The ExhaustNotes Blog

Let Them Eat Cake

Here in La Luz, New Mexico we have a really nice dump. It’s open 6 days a week and free to use for residents of La Luz. The perimeter wall of the dump is made from compressed tires held together with steel bands to form a square block about 4-feet across. Once stacked into place the tires were covered with steel mesh wire and shot with a gunite-type, sprayed concrete. Brown concrete color was mixed in with the gunite and it gives the impression that the dump is surrounded by one, unbroken dog turd.

Inside the dump there are bins for plastics, aluminum and paper recycling. Large, black, roto-cast drums for used motor oil sit under a corrugated steel awning. In the back part of the dump, near the great open pit for inorganic material like broken concrete or unwanted fill, there are a couple of piles for old steel and garden waste. I pick through the steel pile often, you can find some good material in there if you don’t mind losing a finger retrieving the metal.

Recently the dump has added a weigh station for commercial users and a large, two-story building that allows users to back into the building and toss their trash directly into 40-yard dumpsters located on the floor below. The whole place is clean and tidy. The dump crew runs a tight ship and since we don’t have garbage collection out in the sticks I make frequent visits. I’m such a regular that they know me by name and have my tag number memorized.

Last Saturday I told my wife, CT that I was making a dump run and since I was halfway to town I might as well go to the grocery store to pick up a few items and did she want any thing from the store? “Pick up an interesting loaf of fresh baked bread from the bakery.” I had an uneasy feeling. “And get them to slice it into thick pieces,” she finished. I told her that there was no way they were going to slice the bread for me but she said to try anyway.

You know how some people have a command presence, like CT has command presence? People fall all over themselves helping CT. She can get her bread sliced anyway she wants. I have what is called Servile Presence. When I walk up to a counter the clerk gives me a look that says, “Who do you think you are, buddy?”

I never can get my bread sliced or my prescription filled. I can’t return items for store credit without a Spanish Inquisition. CT can return an item bought at a hardware store to a flower shop and the clerk is glad to be of assistance. Anything to do with banking or the department of motor vehicles CT has to do because I’ve never succeeded in getting satisfaction from either place. The lowest of the beaten down, minimum wage workers need someone to kick and I am that guy.

I’ve found that asserting myself or getting mad and yelling only results in the manager escorting me out of the store. I probably bring a lot of it on myself. I’m usually dressed in dirty clothes and need a shave but that’s only because whatever I am doing I get dirty doing it and who likes to shave? Let’s face it: I look pretty suspicious and a bit homeless and meth-heady when out shopping. At least the crew at the dump treats me well.

There were five loaves of sturdy looking bread inside the bakery’s counter case. These were not foo-foo bread; they had a sprinkling of finely chopped grain baked into the crown. My mouth watered thinking of those thick slices of toast sopping up the dregs of a big bowl of onion soup.

The lady working behind the bakery counter was either a young-looking 110 years old or 85 years old. She had blond hair done in an up-do and a too big apron around her dress. We were 3-feet apart. “Excuse me, I’d like a loaf of this bread cut into 3/4-inch slices.” I waved my finger in the direction of the grain-topped bread.

“It’ll be a few minutes,” she said, “I’m busy.”

Then she picked up one of the loaves, put it inside a plastic bag and tied a yellow bag-tie around the open end. She put the wrapped loaf on a grey metal rolling cart behind her. There was no one else working at the bakery section and no other customers. I made like I was looking at the other offering with interest. She picked up another loaf of the grain bread and put it inside a plastic bag and tied it closed with a yellow bag-tie. I looked at some bagels with cheddar cheese melted over the top. They looked good but I’d have better chances winning the lottery.

I walked back to where she was tying the third loaf into a bag and took up a position directly in front of her. We were not more than two feet apart now. I leaned onto the counter, crowding in on her as I’ve seem CT use that tactic before. The bakery biddy glared at me and said nothing, picking up another loaf of bread to package. As much as it was possible to do so, she slid the loaf into the plastic bag defiantly, never taking her eyes off mine.

The long minutes dragged by with the two of us in a mortal battle. I wanted that bread and she was not going to give it to me. The rest of the store noises faded away and a kind of tunnel vision came over me as she put the final loaf of bread into a plastic bag. It happened in slow motion. Our eyes were locked and in my peripheral vision below I saw her gnarled hands tying the yellow bag tie around the end of the plastic bag. She put the last bagged loaf onto a cart with the other five loaves then turned and smiled the phoniest ever smile at me.

The bakery display case had a gaping hole where the grain bread had been. I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of telling me there was no more. I gave one last look into those eyes that had seen so much in such a long life. She seemed genuinely happy in a “Now then, how can I help you?” sort of way. I turned to my shopping cart and pushed it away towards the pre-packaged factory-baked bread isle. I’m hoping neither of us truly got what they wanted out of the 15-minute mini drama but I strongly suspect that since I never got the loaf of bread that I was the biggest loser.

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The Janus Halcyon 450 and Motorcycle Classics Magazine

Joe Gresh’s recent blog on the Vintage Japanese Motorcycle Club and their magazine is, like all of Gresh’s writing, outstanding. So much so that, as he suggested, I became a VJMC magazine subscriber.

I’d like to suggest another magazine, and as you have no doubt guessed from the title of this blog, it’s Motorcycle Classics. I think it’s one of the best motorcycle magazines in existence. Part of that is due to MC‘s quality…glossy paper, a great page count, great photos, and great writing. And part of it is I get to see my work in MC‘s pages on a regular basis. Most recently, it’s my story on the new Janus Halcyon 450. Sue and I had a great time visiting with the Janus team in Goshen, Indiana, and the Halcyon 450 motorcycle is a winner. Pick up a copy of Motorcycle Classics magazine and read the Halcyon 450 article. Better yet, subscribe to Motorcycle Classics.

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Want to read more about Janus motorcycles in action? Check out the Baja ride we did with Janus!

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Ruger’s .357 Magnum Blackhawk

If I had to select one handgun above all others, my choice would be easy. It’s Ruger’s .357 Magnum Blackhawk. I don’t have one, but that’s something I aim to fix in the near term. I’m watching two .357 Blackhawks on the auction block right now. One is that drop dead gorgeous brass frame Old Model you see in the big photo above. That one is not just any Blackhawk, either. It was previously owned by Hank Williams, Junior.

The Hank Williams Blackhawk has a lot going for it. It’s the Old Model Blackhawk, which has a feel when cocked similar to a Colt Single Action Army. There’s the provenance (this one has a letter attesting to its prior ownership and its factory brass grip frame). And, there’s that rare (and highly desirable) brass grip frame. Ruger only made a few of those.

Winning the auction for the Hank Williams Blackhawk is a long shot. My backup is to buy a new Blackhawk, and I have my eye on the one shown in the photo below.

A new New Model Ruger .357 Blackhawk with a 6 1/2-inch barrel.

I guess I need to go tangential for a minute and explain this business about Old Model and New Model Blackhawks. The basic difference between the Old Model and the New Model is that the Old Model can fire if you drop it on a hard surface. The New Model incorporates a transfer bar to prevent that from happening. You should carry an Old Model with the hammer resting on an empty chamber; you can safely carry a New Model with all six chambers loaded. Naturally, geezers like me prefer the look and feel of the Old Model (and we tend not to drop our guns), but the new Model Model is every bit as good and every bit as accurate. Geezers just like old stuff.

I found a used 200th year stainless steel one on Gunbroker about a dozen years ago, I won the auction for it, and I ran the equivalent of a lead mine’s annual output down the bore (including some ultra-heavy 200-grain loads). I am the only guy I know who wore out a .357 Blackhawk. The loading latch wouldn’t stay open, and when I returned it for repair to Ruger, they were as amazed as I was that I wore it out. It was beyond repair, they told me, but as a good will gesture they paid me what I paid for it. Nobody, but nobody, has better customer service than Ruger.

A 25-yard group with the .357 Blackhawk. The Blackhawk will do this all day long.

Part of the reason the .357 Blackhawk I describe above went south, I think, is that it was stainless steel. I have it in my mind that stainless steel is softer than blued carbon steel, and I think they just don’t hold up as well under a steady diet of heavy loads. That’s why my next .357 Blackhawk will be blue steel.

To me, the Blackhawk is a “do anything” .357 Magnum. It’s a good buy in today’s inflated world, it’s a solid defense round, you can hunt with it, and it is accurate. I like the longer barrel for the sight radius. You can believe this or not, but I can easily hit targets at 100 yards with a .357 Blackhawk and the right load.

It’s been at least a couple of years now that I’ve been without a .357 Blackhawk, and like I said, I aim to fix that problem. I’ll let you know which of the above two guns (a brand new blue steel Blackhawk, or the Hank Williams Old Model) I pick up. Most likely it won’t be the Hank Williams revolver (competition and bidding will be intense on that one and it will probably be too rich for my blood), but the New Model will make me just as happy. Good times lie ahead. Stay tuned.

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More Tales of the Gun!

A Harley Submarine?

Everybody who’s ever thrown a leg over a motorcycle has a story about when they crashed. This guy (who’s name I do not know) has us all beat. Last Thursday night, our unnamed hero was riding his Harley-Davidson across the Oakland Bay Bridge (the other big bridge connecting San Francisco to the mainland) when some dweeb in a Mini Cooper merged into his lane. A crash ensued, the rider came off the bike and suffered minor injuries, but the Harley kept going. And going. And going. Until it hit the rail and (you guessed it) went over the side.

The Oakland Bay Bridge is 190 feet above the Bay.

This fellow sounds like one tough (and lucky) dude. According to the news reports, he transported himself to the hospital, where he was treated and released. Also according to the news reports, no citations were issued to either our would-be U-boat commander or the Mini pilot.

The CHP and the Fire Department say they know exactly where the bike is. (So do I. It’s in San Francisco Bay.) The emergency responders will attempt to recover the motorcycle at a later date (the water under the bridge is about 100 feet deep). They are worried about it leaking gas and oil into the Bay. There’s a joke in there somewhere. Harleys are known to leak both, you know. I know Harley is moving to liquid cooling, but this is ridiculous. There’s got to be more. Let’s hear ’em.

As motorcycle crash stories go, this has to be one for the ages. I’m glad our hero (whoever he is) came through it with only minor injuries. Ah, the stories he’ll be able to tell.

So, here’s an invitation. Recognizing it’s not likely any of us will ever be able to top this story, what’s yours? Got a good crash story? We’d love to hear it.

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RD350 Yamaha Update

The 1974 RD350 has been faultlessly buzzing around south-central New Mexico these last few months without any attention. The old girl was dribbling oil and banging around on her front suspension and the tires that came on the bike were old and cracked. In addition, the rear 4.00×18 tire was too large and rubbed the fender over bumps. The bike kind of bobbed in turns and I didn’t want to take a long ride on those rotten tires. I needed to give the old bike some love.

What held me back was the Harbor Freight tire changer. I was in the middle of modifying the tire machine and I just lost interest. The monsoon rains have precluded any concrete work so I decided to finish the tire machine.

One of the issues with the HF tire machine is that the center shaft is too big for older motorcycles. The center shaft is a pivot point for your duck bar or tire levers. Most new bikes come with big axles and the stock part will work fine on those. I cut a piece of ½” rod 12-inches long and turned out a spacer to go between the factory center bar and the new ½-inch piece. My welding is atrocious but you have to cut me some slack as I can’t see the puddle and weld by sound. Now I can center-post smaller diameter axles without anyone crying about it.

The HF tire machine has three rim-grabber things. Two of the grabbers are pinned into place and one is screw driven. When it works right it really locks the wheel in place, essentially giving you a second set of hands. The grabbers were a sloppy fit on their square-tube arms and it’s hard enough getting all the fingers lined up at one time without stuff moving around. Shimming the grabbers with thin aluminum tightened up the machine and made fitting the rim to the grabbers easier.

While not required for the skinny RD350 tires, I made a duck-bar to assist with bead removal. The duck is a plastic piece that fits over the rim. You use a lever to pull the bead up over the duck’s head and then slide the duck along the rim with the duck bar. The plastic helps prevent scarring your nice chrome or aluminum rims. Needless to say, use lots of tire lube as the first ¼-way around the rim is a hard pull. The duck is actually a part from commercial tire changing machines and it works great on wider rims like you’d find on a sport bike or cars.

I made a steel piece to fit the bolt holes of the duck and welded a 4-foot long, 1” square tube to the duck mount. It’s also an ugly weld but thanks to the miracle of grinders and thick paint it doesn’t look so bad. I messed up by welding the bar to the duck foot square, or at 90 degrees to the bolt axis if that makes any sense to you. This meant that it didn’t sit flush to the curve of the rim when using the center pivot. The pivot point was right where the bar wanted to be.

A quick bending session tweaked the duck-bar enough to be functional. I’ll get it right next time. The duck-bar worked well on the back wheel of the RD350 but the front rim was too skinny. There wasn’t enough room for the duck so I did it the old fashioned way with tire levers.

I bought two Shinko SR712P tires for the RD350, a 3.00×18 for the front and a 3.50×18 for the rear. These are the stock sizes and they don’t rub the fender. The rear looks pretty skinny, I’d like to get a 3.75×18 but I can’t find one. I’ll need new brake shoes for the rear drum but that will have to wait for another maintenance session.

The fork seal replacement was pretty straightforward and so I managed to screw it up. The RD350 has a chrome cover over the brake hose manifold. This cover makes loosening the lower triple clamp pinch bolts impossible unless you remove the top triple clamp and the headlight fork ears. Then the chrome cover can slide up allowing access to the pinch bolts. That was way too much work for me so I decided to pull the sliders off and leave the rest of the fork on the motorcycle.

The RD350 fork slider has a very thin seal retaining area and when I gave the seal a gentle exploratory pry a tiny piece of the damn fork tube cracked by the snap ring groove. I was so upset I didn’t take a photo. Anyway, I worked the cracked piece off and filed the area smooth to make it look like it was made that way. I was temped to do the other side to make them match.

I ended up clamping a big, galvanized carriage bolt into the vice; the head fit behind the seal nicely. Then I cut a piece of PVC pipe that fit over the thin area and contacted the solid part of the fork tube where the dust cover stops. After that a rubber hammer knocked the seal out. It was clear sailing from then on; I reassembled the fork sliders onto the tubes and dumped 5 ounces of 10/30 synthetic motor oil into each fork leg.

For the little amount of work I did the difference was amazing. The RD350 falls into turns with the greatest of ease and holds the line like a supermarket customer getting cash back from a personal check. It feels like power steering. The bounciness is gone and the bike feels much calmer. Now that I can push the bike a little harder those cheap, aftermarket rear shocks are showing a lack of damping. I didn’t notice it before because the front was bouncing so much. The tires are skinny but feel like they grip well. I don’t road race on the street but if I did I could hustle the purple RD350 through the mountains pretty fast.

There’s more to do on the RD350 but I like riding the bike so much I don’t want to disable the thing. I have to fix a leaking oil tank sight glass, re-grease the steering head bearings, replace the rear brake shoes, clean the carbs, and on and on. All that can wait because the sun is out (in the morning before the monsoon rains) and I’ve got to ride this bike.

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A Tale of Two Old Army Black Powder Rugers

Good buddy Paul is a black powder enthusiast. I am, too, except I’m completely inexperienced as a shooter in the blackpowder world. I owned an 1858 Remington reproduction (it was a Pietta, I think, and it was beautiful). Good buddy Duane wanted one and I sold mine, new in the box, to him without ever firing it. I’ve seen it fired, as Duane is a range regular and he’s had it out a few times. And I have a beautiful reproduction Colt Walker (made by Uberti; you can read that story here), but I haven’t fired that yet, either.

But I digress; this story is about the Ruger Old Army. Two of them, in fact. The name notwithstanding, the Ruger Old Army is a completely modern gun, with the exception of it’s being a cap and ball revolver. Ruger made a few variations of this fine weapon, with the variations being barrel length (the ones Paul owns are both 7 1/2-inch barreled guns; Ruger also made 5 1/2-inch barreled versions), blue steel or stainless steel construction (the ones you see here are samples of each), satin or highly-polished stainless steel, and fixed or adjustable sights. Ruger also offered a brass grip frame on the blue steel version (those are beautiful handguns). Ruger also offered the Old Army with simulated ivory grips for a while.

Paul added custom grips to his Old Army revolvers, and in both cases, the grips add considerably to the revolvers’ appearance.

Big bore percussion revolvers have simultaneously been called either .44 caliber or .45 caliber. They are not a .44, though. They are all .45s, and you can fire either a .457 lead ball, or a .454 conical lead bullet.

Ruger introduced the Old Army in 1972 and discontinued it in 2008 as sales slowed. From what I’ve read, Ruger Old Army revolvers can be extremely accurate. I can’t tell you that from personal experience, however. As I said above I have absolutely zero range time with the Old Army or any other black powder firearm. Caps are difficult-to-impossible to find these days with the pandemic-induced components shortages (I haven’t fired my Walker yet for that reason).

Paul’s two Old Army Rugers are beautiful. One of these days, when components are flowing freely again, we’ll have to get them and my yet-to-be fired Colt Walker on the range.

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ExNotes Product Review: The VJMC Magazine

The 1970s were the golden years of motorcycling. New and exciting motorcycles poured out of Japan at dizzying speed, so many new models that it was all the moto-magazines of the era could do to review them all. The surge of new motorcycles changed the focus and content of motorcycle magazines for decades to come. It was all motorcycle reviews all the time. Multi-bike shootouts became necessary as there weren’t enough pages or time to give each new bike a thorough review.

Expanding on the motorcycle-review theme, the magazine industry began to review more and more motorcycle accessories and motorcycle related products. You’d get a new moto-mag issue in the mailbox and the entire thing seemed like one big sales pitch: You must buy this! The hard sell made sense for an advertising-based income stream. Besides, who didn’t like reading about the latest and greatest motorcycles? I sure liked it.

We review a lot of junk here on ExhaustNotes; it’s an easy way to fill empty space with empty words that don’t require much creativity. The Internet has taken over written and video reviews for all topics, motorcycle or not. Those old style, review-heavy magazines failed and became unreadable Internet product shilling sites. It’s telling that two of the largest remaining paper motorcycle magazines, RoadRunner and Rider, focus more of their content mix on the experience of riding and owning a motorcycle.

Testing and reviewing motorcycle stuff is still a worthwhile occupation but as Revzilla-type, retail/editorial web sites become the new normal you have to wonder how unbiased a review can be when the publisher makes the lion’s share of their income from selling you the item they are reviewing. In a lesser way, ExhaustNotes makes a few pennies when you buy a reviewed product from that Amazon link we include in a story. Now, a few pennies won’t make us biased but what if it was thousands of dollars?

Which brings us to the VJMC magazine. The VJMC is a really well done club magazine that harkens back to moto-mags from the 1940s. Editorially, the VJMC mag sells nothing. The content mix is vintage event reports, how-to articles and nostalgic look-backs into those heady, Japanese motorcycle invasion years. In other words exactly the stuff I like.

The VJMC magazine uses premium glossy paper that is thick enough for gasket making. How-to stories are extremely detailed and if you’re not into that sort of stuff you may find them tedious and boring. I’m into that sort of stuff. Event stories have plenty of photos and lists of winners (typical club magazine stuff).

A big surprise for me was how many vintage Japanese motorcycle parts and service providers advertise in the magazine. Most of them were news to me and I spend a lot of time looking for parts. I’ll have to try out some of these guys that I’ve never heard of before.

Let’s face it, you don’t buy motorcycle magazines looking to read Hemingway and you’re not going to get Hemingway in the VJMC mag. You will get workmanlike prose that conveys the intention of the author. I’m guessing VJMC mag doesn’t pay their authors much, if anything. It’s more a labor of love. Still, the magazine works.

It’s been years since I’ve had a motorcycle magazine show up in my mailbox. It was quite a thrill when I opened the box and saw the VJMC mag inside. Kind of like the old days when Motorcyclist or Cycle Guide would show up. The paper motorcycle magazine is all a part of the vintage motorcycle experience and really sets the tone for a quick spin on the RD350 or RT1-B. To get the VJMC magazine you have to join the VJMC motorcycle (club? gGroup?) and you’ll get 6 issues a year for your $35 entry fee. It’s worth it to me, so you must buy it!

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A Colt Visit

The city of Hartford in Connecticut is Mecca if you are a Colt fan (as in Colt firearms), and I sure am a Colt fan. I grew up seeing Colt .45 sixguns in western movies when I was a kid and I got my first Colt (a .45 ACP 1911 Government Model) when I finished college (and I’ve never not owned at least one Colt since then). I have no tattoos, but if I were going to get one it would be the Colt logo.

My Colt 1911 has been sending lead downrange for 50 years.

I made a friend in the Colt company when reviving the MacManus award. I had to be in Hartford recently for a symposium and I told my Colt buddy I’d buy him a beer. He suggested a tour of the Colt factory. That was an opportunity I could not let pass.

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The original Colt plant (the one built by Sam Colt) is a National Historic Site. Time did not permit visiting it, but I could see the blue dome above the old plant from my hotel window.

The original Colt manufacturing facility on the banks of the Connecticut River. I didn’t get to it, but the next time I’m in Hartford I will.

The modern Colt factory is a few miles from downtown Hartford. It’s what you see in the big photo up top, and it’s where I had the plant tour described in this blog. The bad news is that photography is prohibited inside the plant (as a manufacturer of military rifles for the US and other countries, Colt can’t have photos of their production processes finding their way to the bad guys). The good news is that I entered the inner sanctum. I saw how the M4s, the M16s , the 1911s, the Single Action Armys, the Pythons, and all the other cool stuff are made. As a manufacturing guy and gun guy with a defense industry background, it was one of the best days of my life.

More good news is that I could take pictures inside the famed Colt Custom Shop. The Custom Shop is a small group of world class artists who assemble what are arguably the most desirable guns in the world. Think engraved, gold inlaid, extremely expensive works of the gunmaker’s art. Guns that are delivered to US presidents, wealthy collectors, and…well, you get the idea. There’s a two-year waiting list for a Custom Shop Colt firearm, and when delivered, the ticket can exceed the cost of a new car. On the secondary market, some have been known to exceed the cost of a new home.

Colt Custom Shop handguns, the stuff of dreams.

You can still purchase a brand new Colt 1903 through the Custom Shop. This one is exquisite. I owned one in the 1970s I bought it for $75 and sold for $200 a few months later, thinking I had done well. Ah, the mistakes we make.

A Custom Shop Anaconda with an inlaid gold bear and extensive engraving.

A closeup of the above Anaconda’s engraving and gold inlay. It’s all done by hand with small hammers and tiny chisels.

An exquisite Single Action Army. The grips are giraffe bone.

Colt’s Custom Shop is producing a series of Single Action Army revolvers for the legendary Texas Rangers. The Texas Rangers are the oldest law enforcement organization in America.

Colt has a process for making a new gun look aged. It’s been applied to this Custom Shop Single Action Army.

This was my second visit to Hartford. When I wrote The Gatling Gun nearly 30 years ago, I contacted Colt to ask if I could visit their archives (the original Gatling guns were built by Colt). Colt referred me to the Connecticut State Library and Museum. I went there and I was met by a Connecticut State Trooper who asked me a few questions, took my fingerprints, and ran a background check. Satisfied I wasn’t a terrorist or a KGB agent, he issued a laminated permit designating me an official Connecticut state historian. That gave me access to the archives in a secure area of the Museum. Poking around in there made for a fun day, and I used materials from those archives when I wrote The Gatling Gun.

My visit to the Colt archives three decades ago was impressive. I handled hand-written documents signed by Dr. Gatling and Samuel Colt. It was a great day and a lifelong memory. My recent visit to Colt factory and the Custom Shop (as described in this blog) made for an even better day. A Colt tattoo….maybe that’s not a bad idea.

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Dream Bike: Honda MT250 Elsinore

The first motorcycle that I couldn’t hold the throttle wide open through the gears was a CR250 Honda Elsinore. I was around 16 years old and had ridden other 250s: Suzukis, Yamahas, 4-stroke Hondas. They were enduro bikes with heavy flywheels and mild porting. The Elsinore was a full-on motocross bike and I had never experienced a real, racing motorcycle.

When I left the line Wide-eFfin’-Open like I normally did the front wheel was climbing into the sky and at the same time the rear tire was shooting rocks and dirt 50 feet behind. The only thing that kept it from flipping over was lack of traction. Each time I shifted gears the front wheel came off the ground and a fresh torrent of debris issued forth from the squirming back tire. It was a breathtakingly fast motorcycle.

It was so light, so powerful, the engine ran clean throughout the rev range, and the suspension was the best I had ever ridden. The steering was telepathic and the bike could fly through the air like Superman. By the time I was topped out in 4th gear the bike was starting a slow, gentle weave and the two-track dirt trail I was on had grown very narrow. I had to lift. I never even made it to top gear. What a motorcycle!

The MT250 was not like that. It was a mild-mannered bike and Honda’s first modern two-stroke street bike. In the mid 1970s street legal, 250 two-stroke enduro bikes were wildly popular. Honda made a decent but heavy 4-stroke enduro. To compete with the other guys Honda had to lose the valve train and build one of those confounded “Thinking Man’s” engines. Honda building a two stroke street bike was earthshaking news in the 1970’s motorcycle world. It stirred up passionate opinions, like when Bob Dylan went electric.

The MT250 looked a lot like a real Elsinore except it had gauges, lights and blinkers. The gas tank was steel instead of artificially aged aluminum. The frame was regular steel not chrome-moly like the race bike. It even mixed the oil and gasoline automatically like Yamaha’s Autolube. All these changes added weight but you could get a plate for the thing and ride it to high school.

If my memory has not failed completely I remember the motorcycle magazines of that era being slightly disappointed with the new two-stroke Honda. How could such a milquetoast motorcycle come from the fire-breathing CR250 Elsinore? I guess they were expecting a motocross bike with lights. Eventually one of the magazines did just that. Here again, I may be imagining this but I seem to remember one of the magazines putting a CR250 top end on a MT250. And that was all it took. The heavy flywheel with the CR porting made for a fast, powerful 250 that wasn’t so abrupt that it would spit you off.

I loved the style of the first CR250s and there hasn’t been a better-looking dirt bike built. I’ll go even further: the early CR250 is one of the all-time best-looking motorcycles of any category since forever. The MT inherited a lot of the CR’s style and it flat looks great. The engine was a strange-but-cool, dark brown color and the exhaust pipe swooped banana-like along the right side of the bike.

“If you like the CR250 so much why don’t you just get one?” you may ask. Here’s the reason: the CR250 is a race bike, it’s an old race bike, but it’s still a race bike and fast as hell. I don’t need that kind of pressure at this stage of my life. The MT250 has all the style with none of the fear. I can ride the MT on the street to get to the trails; no need to load it into a truck. Hell, you could ride the MT across country if you wanted to.

Honda’s MT250 never really took off and their low-ish used prices reflect that milquetoast reputation. You can pick up a perfect one for $2500 and a decent daily rider for under $1500. Not counting the very first bikes they built, Honda didn’t make many two-stroke street bikes. There was the MT125 and the NSR 400cc three-cylinder pocket rocket; no others come to mind. Were there any others?

My dream garage would not be complete without an MT250. It’s a bike I could ride around back country trails without fear of breaking down or flipping over backwards. The thing is as reliable as a Honda. While I’m dreaming I’ll think of the CR250’s incredible acceleration and just green-screen that vivid memory onto the background as I putt-putt down to the ice cream store for a fudge sundae.

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The last Betty…

Some days at the range I don’t feel like punishing myself with heavy recoil or trying to shoot the tightest possible groups with loads that have been tuned to perfection. Nope, shooting is fun, and sometimes blasting through a box of ammo is just what the doctor ordered.

A few years ago when we were organizing military surplus rifle fun matches, good buddy Paul showed up with a bunch of zombie targets. Paul called the zombie Boris and the hostage Betty, and the names stuck. We had targets left after the match, and yesterday I shot the very last one.

I had my trusty Model 60 Smith and Wesson and a box of 100 .38 Specials I had loaded on my Star progressive reloader. They were Gardner Cache powder-coated 148-grain wadcutters with 2.7 grains of Bullseye (the go to accuracy load in .38 Special). I set ol’ Boris and Betty up on the 7-yard line and proceeded to double-action my way through 20 cylinders’ worth of ammo (the cylinder in a Model 60 holds 5 rounds). There was not a single misfire in the entire 100 rounds, and more importantly, not a single one of them hit Betty. Boris…he didn’t fare so well.