Highly desirable, as would I be if I owned one (or so I thought): The 1969 SL350 Honda.
The year was 1969 and things were happening. On the world stage, Vietnam was going full tilt with no end in sight; on the home stage, I had finished high school and was enjoying my summer working at the California Speed and Sport Shop (I’ve got to do a blog about that place someday). I was 18 years old, I had a Honda 90, Triumph 650s ruled the streets, and the pizza in New Jersey was the best in the world. Stated differently, life was good.
My cousin Marsha was seeing a cool guy named Don. Don was a little older and infinitely cooler than me and my friends, a perception he solidified one summer night when he arrived on a brand-new Honda SL350. Wow. Candy blue with white accents, downswept pipes and upswept mufflers, a high front fender, knobby tires, and a look that was just right. Honda offered the SL350, if I recall correctly, in candy apple red, candy blue, and candy gold, and the bike in any of those colors had a silver frame. It was perfect. Say what you want about Asian aesthetics; in my opinion, Honda nailed it. Make mine any color, but I would prefer blue (like Don’s) or the candy red. Nah, scratch that…as long as I’m dreaming, make mine candy red. Yeah, that’s the ticket.
The SL350 looked (and sounded) the way a motorcycle ought to look and sound. In my testosteroned and teenaged mind, I would have instantly become infinitely cooler and better looking on an SL350. Every young lady in New Jersey would want to go out with me if I had an SL350, or so I imagined.
Up to that point, my dream bike was a Triumph TT Special (it had similar tucked-in headers and lots more power), but damn, that SL350 looked right. I would have bought one, but by the time I had enough coin to get a bigger street bike Honda had introduced their CB750, and that got the nod. But I’ve always wanted an SL350.
The SL350 was Honda’s answer to Yamaha’s DT series of dual-purpose bikes, but that wasn’t why I thought it was cool. Yeah, you can play spec-sheet expert and point out that the SL350 weighed more than the Triumph TT Special and had way less power, or that the DT Yamahoppers did better both on and off road, but I don’t care. And I know that the SL350 “only” had 325cc and it “only” had a top end just north of 80 mph. My answer to that? Please see Response No. 1: I don’t care.
The SL350 is one of the ones that got away. It hit all the right notes for me (your mileage may vary), and I still want one.
Highway 41. Falling safes and ACME dynamite country. Beep beep!
Highway 41 runs from the Gran Quivira ruins to Highway 380. Forty miles of easy dirt, (unless it rains), the road really doesn’t go anywhere I need it to go but I still take the route if I’m going north/south to Santa Fe and have time to kill. I have lots of time to kill.
The consequences of not keeping your rig in shape?
There are old ranches in New Mexico. This dry land requires thousands of acres to support cattle or whatever hybrid, cactus-eating animals they raise out here. Access to these ranches is via roads like 41. The road cuts through warning signs and fence lines working its way past lonely muster stations that no longer thunder with the sounds of hooves and bellowing cattle. Time continues to function out here, hour by hour degrading nails and planks, erasing the best efforts of past generations. It’s a bygone landscape that appeals to a kid raised on a steady diet of Road Runner and Wiley Coyote cartoons.
Highway 41. The red pin is Gran Quivira.
I’d like to think I could have made a stand out here, been a solitary man roping and fence-mending in the bitter wind of a New Mexico winter, surviving by my wits and taming this vast, high desert. I would have mail ordered rockets and catapults from ACME, the cartoon version of Amazon. I’d build windmills and log cabins. I’d eat snakes and shoot quarters out of mid-air with a six-gun that I took out of a dead man’s holster. Then I’d write a Rustic’s poem about the dead man titled, “His Noted Life Was Not In Vain.” I’d have all the trappings of America’s western lore and I would have shouldered it in stride. A life without comfort or ease would be met with a steely-eyed stoicism that concealed deep emotions surging through my fully realized cowboy-self.
A time gone by.Bring it on, and I’ll still be standing!
Highway 41 is remote, the kind of road that makes you worry about tires or if you have enough water. There’s no cell phone reception and you’ll want your rig in top shape to travel out here. I keep my rig in just-above-collapse shape. Clapped out with three broken engine mounts appeals to my cowboy-self. After climbing a small ridge, 41 becomes increasingly populated by ghosts. Bent and weathered power poles spread their arms, holding nothing. I should have brought more water and a jar of peanut butter.
If you have the time, and the back road leads somewhere you don’t really need to go, I recommend taking Highway 41. There’s adventure in every movement. Joy in discovering a structure that still stands despite it all. America’s private history is waiting to be discovered, starting with the insignificant bits first. It’s on us to record the passing of the Old West. We can be witnesses for unheralded battlefields where stoic cowboys fell to Time and Nature.
The 45 70 is a cartridge that’s been around since 1873, and it’s a whopper. Its designation was originally the 45 70 500 (a .45 caliber, 500 grain bullet, packed with 70 grains of powder). It was an Army cartridge used in the 1873 Springfield rifle, and the recoil was fierce enough that Uncle Sam soon cut the bullet weight to 405 grains. The cartridge was also used in Sharps and other rifles, and the early Gatling guns.
Reloaded 45 70 cartridges, with the 300-grain Hornady bullet. This is a big cartridge. It’s what buffalo hunters and Gatling guns used.
After the Army went to the 30 06 cartridge (in, of course, 1906), the 45 70 just about went belly up. But then Ruger re-introduced the 45 70 in their No. 1 single shot rifle in the early 1970s, and Marlin reintroduced their 1895 rifle shortly after that. The fun started all over again. That’s when I got in the game (back in the 1970s), and I’ve been happily sending those big .45 slugs downrange ever since.
I’m a big fan of the 45 70 and I’ve been told I’m a bad influence, as I’ve had several friends buy 45 70 rifles after hanging around me. It’s been fun, especially reloading the 45 70 and comparing recipes (more on that in a second).
As mentioned above, the Ruger No. 1 was the first of the modern rifles chambered in 45 70, and it’s a beautiful firearm. The Ruger No. 3 was an economy version of the No. 1 that Ruger only made for a few years. The No. 3 rifles were substantially less than a No. 1 when new, but because they’ve been discontinued, No. 3 rifles often sell for as much as a No. 1 (and sometimes more). The Marlin is less than either Ruger, but don’t confuse price with quality (or fun). The Marlin is a hoot to shoot, too.
A 45 70 Ruger No. 1, with Circassian walnut furniture and a 26-inch barrel.The Ruger No. 3, also in 45 70. These rifles sold for about $139 when new. Today they can sell for as much as $1000 in pristine condition.A Marlin 1895 45 70 Guide Gun. I bought this rifle because of its wood. It’s a good shooter, too.
I mentioned that my several of my friends now have 45 70 rifles, and we all reload 45 70 ammo. The idea is that we want to find the most accurate load for our rifles, and every rifle (even the same model) has its preferences. No two guns shoot the same.
Here’s where all this going. One of my buddies tested a load that looked promising in his 45 70 (a load using Trail Boss gunpowder with a 300 grain jacketed hollow point bullet), so I tried his load along with one other, all in the above three rifles, to see how they would do.
I shot at two targets for this test (a standard silhouette target and a 5-bullseye target). I shot each rifle at the silhouette’s orange center first (my aim point) because I didn’t know where the rounds would hit and I wanted to make sure I was on paper. Then I shot a second group from each rifle at the bullseye targets. I shot 3-shot groups except for one, as noted in my results in the table below. Note that all targets were fired at a distance of 50 yards.
First, the targets…
There are five different groups on this target. My point of aim was the bottom of the orange rectangle.The bullseye targets. I wasn’t worried about each group’s location; at this point, only group size was of interest. After picking the best load, I’ll adjust the rifle’s sights.
And finally, my tabulated results….
The first load tested would not chamber in the Ruger No. 1 because the bullets were seated too far forward in the brass cartridge case; better to find this out at the range than on a hunting trip!
The Ruger No. 1 really liked that 16.2 grain Trail Boss load (it was my buddie’s favored load). It delivered a 1-inch group. This load was also good in the Marlin, but not nearly as good as others I have shot in that rifle (the Marlin shoots into 0.6-inch with the right load). The No. 3 Ruger seemed to like the 3031 powder load with the 300 grain jacketed hollow point bullets.
As I mentioned above, every rifle responds differently to a given load, and that’s what we try to find…the best load for the best rifle.
I posted this photo a year or so ago when I was writing the CSC blog, and it’s worth posting again.
Photo by good buddy Burt!
The Reader’s Digest version of the story goes like this: When we did the Western America Adventure Ride (you can read all about that in 5000 Miles at 8000 RPM), one of the places my good buddy Baja John found to spend the night was Panguitch, Utah, just outside of Bryce Canyon National Park. The area and the little town of Panguitch were a lot of fun, we were having a grand time, and then I got to feeling guilty. That happens a lot on the group tours, and it’s because I’m not sharing the adventure with my girlfriend, Sue. But I have an app for that…I do the trip again and bring Sue along.
Fast forward a couple of years, and Sue and I found ourselves waiting to be seated at the Cowboy BBQ, the best restaurant in Panguitch (there’s always a line to get in). When we were seated, another couple came in behind us. Burt saw my Nikon and asked if I was a photographer. One thing led to another, and Sue and I and Burt and Roz had a great dinner that night. We became good friends.
Fast forward a little more and Burt sent the above photo to me, but it was not just any photo. Burt had just won a DPReview.com contest with it (the subject was newlyweds).
Nice work, Burt, and thanks for sharing your fabulous photo with us!
I did something today I haven’t done in a long time…I went for a motorcycle ride. By myself. Just for the enjoyment of it. It was awesome.
Nearly every motorcycle ride I’ve taken in the last 10 years has been leading a tour, or gathering info and photos for a magazine article, or testing a motorcycle for CSC or Zongshen. I had not hopped on a motorcycle just to rack up miles by myself in, well, I don’t know how long.
Today didn’t start out as a solo ride. I led a group of 15 riders from CSC to the Mt. Wilson Observatory this morning. I had done the Mt. Wilson tour about a month ago and I didn’t want to do it again so soon, so I thought I would just ride home by myself.
But I didn’t. I rode down Mt. Wilson Road alone, not worrying about who was behind me and who was and who wasn’t keeping up. I looked out to my left and I saw the whole of the LA basin, with Los Angeles itself protruding proudly from perhaps a thousand square miles of suburban sprawl. I’d never seen it like that before. I was tempted to stop for a photo, and then I realized: I wanted to capture the image with neurons instead of electrons (and I did). When I got to the bottom of Mt. Wilson Road where it intersects Angeles Crest Highway, I turned right instead of left. I wanted to go for a ride, and the 55-mile jaunt across the Angeles National Forest was just what the doctor ordered.
I brought my Nikon with me, but in a departure (for me, anyway) I didn’t take any photographs with it. I just wanted to ride. The Nikon stayed in its case, tucked away in my left saddlebag.
I rode through Charleton Flats and then Chilao Flats. I remembered from an article I wrote that Chilao Flats was named for a horse thief who kept his ill-gotten gains hidden in this area. Cool stuff.
I loved it. It was just me, my motorcycle, and the mountains. It was warm today, but it was comfortable. Warm enough to suppress the pine scent that usually permeates this area (I missed that), but not so warm that it was bothersome.
Newcomb’s appeared and I pulled in for breakfast. I grabbed a seat at the bar and I could see my motorcycle while I ate. All right, one photo, if you insist…my healthy breakfast courtesy of my iPhone (I told you, the Nikon stayed in its case today).
The best thing on the Newcomb’s breakfast menu.
Like always, my RX3 drew a crowd. You have to appreciate the scene…uber-expensive BMW GS motorcycles just back from the Starbucks wars, $40K Harley CVO monstrosities (loud pipes save lives, you know), Ducatis out the gazoo (loud clutches save lives, they say), and here was my little 250cc Chinese motorcycle attracting all the parking lot attention. Seeing it from the perspective of a Newcomb’s barstool halfway through one of the most glorious rides in the world was a treat (almost as good as the berries in that fabulous breakfast). The folks around my RX3 were clearly intrigued. Maybe it was the motorcycle. Maybe it was the tank decals showing where I had been on that little 250. And my bike doesn’t have any stickers from the Colombia or China rides. If they only knew.
Lots of Baja.And lots of decals.
The barmaid was loud, telling another customer about a recent head-on collision between a Guzzi and a Harley that killed the guy on the Guzzi. I’m guessing she doesn’t ride. We don’t like to talk about such things. Guys go too fast up here sometimes. I’m not one of them. I learned the hard way…physics always wins.
After eating, it was back on the road, letting the miles roll by to Wrightwood. I passed through two tunnels, with signs advising the next mile was a Bighorn sheep area. I didn’t see any, but it was cool knowing they were out there. Then another sign advising of eagles. More cool and comforting facts. I continued northeast, and I realized the road was now descending. The mighty Mojave desert was in front of me, and I caught glimpses of its expanse through the pine trees.
I put a cool 150 miles on my motorcycle this morning, and I loved every one of them. I need to do this more often.
Unlike most of my other dream bikes I’ve actually ridden an RD350. The slightly gaudy 1973 model I rode was mostly the previous generation Yamaha R5 except with reed valves, a disc brake in the front and one additional gear in the transmission giving a total of six. However minor the changes were, the result was spectacular.
The Yamaha RD350…one of my Dream Bikes!
The RD350 was a wheelie king and the bike would blow away any of the other 350cc bikes including the three-pot Kawasaki. Maybe the disc-valve Kawasaki 350 twin from the 1960’s would have outran it but we’ll never know as there were none around my town. It left the Honda CB350 for dead and would stay with a Honda CB750 up to around 70 mph. I know this because we checked.
Not just fast, the RD handled as good as the best bikes of the era. As children we set up a week-end flat track in the high school parking lot and the RD would drift the asphalt corners under power like it was at Ascot Park. That is, until it hooked up and spit you over the high side. Riding it gave you a feeling that anything was possible including dirt trails. It was an all-rounder long before today’s silly, overweight, overwrought, can-opener ADV bikes blundered onto the scene.
Top end on the RD350 was a bit over 100 miles per hour and it got there rapidly. It was slippery in the wet but that was down to the era’s bias-ply, low tech tires. If you rode it hard it drank gas at a startling rate. Except for fouling a plug now and then or the outside commutator brush wearing down nothing much went wrong in normal use. I have no idea what happens if you race them. Probably nothing good.
The red, 1973 RD model was cool but my dream bike came one year later. In 1974 Yamaha dropped the thick tank badges along with the tacky striping and painted the bike a deep metallic purple. Tastefully subdued decals on the tank sides indicated just who the hell made the thing. It was a thing of beauty and I must own one someday, somehow.
Right side engine, 1974 model.Left side engine, where the brushes are
Like everything our generation touches, the prices of Japanese motorcycles from 1970’s are getting screwed ever-upwards. Being one of the most desirable motorcycles of that era, RD350’s have gone up quite a bit. You can still find nice ones for $3000 with beaters down around $1500.
Here’s a 1973 RD350 for $1500
I’ve nearly bought one several times but either the distances involved were too great or I came to my senses and bought a thousand bags of concrete instead. As soon as I get a few projects out of the way I’m going to sell off some motorcycles and take another stab at RD350 ownership, in purple for the win.
Another blog a few entries down (it was on my magical journey to Mompox, Colombia) told about the isolated and surreal nature of that beautiful town. We had to take a ferry ride down the Magdalena River to get there, and I mentioned in the blog that my ride leader, Juan Carlos, had told me they would soon be building a bridge to Mompox. Well, they are, and here’s a video Juan sent to me about it…
There’s an old saying that goes something along the lines of “bad roads bring good people, and good roads bring bad people…” I think Mompox is going to change with improved access. I’m glad I saw it when I did. It was a special place on a special ride.
When I was a kid (and that’s reaching back into the 1950s), there was no finer automobile than a Cadillac. That’s the way it was back then, and even though I’ve never owned a Cadillac, I’d like to someday. The thought that a Cadillac is the best stuck in my mind.
Today if you’re snooty it’s all about BMW, Mercedes, Lexus, Infiniti, and maybe one or two others. All foreign stuff. I don’t know if foreign cars are really better or if tastes just changed, but back in the day, a sure sign of success was driving a Cadillac. Mercedes was a weird one in the 1950s, and nobody in America had heard of BMW. Lexus and Infiniti were way in the distant future, and if you were to tell somebody you had a Lexus back then, they would most likely assume it was a medical problem.
I still think the 1959 Coupe de Ville was one of the best-looking cars ever made (anywhere, at any time), but that might be because it’s what I knew as a kid. Let’s see, I would have been 8 years old in 1959. Yeah, those big fins and bullet tail lights were cool.
So I grew up knowing that Cadillac meant the best something could be (as in “the Cadillac of…”). Cameras, guns, bicycles, whatever…fill in the blanks, and if it was really, really good, it was “the Cadillac” of that product line.
Sooooo…….when I saw a series of early Caddies at the Nethercutt last Saturday, I was all over them. The Nethercutt had fabulous cars of all kinds, but the Caddies really did it for me.
I had been there just a few weeks earlier, we had company in from out of town who wanted to see the Nethercutt, and I was prepared. I had my Nikon D3300 walking-around camera, I had my 16-35 lens (it’s bigger than the camera), and I had enough light to dial in ISO 1600 and get me some Caddy photos.
Wow, a very classy 1930 Cadillac, the Model 452A Imperial Cabriolet, with Caddy’s 452-cubic-inch V-16. The colors work. I want one.A 1938 Series 90 Convertible Sedan. These cars are amazing.Something slightly more modern…a 1984 Cadillac Fleetwood limousine. This car belonged to a Merle Norman executive who gave it to the Nethercutt Collection when he retired. The Nethercutts were the founders and owners of the Merle Norman Cosmetics firm.A 1935 Model 452D 5-passenger convertible. Cadillac only made two of these, and here’s one of them. Wowee!A 1937 Series 90 Aero-Dynamic Coupe (yep, that’s how they spelled it). It also had the 452-cubic-inch V-16 engine.The 1933 Model 542-C Imperial Limousine. Sweet. It’s got the 452-cubic-inch V-16, too.The 1932 Model 452B Deluxe Sport Phaeton, with the same big V-16. Stunning.
So there you have it. The Nethercutt Museum has about 250 vintage automobiles, of which 150 are on display at any time. I’m guessing they have a few more Caddies stashed away, and that gives me a reason to go there again (and I will). If you’re ever in So Cal, you don’t want to miss the Nethercutt. It’s one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen. You might even say it’s the Cadillac of vintage auto collections.
When I was 13 years old in Florida you could get a restricted permit at age 14. The restricted permit was a driver’s license that allowed you to drive as long as an adult was in the car with you. Assuming he/she wasn’t suicidal, the adult was supposed to keep an eye on your driving and coach you. An adult would help you pick up the nuances of parallel parking, rude hand gestures, and, in Dade County, gun fighting after minor traffic accidents. Needless to say, having an aged, creaking burnout sitting in the car fouling the air with the smell of stale urine cut down on motoring fun quite a bit.
There was a motorcycle loophole in the restricted permit system. If a motorcycle was less than 5 horsepower, and if you stayed off the major highways and didn’t ride at night, you could ride solo without adults helicoptering over your ride. It was wonderful. Obey these few rules and a kid could ride his motorcycle anywhere he pleased.
Motorcycles between 50cc and 90cc were right in the 5-horsepower wheelhouse but your average traffic cop couldn’t tell a 175 from a 50. Many bikes were rebadged to appear smaller displacement than they were. I never knew anyone in my circle of friends that got busted for riding a bike too big. Of course, you had to be reasonable about the subterfuge. A 50cc badge on a Kawasaki 750 wouldn’t fly.
Two months before I turned 14 the state upped the age for a restricted permit to 15 years old. The world ended that day. Massive volcanic eruptions, cataclysmic earthquakes, a steady rain of nuclear weapons bombarding the United States, nothing was as devastating to me as Florida’s stupid statute change.
I would have to wait an additional 365 days and I’d only lived 5000 days in total. The year dragged by. Endless days were followed by endless nights only to be repeated one after another. I had to attend yet another grade in school. I couldn’t wait to be done with public conformitouriums anyway and this stolen year of motorcycle riding made it all the more aggravating. The drip, drip, drip of time counted my heartbeats, counted my life ebbing away. I was inconsolable, miserable and the experience placed a chip on my shoulder for government that I have not shaken off.
There are 9 years hidden in there somewhere!
Begrudging the failed clutch on my Husqvarna the other day I came to the jarring realization that I have owned the bike 9 years. I swear, I bought this thing not more than a couple days ago. I degreased the countershaft sprocket area to gain access and removed the clutch slave cylinder. From the inside of the slave I pulled out an aged, creaking o-ring that smelled of stale urine. The leak had allowed the clutch fluid to escape into the crankcase. Except for the missing 9 years the clutch repair went well.
Einstein was right; time is relative. From my 14-year-old perspective a year was an eternity. Now, as an adult I’m scared to close my eyes for fear that another decade will have passed by at light speed. Or worse yet, I won’t be able to re-open them at all.
I guess I should start this piece by explaining I’m not even sure what the Clifton Club is. After spending several minutes on Google researching it, all I could find is that it’s either a wedding and Bar Mitzvah venue in Lakewood, Ohio, or a series of bling pieces from high-end watch maker Baume and Mercier. I’m going to go with Door No. 2 on this one. It’s the only explanation that makes sense in the context of what follows.
Let me back up a step. Yesterday I chauffeured the ladies to Fashion Island in Newport. It’s a very trendy shopping mall in a very trendy part of So Cal (think Neiman-Marcus, Nordstrom’s, French poodles, BMWs, and the like). For me, a visit to any shopping mall is torture, but it keeps me in good graces with the rest of the clan and builds up goodwill points for the next collectible firearm purchase, so it all works out.
Anyway, while the girls were shopping I wandered into a high-end watch store (think Rolex and armed guards) and I noticed, of all things, a motorcycle. A new Indian, to be precise, in the middle of the store. I’ve never ridden an Indian (new or vintage), but I always thought they were beautiful motorcycles (again, both new and vintage). I’m not a big cruiser guy, but if I was, I think I would buy an Indian. They are good-looking motorcycles, and my buddies Joe Gresh and Duane both hold them in high regard (and that’s a powerful endorsement).
While I was admiring the Indian, a sales guy approached me (my new good buddy Eduardo…Eduardo, I think, is a particularly elegant name). Eduardo saw my confusion (a motorcycle in a jewelry store?), and he explained that Indian had a marketing partnership with Baume and Mercier, a high-end Swiss watchmaker. It all centered on Burt Munro and his record-breaking land speed record activities. Indian. Baume and Mercier. Burt Munro. Ah, it all came together.
The Baume and Mercier Indian watch. $3900, and it could be yours. Motorcycle not included. It is a beautiful timepiece. It’s part of their Clifton Club collection, and if you wear it, you could be a member, too.Indian got it right. It’s an OHV engine, but the valve covers are designed to emulate the flathead design of the original Indians. It’s masterful, I think.There’s a lot of room in those freight and setup fees. Don’t ever pay what any dealer asks for in these two categories. Read 5000 Miles at 8000 RPM, available on Amazon.com, and you’ll see what I’m talking about.
Do these marketing partnerships work? I suppose they do. More than 20 years ago, Ford teamed with Harley to offer a special limited edition F-150 pickup with Harley decals. As near as I could tell, the decals were the only thing special about that truck, and the only thing limiting the edition was how many they could sell. I had a lot of fun teasing a friend of mine who owned both a Harley Bad Boy (yep, they actually had a model with that name) and the limited edition truck. I drove a ginormous Tahoe and I rode a Suzuki TL1000 in those days. I told my friend I was going to put Suzuki decals on the Chevy and call it a TL-Ho. Good times.
Anyway, the Baume and Mercier watch I saw yesterday was cool (at $3900, it should be), and the Indian was beautiful. I hope the deal works out for Baume and Mercier, and for Indian. I pondered the Harley and Ford partnership mentioned above; I’m guessing nothing came of that, as the two companies seemed to have parted ways. Then I remembered that Bentley, the luxury British carmaker, has a partnership with Breitling (Breitling is another expensive Swiss watchmaker).
I wondered…what’s in it for the companies that strike up such partnerships, and what’s in it for their customers? I don’t think there’s any kind of pricing advantage or free gear package, so what would be the attraction? Is it simply living a branded lifestyle (you know, for insecure rich folks who need something more in their lives)? Or is it somehow making a statement about one’s wealth? Look at me! I drive a Bentley and wear a Breitling!
That got me to thinking…would a marketing partnership work for other brands, and in particular, would such a partnership work for less expensive motorcycles and watches? You know, look at me! I ride an RX3 and I wear a Timex!
What if you could sell a new motorcycle and give away a free watch with it? I’m thinking of China bikes, India bikes (not Indian Moto, but bikes actually made in India), and maybe Thai bikes. It might work if you included a free watch with each new motorcycle, and it would cost essentially nothing. I visited the Canton Fair in Guangzhou last year and I’m on their email list now, so I get all kinds of offers from Chinese manufacturers. You can buy new Chinese watches for $0.62 each (and if you’re thinking they are low quality, you need to think again and maybe research where what you’re currently wearing is actually manufactured).
The branding and theming opportunities might be fun. KLRs are made in Thailand…suppose you got a free milk-crate-themed watch to match your KLR’s topcase? The KTM 390 is made in India; perhaps you could include a Taj Mahal themed watch with each new 390 (isn’t that what the “TM” in KTM stands for, anyway?). Think of all the marques with models, engines, or major components manufactured in Thailand, India, and China…Hawk, SWM, CSC, Royal Enfield, BMW, Harley-Davidson, Triumph, Honda, and more. You can see the possibilities.
