one ramp of a runway.

As I checked my backpack and went through the airport security at Ramechhap I learned my flight would be delayed due to low visibility. I wasn’t thrilled but I also have the luxury of time, so there was little to do outside chat up several other travelers who were also doing the trek. As far as airport delays, this one was actually pleasant due to all these really wonderful people I was surrounded by.

As the day went on (as did the full ground stop) my Sherpa and I began to lose hope of making it to Lukla. This was a bit frustrating but out of our control, so we booked a hotel and would try again the following morning to get to Lukla. There was really nothing to do but go with the flow and enjoy some of the local food and people that were here.

Day 2

The routine was similar and again there was yet another full ground stop for fixed-wing aircraft. This time it was fog at Lukla. It was only a 20-minute flight to get there.

With many of the same people from the previous day there we all began talking and telling stories to pass the time. Some of these people chose to pay $400USD to take a helicopter into Lukla as the conditions were safe enough for them. Many of the others didn’t have that luxury of time that I did, as most were on vacation. As 1400 rolled around we knew we would not be making it to Lukla this day and yet again a hotel was the plan. We would try again tomorrow.

Day 3

This was starting to get a bit silly. The airport café guy knew my order by this point. I was one of the first people at the airport that morning and I helped with opening the gates and letting vehicles onto the airfield (I probably wasn’t’ supposed to do that). I was feeling like Tom Hanks in the movie The Terminal, but the weather looked sunny and the first couple flights had taken off. Cheers erupted through the airport and it was now our turn to board our flight. Everyone was loaded into the small prop plane and just as soon as the engines fired up they were cut. We were told to deplane and that winds kicked up again. It was our third day being scratched and although I was in no rush this scene was getting old.

Rarely do I use tourism companies but this was one time I was happy I did with all the cancellations. Kiran, the tour operator from Holiday Treks & Expeditions, took care of everything from the rebooking, to the hotels, to (sadly) my painful van ride back to Kathmandu. This made my life much less stressful and quite easy, but it didn’t look like Everest Base Camp was in the cards for me. It was a somber ride back to the city, but sharing a couple beers and jokes with my Sherpa helped keep morale up. My main objective in Nepal was to see Mt Everest and to experience the base camp trek, so I wasn’t sure what would be my next move.

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India 2025: Amritsar to Rishikesh

By Mike Huber

India Part XII

Loading the bikes the following morning, we were still basking in the Golden Temple’s magical glow. We were amped up for our next leg. This portion would be a relaxing two-day journey via Shimla to Rishikesh and would give us a glimpse of the lower Himalayan Mountain ranges. The roads would mostly be mountain twisties. This was what we wanted for riding (or so we thought).

The roads, although having great twisties, were extremely narrow. So narrow, in fact, that on more than one occasion oncoming busses would find themselves in stalemates as to who would back down and reverse to allow the other to pass. When this happened, we usually could squeeze through while they were conferring on who would back up. There also were the usual obstructions: Monkeys, cows, goats, and an occasional camel. This made for very slow going and by the end of this portion of the trip we were starting to miss the major roads we had previously ridden.

A sure way to tell you are off the beaten path is when you have to refuel your bike by purchasing fuel that is brought to you in plastic water bottles. Along these roads this refueling process became the norm, which I always find cool.

All in all it was part of the journey and we had a blast on this portion of our ride. Upon arriving in Rishikesh and seeing the Ganges River, we were exhausted and looking forward to a few down days to explore the city and have a couple of cold Kingfisher beers. I think my friend may have had another Bhang pastry as well.

The only thing I knew of Rishikesh was that the Beatles wrote most of their White Album there. We did the tourist thing and visited the Beatles’ Ashram (where they during that period). The Ashram was mostly overrun by jungle, but it was a decent side quest, and a reason to listen to the White Album that evening.

We took a different way back to our hotel from the Beatles’ Ashram. It allowed us to cross a narrow (mostly pedestrian) suspension bridge over the Ganges. We were about 100 feet above the river on this narrow bouncy bridge, moving very slowly due to the immense pedestrian traffic. It allowed us to observe Rishikesh from our high location, including the ceremonial burning of bodies along the Ganges’ banks. The crossing took about five minutes, but there was so much to take in during that five minutes that it felt as though we were on the bridge for hours. It was other-worldly, to say the least.

After reaching the other side of the bridge, we parked the motos. We sat along the Ganges and took everything in. Rishikesh was where we would begin to part ways on this journey, as my friends needed to return to Canada, their jobs, their wives, their children, and their world.

It was a crossroads for me. I didn’t have a next location or activity planned, as the trip through India during the past month had consumed every waking hour. I wasn’t concerned; this was the norm for me and I knew I would figure it out. I just didn’t expect to learn of my next destination by my phone exploding with calls in the middle of the night.

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India 2025: Amritsar and the Golden Temple

By Mike Huber

India Part XI

As we arrived back in Amritsar my friend’s eyes were returning to almost normal from his Bhang border journey that had still left him speechless. We all were still in awe from the entire border scene but we would have time to reflect on it later. Now we had to walk about two kilometers from our hotel to the Golden Palace and experience having dinner there. It wasn’t quite like anything we expected.

As we entered the grounds of the Golden Temple we had to check our shoes at the gate and place a hat on our heads to adhere to the Temple’s dress code. The temple and surrounding buildings were so lit up (not as lit up as my friend at the Pakistani Border, but lit up nonetheless). We walked around the inner walls of this magnificent building and eventually made our way to what seemed to be a huge dining hall. We learned this temple provides free food to 100,000 people every day! It is the single largest free kitchen in the world.

Once in the dining hall we were given a metal tray, some utensils, and a cup. We simply followed the people in front of us into an even larger room where there were just rows and rows of people sitting down on the floor, eating and drinking. After we sat down it was only a few moments before a server came by with a giant ladle and plopped some food onto our tray. There were a few servers dishing out rice, water, bread, and a sauce. For the amount of people there this setup was extremely efficient, to the point that once we were finished with our first portion, seconds were just a few moments away. The food was very satisfying and by the time we each had consumed two or three servings, we were set to get up and drop our trays and utensils off at the dishwasher counter.

After dinner we spent about an hour or so just admiring the beauty of this massive architectural structure. It was quite a sight and it was one of those places that really had its own pulse. The temple had a presence you could feel.

It was quite an eventful day in Amritsar. We retired to our rooms to get some sleep and prepare for the next day’s adventure.

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India 2025: Amritsar and the Pakistani Border

By Mike Huber

India Part X

Shaking off the continual feeling of being around rats, we began a 4-hour drive to Amritsar. It was crucial we get there early, as our plan was to Uber 45 minutes to the Pakistani Indian border for the closing ceremony. From what I had heard, it was just an insane spectacle to witness. Our ride was almost uneventful this day. Almost.

Around 10:00 a.m., we were still within the state of Rajasthan and we pulled over in a bustling city for a coffee break. It didn’t take too long before we were surrounded by locals wanting selfies of us and asking a lot of questions. This was mostly normal for us although it did seem at this particular stop there was an alarming amount of people surrounding us (not just the usual five or so). Within a few minutes, three serious looking men sat at our table and began asking some deeper questions than the normal chit chat. They asked to see our passports and stated they were Indian Federal Police. I am not sure why but I replied with “Show me yours first.” Which they did. Okay. It seems we were in a tourist forbidden zone as we were just a few kilometers from the Pakistani Border, which in Rajasthan was not a good thing (in Amritsar this was a non-issue).

Not wanting to lose physical control of our passports we chatted them up and in unison began to de-escalate the situation. This took about 10 minutes of back and forth as two more Federal Authorities joined in the questioning. There had been no signs or warnings stating this was a non-tourist area. I guess it was just common knowledge to most (the common knowledge we sort of lacked). Eventually the situation worked itself. They offered to buy us another coffee, but we thought it best to continue to Amritsar and not test our luck any further. We mounted our Royal Enfields and were on our way.

Shortly after we arrived in Amritsar without any further issues, we parked the bikes and paged an Uber to go to the Pakistani Border. Along the ride my riding friend in the front seat ate what seemed to be his baked goods from the Bhang shop (he bought these two days ago). He was talking to the Uber driver about pretty much everything under the sun as he wolfed down his pastry or whatever it was. I found it odd yet entertaining and his banter helped pass the drive until we pulled into the parking garage and began our short walk to what looked like a giant stadium.

There were thousands of Indians entering the long tunnel to the stadium interior. The really cool thing about this experience is that as foreigners we were treated as VIPs and given the best seats in the house. We were only 10 meters from the Pakistan border. This was after three different security and passport checks. Once we were seated we noticed it would be more than an hour before the ceremony started, but that made no difference to those on the India side as music was thumping through the speakers, and people were selling popcorn, sodas, Indian Flags, and all kinds of souvenirs. It was like being at Fenway Park but with much more going on in every direction.

As the time drew near for the ceremony, we could see through the fence that the Pakistani side was filling up. They had their own music thumping. Meanwhile, on the India side, there was a “ring announcer” riling up all those on the India side to include hundreds in a massive mosh pit on the stadium floor.

While these pre-ceremony festivities were occurring, I kept looking to my friend on my left. His eyes seemed a bit…well, off, and he was acting a bit freaked out. I nudged him to ask what he thought of the show. He could barely reply. He finally said, “There sure is a lot going on here.”

It took me a bit to finally pull out of him what was going on. The Bhang shop pastries were a type of legal edible marijuana, and he had consumed a rather large portion during the Uber ride in. My friend was higher than a cat on acid, at the India/Pakistan border, while all these activities occurred. Oh, man, it must have been a hell of a show for him. For me, even without the pastry, it was probably the craziest thing I have ever witnessed. Each stadium grew louder and louder. The only analogy I have is this: Picture Giants Stadium cut in half with two football games going on simultaneously, and being on the 50-yard line.

Fortunately for loaded friend, once the actual border ceremony began the ambiance began to tame down somewhat as the soldiers each performed their border closing duties (to include a halftime moment of them shaking hands with a short bow to one another). The flags of each country were lowered, carefully folded, and the ceremony came to a close. My friend’s eyes were about as wide as you can imagine throughout it all. We made our way back to the Uber for a relaxing 45-minute ride back to our hotel.

The day was far from over as we were to have dinner at the Golden Palace that evening.

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India 2025: Karni Mata Temple (the Rat Temple)

By Mike Huber

India Part IX

After ensuring we didn’t have any tails on us from our highway escapades, it was a short turnaround at the hotel before a visit to a temple in Deshnoke. I had heard much about this temple over the years and really wasn’t sure what to expect. What was urban legend and what was actually the truth surrounding this strange place? This temple was named the Karni Mata Temple, or as it is better known, the Rat Temple.

Well, it turns out this temple is everything I imagined it would be, but actually experiencing it was something for which none of us were prepared. Karni Mata is a Hindu Temple that believes rats are the reincarnated souls of a local story teller family that died during a famine. The rats are everywhere. There are just thousands all over and they are fed quite well. There are even several troughs for them to eat out from, and donations of grains and milk are frequently left to appease these local deities.

To add to the cringe factor, you must remove your shoes to enter the temple. As we removed our shoes and began our walk down the long hallways, out of the corner of my eye I would see things scurrying from left to right, and then right to left, and then just everywhere. After entering the temple, there are several long hallways with raised troughs that the rats climb up to eat grains and seeds. Every corner we cautiously walked around we would just see more and more rats. Surreal doesn’t begin to describe the place. The rats are so well fed, however, that when walking around the other parts of the city there wasn’t a rat to be seen. It seems they all stay in the temple. With such an abundance of food, why not? This didn’t help us get to sleep any easier, though, as our hotel was across the street from the temple.

We weren’t getting nearly as much sleep as we wanted (due to the temple’s close proximity) and we were anxious to get out of town and put as many kilometers between us and the rats as possible. Nonetheless, the temple was an experience to be had that few people get the opportunity to embrace.

Our next stop would be Amritsar, including a special trip to the Pakistan/India Border Closing Ceremony and the famous Golden Palace. This would prove to be one of our more adventurous days in India, in more ways than one.

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