Honda – The ExhaustNotes Blog

My First Motorcycle Arrest

By Mike Huber

Instead of one of my usual blogs on motorcycles, I felt it was time to highlight some of my motorcycling shortcomings. Many of us when starting this magnificent hobby have had a few blunders along the way and, well, some of us have had more significant blunders than others. Being who I am, it seems when I do anything it is extreme. Over my 28 years of motorcycling, it is pretty obvious that riding is no different.

I was a young U.S. Army Specialist serving in the 82^nd Airborne Division. One of my best friends was about to go through a rough divorce at the same time that I felt the call to obtain my first motorcycle. He let me practice on his bike and use it for the test if I purchased it from him. Facing an imminent divorce allowed for an extremely generous discount (he needed divorce and beer money), and being flat broke, this was what led me to make the purchase. The bike was a bright yellow Honda Magna 750 that had more than enough power (probably too much) for a first motorcycle.

The deal was pretty much done. I passed my written test and was ready to take my driver’s exam. I’m not sure if I was nervous or inexperienced (or both), but as soon as I started the test maneuvering around cones, I knew I was making a ton of mistakes. The Honda Magna was heavy and not the best choice for a new rider taking the motorcycle license test. Amazingly, though, I passed the exam. I later learned my friend had been chatting up the evaluator while I was testing to distract him. Regarding a successful test output, my friend had as much skin in the game as I did. After passing the test, I paid him $3500 in cash that I obtained by somehow qualifying for a personal loan. I became the proud owner of a 1995 Honda Magna 750!

It didn’t take me long to realize I was invincible on the Magna, even though I had no riding skills. I was a 22-year-old unstoppable 82^nd Airborne Paratrooper with a fast motorcycle. What could go wrong?

Pretty much everything could go wrong. Almost every evening when leaving Ft. Bragg there would be lights flashing in my rearview mirrors. It couldn’t be for me as I was way too far ahead of them. This, of course, was because I was going over 100 miles per hour. Everything was distant in my rearview mirrors at that speed. From what others had told me, the MPs were not allowed to leave post and had to call any pursuits into the local Fayetteville police. By the time that happened and an officer would be dispatched, I was long gone and most likely home on my couch watching TV and having a beer.

This cat and mouse game went on for months. Not daily, but usually one or two times every week. I didn’t care as it was nothing but entertainment for me. These near run-ins with the law helped my ego, but did not improve my riding skills one bit. Until one day when the birds came home to roost.

Sitting at a light on Ft Bragg, I decided to teach myself how to split lanes. Not noticing an MP (a Military Police officer) nearby, and noticing even less the car driver next to signaling the MP. Instantly the lights flipped on and I heard the “whoop whoop” of a siren. This happened at the moment the light turned green. All traffic stopped to allow the MP to move forward but he couldn’t as everyone had frozen (except for me, of course). Clicking down into first gear and blasting off like a Shillelagh missile, I was out of there. Knowing the MP would be able to catch up quickly (I was in the heart of Ft. Bragg), there was no running to the safety of the post border. After a quick couple turns, I realized it was probably best to pull over.

It was no surprise that the MP was not too happy. As he was listing my charges, I asked him if I could go inside my battalion headquarters to let my team know I would be late returning from lunch. The MP agreed, and I entered the headquarters building and proudly announced “Hey, Sarge, I am gonna need a little longer lunch today.”

My sergeant asked why, and the MP promptly and quite loudly said, “His ass is coming with me to the station!” As I rode to the MP processing station and received my charges, it hit me: It was my wedding anniversary. Since my CQ (Charge of Quarters) shift was 24 hours, I hadn’t called my wife. While the arresting officer was rambling to everyone in the station about my reckless driving, I thought this would be a good time to call her. I asked and was granted permission to make a phone call. I called my wife and wished her a happy anniversary. She was quite pleased that I somehow found the time to call during my busy day. The call was going great until my wife asked where I was.

“Ummm, jail,” I said. “I am in jail.”

My wife was instantly very mad at me. Prior to that she had been happy. I’ll never understand women.

Once released from jail, I was not punished, other than receiving a written letter stating that I had embarrassed the battalion and the 82^nd Airborne Division:

The letter was quite stern. I could not ride a motorcycle on Ft. Bragg until I successfully completed a motorcycle training class. The safety class was sorely needed, as my riding skills were horrendous (to say the least). The one hope I had was that upon completing the training class my new riding skills would be used for good and not evil. Sadly, there would be a Part 2, a Part 3, and even possibly a Part 4 to my maturing as a motorcyclist. For the time being, however, I was allowed back on post and I didn’t receive any military judicial punishment, and that was something to be thankful for.

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Bobbie’s Solo Baja Ride: Part 1

By Bobbie Surber

Discovering motorcycles came late in life for me. My first ride was in 2014 on the back of a KTM. From the first ride I knew I was hooked, and I knew being on the back was not for me. By January 2015, I purchased my first bike, a 2006 Yamaha 225 XT. I drove from Sedona, AZ, to Denver, CO, to pick her up. On the drive home, I kept looking at her in my rearview mirror and dreaming of my future adventures. That is, once I learned to ride!

A day later I was on a quiet street teaching myself how to clutch and ride. The clutching came easy, and I had no fear as a newbie. Soon I was competent enough to go down the block, then to the store and friends’ houses, and soon off-road. Boy, I fell a lot at first, but I was surrounded by a group of guys who encouraged and taught me the basics. Many remain mentors to this day. I still have that little 225 XT and would never sell her or give her away. She will be with me till the end.

I soon added a Honda 750 Shadow to my new addiction and split my time between dirt and road adventures. It seemed a perfect balance as I gained more skills off-road with the 225 XT and could now venture further without trailering as I rode the Shadow. This led me to my third bike, new to the USA: A BMW 310 (a single cylinder in hot demand in Europe and Asia). She was a red bike far faster than my little goat, the Yamaha.

With a bike that was great off-road while still able to handle the open roads, I set my sights on several bucket list trips, including the Pacific Coast Highway (Highway 1 up the California coast) and the Sierra Nevadas. These two trips in 2018 gave me the confidence to plan another solo ride. This time I would ride Baja, the peninsula in northwestern Mexico bounded to the north by the United States, to the east by the Sea of Cortez, and to the south and west by the Pacific Ocean. I set my plans for a Spring ride, but a trip to Hawaii and paddling the Colorado River got in the way in May, delaying my departure to June.

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Adding a new 40-liter Wolfman tail bag, I departed Sedona, AZ, heading for a small town south of Tijuana, Alisito, known to the gringos as La Fonda. This was my first time crossing the US border on a bike, challenging my skills while negotiating what seemed like 100 lanes with traffic darting between the lanes. It was soon my turn to cross at San Ysidro south of San Diego. I had done this several times in a car, but what a whole new ball game on a bike!

Turning hard to the right, I made my way to Mexico Highway 1, following the Pacific coast out of Tijuana. The air was crisp even on a June morning as I pulled into the left lane to pass a line of trucks and a group of protesters, soon finding my groove, indulging in music through my helmet speaker and enjoying the sights along the way. An hour later, I pulled into the parking lot at Dmytri’s Restaurant, well-known by locals and visiting gringos alike. It was a time to meet friends and show off my new girl (BMW, to clarify!). The margaritas and conversations flowed as I assured all of my friends that I was utterly competent to ride Baja solo in the growing heat of June.

Bravada got me thru till the morning of my departure, then a massive wall of apprehension flooded me. WTH, I was not competent enough to take on this challenge solo in Mexico! A repeated flaw as I once again found myself vacillating between the urge to push myself and my endless fear of failure and the unknown. I did what I do best, shoved the fear down, and got on my bike heading south on Highway 1 while enjoying the ocean breeze and the endless views of the Pacific Ocean. All the while, I negotiated traffic and the epic potholes that ranged from minor to “might swallow my bike” in one epic plunge.

With the efficiency of the toll road, I was soon in the traffic and mayhem of Ensenada, a port city that is a frequent stop for cruise ships. The smell of exhaust and burning trash contrasted against the street stalls grilling fresh fish and carne asada. I could not resist and soon found a place to pull over for a cold Tecate and a plate full of tacos. The local girls working the roadside restaurant were enthralled with my bike, asking for photos on it it with the sultry hotness that only a Latina could pull off while wearing an apron. I accommodated their requests for pictures and answered a soon-to-be-frequent question of “Solo?” with “Si, Solo,” followed by “No, no, where is your man?” Ha, I didn’t even have a man at home, let alone on this trip, but I had someone I was thinking about a lot on this trip (a story I will tell in another post).

With Ensenada’s noise and challenges behind me, I headed out of town to a campground with hot springs and soaking pools. The ride getting there was all dirt, rocky as hell, with several water crossings. These were my first water crossings on my own. I was both thrilled and nervous as I gave the throttle a firm twist and flew through creating a satisfying rooster tail. It was a short day full of first-time accomplishments that felt right and bolstered my confidence for the adventure ahead. I paid my entrance fee of 200 pesos, about $10, and proceeded to enjoy the hot tubs, complete with little cabanas and a hot shower.

The next day I found myself back on the road. My destination would be the tiny town of Cataviña, a community of fewer than 200 residents. Cataviña is known for cave paintings, colossal rocks mixed with desert vegetation, and epic sunsets. This place could be on Mars with its endless boulders stacked at impossible angles and the stark beauty of the high desert plateau.

The day called for 380 kilometers, about a six-hour ride without stops. The morning started slow and easy as I retraced my ride back down the mountain and through the water crossings of the day before. After a quick stop at the OXXO convenience store for a burrito and coffee, I was on the road heading down Highway 1. The road went into the interior, passing through several tiny dusty towns and a few newfound favorites, including San Vicente and San Quintin. One of my favorite finds is Don Eddie’s Landing Hotel and Restaurant, an oasis with comfortable rooms, sports fishing, and even a few camping spots. I settled in at their patio, enjoying the views of the Pacific and Eddie’s legendary hospitality. This place is an ideal rest spot for enjoying a perfect plate of shrimp ceviche with just the right intensity of lime and chilis, complete with Don Eddie’s legendary hand-crafted margaritas, the likes of which I’ve never found in the USA.

Reluctantly leaving Eddie’s, I continued south on Highway 1, turning inland at El Rosario de Arriba, climbing up from sea level to 1841 feet. The elevation change did little to abate the day’s growing heat. I arrived intending to camp, but the reality of a 98-degree afternoon soon had me sapped. I pulled into the only commercial enterprise besides a little store across the street and a few tiny restaurants.

The Hotel Misíon Santa María – Cataviña looked like she was built in the colonial era; in reality, I learned she was built by the Mexican government as part of their tourism outreach. With a courtyard full of flowers and mature trees, I found a haven and counted my good fortunes to stay in such opulent digs (opulent compared to my humble tent). After securing my room for the night, I quickly dumped my gear, splashed some cold water on my face, and confirmed that I looked like I had ridden in the heat all day. I landed outside in the shade near the little bar enjoying my margarita. The bartender generously gave me endless glasses of water while we chatted about the heat, my bike, and his childhood in Arizona. Soon it was time to head to bed. I reached down to grab my bag and Delorme. A momentary shock as my Delorme was nowhere to be found. The little safety device would allow me to signal for help if needed and text my friends and family when off the beaten path and far out of cell coverage. The bartender and manager helped me search the grounds to no avail. I gave up and went to bed, cursing myself for my carelessness.

The following day bright and early I rode across the street to purchase the only available gas in this remote region from locals selling gas in plastic drums and liter-size soda bottles. Saying a prayer for the safety of my engine, I had them fill up my tank and MSR fuel bottle I always carry for the just-in-case moments.

Soon I was on the road headed to Guerrero Negro. The wind brushed over me gently with no hint of the high wind advisory posted for later that day. I left the unpleasantness of my Delorme loss behind and leaned into the joy of the ride. As it was a Sunday, I had the road to myself, with the added blessing of many commercial vehicles being home for the day. This was precisely what I had been dreaming of. As the starkness of the desert unfolded in front of my bike, I knew how lucky I was to be on this adventure! I was once again reminded to grab my dreams, ignore the naysayers, and embrace the adventure ahead.

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Dream Bikes: The Honda Dream

My Dad and I saw our first Honda ever in 1964 at a McDonald’s in East Brunswick, New Jersey. It was a 150cc Dream, the smaller version of the bigger CA 77 305cc Dream. I was 12 years old at the time. In those days, it was a fun family outing to drive the 20 miles to Route 18 in New Jersey and have dinner at McDonald’s (that was the closest one), where hamburgers were 15 cents and the sign out front said they had sold over 4 million of the things. And the Honda we saw that day…Dad and I were both smitten by the baby Dream, with its whitewall tires, bright red paint, and the young clean cut guy riding it. True to Honda’s tagline, he seemed to be one of the nicest people you could ever meet (although admittedly the bar wasn’t very high for nice people in New Jersey).

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Dad and I started looking into Hondas, and that included a trip to Cooper’s Cycle Ranch near Trenton. Back then, it really was a ranch, or at least a farm of some sort…the showroom was Sherm Cooper’s old barn. The little Hondas were cool, but the big ones (the 305s) were even cooler. A 305 was the biggest Honda available in the mid-1960s and Honda imported three 305cc motorcycles to America: The CA 77 Dream, the CB 77 Super Hawk, and the CL 77 Scrambler. The Dream was not designed to be an off road motorcycle (that was the CL 77 Scrambler’s domain) or a performance motorcycle (in the Honda world, that was the CB 77 Super Hawk).

Of the 305 twins, It’s probably appropriate to discuss the CA 77 Dream first. The Scrambler and the Super Hawk were intended to appeal to motorcycle enthusiasts; the Dream was a much less intimidating ticket in (into the motorcycle world, that is). The typical Dream buyer was either someone stepping up from a smaller Honda, or someone who had not previously owned a motorcycle.

Honda first used the name “Dream” on its 1949 Model D (a single cylinder, 98cc two-stroke). No one knows for sure where the Dream moniker came from, but legend has it that someone, upon first seeing the Model D, proclaimed it to look like a dream. The C-series Dreams first emerged in Japan in 1957. Pops Yoshimura built Honda engines with modified production parts that ran over 10,000 rpm for 18-hour endurance races, proving the basic design was robust. Some say Honda based the engine design on an earlier NSU engine, but Honda unquestionably carried the engineering across the finish line. Whatever. When’s the last time you saw an NSU? Another big plus was that Honda used horizontally split cases and that (along with vastly superior quality) essentially eliminated oil leaks. The other guys (and in those days, that meant Harley and the Britbikes) had vertically split cases and they all leaked. Honda motorcycles did not, and that was a big deal for a motorcycle in the 1960s.

There were several differences between the Dream and the other two Honda 305cc motorcycles. The Super Hawk and the Scrambler had tubular steel frames and forks; the Dream used pressed steel for both its frame and fork. The Dream was a single-carb motorcycle; the Super Hawk and the Scrambler had twin carbs. The Dream had large steel valanced fenders, the other Hondas had more sporting abbreviated fenders. The Dream was the only 305 that came from the Honda factory with whitewall tires. The Dream had leading link front suspension; the Scrambler and the Super Hawk had telescopic forks. The Dream used the Type II crankshaft (so did the Scrambler) with a 360-degree firing order (both pistons went up and down together, but the cylinders fired alternately). The higher performance Super Hawk had the Type I, 180-degree crankshaft. Like the Super Hawk, the Dream had electric starting (the Scrambler was kick start only). The Dream came with a kickstarter, too, but why bother? I mean, you weren’t going to be mistaken for Marlon Brando when you rode a Honda Dream.

The Dream’s 305cc engine had a single 23mm Keihin carb and it produced 23 horsepower at 7500 rpm (not that the rpm was of any interest; the Dream had no tachometer). With its four-speed transmission and according to magazine test results, the Dream was good for between 80 and 100 mph (depending on motojournalist weight, I guess). The Dream averaged around 50 mpg, although in those blissful days of $0.28/gallon gasoline, nobody really cared. Honda Dreams came in white, black, red, or blue. With 20/20 hindsight, I wish I had bought one in each color and parked them in the garage. My favorites were black or white; those colors just seemed to work with the Dream’s whitewall tires.

Honda built the Dream until 1969. The Dream retailed for $595 back in those days, but a shrewd negotiator could do better.

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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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Nine Reasons Why You Should Ride A Chinese Motorcycle

Sometimes we’ll do a blog just to get folks fired up, you know, like the mainstream media does. And if there’s one thing we’ve learned, it’s that there’s no better format for lighting a fire than a listicle. Listicles get lots of hits, they’re fun to write, and they offend the easily offended. If the topic is controversial, all three reasons are amplified. With that as an introduction and in these times of human rights violations, a new cold war, and a town called Wuhan, what could be more controversial than a list of reasons why you should ride a Chinese motorcycle?

Reason 1: Cost

Hey, what can I say? Buy a Beemer or a Ducati or a KTM, and you’ll pay twice what those bikes should cost. Buy a Harley….well, I don’t need to finish the sentence. Triumphs and the Big 4 Japanese bikes cost about what I think they ought to, but a Chinese bike will be way lower than any of these. And when you buy a Chinese motorcycle, you probably won’t do so through a conventional motorcycle dealer, so you won’t get bent over a barrel on freight and setup fees.

Nearly $1600 on freight and setup on a $6600 motorcycle!

Chinese motorcycles simply cost less. And if you want to come back at me by claiming Chinese bikes have no resale value…well, read on, Grasshopper.

Reason 2: Resale Value

This one may surprise you. The argument you hear from online motorcycle wizards (when they’re not being online military strategists, political scientists, or infectious disease experts) is that Chinese motorcycles have no resale value. I’m sure glad the guys who bought the two Chinese motorcycles I bought new and rode for several years didn’t know that. When I advertised my RX3 and TT 250, one sold the same day for 60% of what it cost new; the other sold the next day for 70% of what it cost new. And that was after I’d owned those bikes for 5 years.

My TT 250 on Route 66. Freight and setup on the motorcycle in the photo above would have nearly paid for this bike!

I suppose I could have taken that money and bought a used Sportster, but I went another route: I bought an Indian motorcycle. Not Indian as in Scout or Chief, but Indian as in chicken masala or curry. I wasn’t getting into enough catfights riding a Chinese motorcycle, I guess.

Reason 3: Reliability

This is another advantage that will put those who know so much that just isn’t so in low earth orbit. I never had a breakdown on any of my Chinese bikes, and that includes big trips in the US, a ride around China (yep, China), a circumnavigation of the Andes Mountains in Colombia, and lots of Baja. I led tours in the Southwest and up and down Baja for CSC Motorcycles, with 8 to 15 bikes on each of those thousand-mile-plus trips, with only one bike ever needing to be trailered home.

You can tell me about your buddy who knows a guy whose cousin bought a Chinese bike and had problems with it, but I know you know not of what you speak. I’ve been there. I know different. I know a little bit about reliability engineering, too. The Chinese bikes I’ve been around are supremely reliable.

Reason 4: Performance

Will a Chinese bike smoke a Hayabusa? You know the answer to that. Or at least, you know the answer today. Look at what’s coming down the road from China and your answer may not ring true for much longer. China has at least a couple of liter bikes on the horizon. They won’t be slow.

What’s coming down the pike from Chongqing…

Within their displacement classes, the Chinese bikes perform as good as, or maybe even better than the small displacement bikes from Germany or Japan.

Deutschland? Nein! Das ist ein Mumbai maschinen!

Japanese? Nope. This puppy will help you Thai one on.

Hell, those other bikes aren’t even made where you think they’re made. Ask me how I know. Want some Pad Thai with your KLR or Triumph Bonneville?

Reason 5: Self-Reliance

“But there’s no dealers!” or so goes the anti-China whine. (Actually, China has some good wines, but I digress.) With regard to the lugubrious (look it up) “there’s no dealer” wails, I have two responses.

I used to be able to say that I’ve seen the same number of BMW, Harley, KTM, and other big name dealers in Baja as I saw for Chinese manufacturers (that number was zero). But I can’t say that anymore. Italika (a Mexican company, the Romanesque name notwithstanding) now imports Zongshens to Mexico, so you’ll actually have better dealer coverage in Mexico with a Chinese bike than you would with a BMW, a Harley, a Triumph, a Ducati, or any other other macho man motorcycle. It’s even more pronounced if your travels take you to South America; Chinese bikes are all over down there.

So that’s one response; the other is: You say “there are no dealers” like it’s a bad thing. Maybe my life experiences are unique, but I don’t think so. Whenever I’ve had work done by dealers, most of the time it was so poorly executed I had to do it over myself. I’d rather save the time and cut the cost associated with letting some kid learn motorcycle maintenance on my bike (while the dealer charges me $125 per hour as Junior learns). Nope, not having dealers is a good thing.

It’s from India and it runs as well as a Chinese motorcycle, which is to say, it’s good. I do all the routine maintenance on the Enfield myself.

I know this approach is not for everybody. Some guys like working on their bikes, some guys like Starbucks, some guys like clutches that rattle, and some guys like tattoos and chrome. Whatever floats your boat.

Reason 6: Fuel Economy

Both my Chinese 250s sipped fuel like The New York Times ingesting truth serum. My carbureted TT 250 got about 60 miles per gallon; my fuel injected RX3 always did better than 70 miles per gallon.

My last Harley was a 40-miles-per-gallon bike when new, and when I put an S&S stroker motor in it, it joined the 33-miles-per-gallon club and I received a personal thank you note from the Emir. Yamaha’s old V-Max got 27 mpg. Yeah, I know, there’s a huge difference in displacement between a Harley and a China bike. But if you don’t like spending $5 bucks a gallon for Biden gas, a Chinese motorcycle can lessen the pain.

Reason 7: Style

You know, all those years I rode an RX3, the keyboard commandos criticized the bike for copying BMW’s styling.

Gobi Gresh, on a Chinese motorcycle, riding in the Gobi desert. 6000 miles in the ancient kingdom with nine other riders on China bikes, and nobody missed a beat.

Hell, I can’t see much of a difference in any of the ADV bikes’ styling for the last 15 or 20 years. They all look like the illegitmate offspring of a wasp mating with an armored personnel carrier. It’s the ADV style. I think it looks good. And unlike the Teutonic Tower bikes (you know, the Special K and GoSlow machines), I could get my leg over the RX3’s saddle.

Reason 8: Individuality

At one of the Love Rides (do they still even do those anymore?) Jay Leno was the grand marshall, and when he got up on stage, he asked if anybody had seen his buddy. “You know, the gray-haired guy with the black Harley T-shirt and pot belly…” It got a good laugh, but a lot of rugged individualist podiatrists, dentists, lawyers, and other pseudo-bad-asses were looking around nervously. You know what I mean. The folks at the River Runs could be made by a cookie cutter. Their moms all dress them the same. BMW riders? Stop in at any Starbuck’s and check out the Power Rangers inside. It’s the same deal.

One of the Hollister events, where all the individualists converge. They’re all trying to be Marlon Brando.

Ride a Chinese motorcycle, though, and you’ll stand apart. Trust me on this…you won’t bump into too many people riding a Zongshen or a Loncin at the Rock Store. Other riders may make snarky comments about your bike in ignorance, without knowing where many of the parts on their bikes are made (that’s because their manufacturers try to keep it a secret, as explained below).

Reason 9: You May Already Be On A Chinese Motorcycle…

…but you just don’t know it. Some bikes that you think are made in Japan are actually completely manufactured in China. Others have significant Chinese content. I’m not just talking bits and pieces…I’m referring to castings, electronics, and in some cases, the complete engine (it’s no accident you sometimes hear Chinese factory technicians humming the Horst Wessel song). You ubermensch riders on a first-name basis with your barristas know who you are, but did you know you’re already riding a China bike? I know…we live in a free country. If you feel comfortable spending $5 for a cup of coffee when you should be buying 技术支持隆鑫 decals (it means Powered by Loncin) for your $1800 panniers, more power to you.

So there you have it. I could make excuses and blame this entire blog on Gresh (the topic was his idea), but that’s not me. And for all you guys who look at the Chinese motorcycles I’ve owned and tell me “You Coulda Bought A Used Sportster” (sung to the tune of I’m A Yankee Doodle Dandy), well, all I can say is “heh heh heh.”

Got a response? Hey, leave it here…don’t be a wuss and leave it on Facebook. We want to hear from you!

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Five Best Motorcycle Books Ever

Listicles, Gresh calls them…articles based around the (fill in the number) best things to do, worst things to do, motorcycles, movies, and more. One of Gresh’s friends told him that lists get more hits than any other kind of Internet article. I was a bit skeptical when I first heard that, but Google Analytics doesn’t lie: When we do a listicle, our hits go up big time. And comments, too. We like comments. And a lot of this blogging game is about the hits and comments. Gresh’s The 5 Stupidest Ideas in Motorcycling, my recent The Big Ride: 5 Factors Affecting Daily Mileage, and other ExNote listicles…they’ve all done extremely well.

This listicle thing has me thinking in terms of the five best whatever when I’m spitballing new blog ideas, and the list du jour is on motorcycle books. It’s a topic near and dear to my heart and one we’ve touched on lightly before, although the emphasis in the past has usually been on a single book. I think I’ve read just about every motorcycle book ever published, and I particularly like the travel stories. That said, I think this introduction is long enough. Let’s get to it.

Riding the Edge

Riding the Edge, in my opinion, is the greatest motorcycle adventure story ever told, made all the more significant by two facts. The first is that Dave Barr, the author, did the ride after losing both legs to a land mine in Africa; the second is that Dave did the ride on a beat up old ’72 Harley Super Glide that had 100,000 miles on the odometer before he started.

I know Dave Barr and I’ve ridden with him. I can tell you that he is one hell of a man, and Riding the Edge is one hell of a story. The ride took four years, mostly because Dave pretty much financed the trip himself. He’d ride a country or two, run out of money, get a job and save for a bit, and then continue. I read Riding the Edge nearly two decades ago, and it’s the book that lit my fire for international motorcycle riding. None of the rides I’ve done (even though I’ve ridden through a few of the countries Barr did) begins to approach Dave Barr’s accomplishments. The guy is my hero.

Riding the Edge is written in an easy, conversational style. I’ve probably read my copy a half-dozen times. In fact, as I type this, I’m thinking I need to put it on my nightstand and read some of my favorite parts again. If you go for any of the books on this list, Riding the Edge is the one you have to read.

The Longest Ride

Emilio Scotto. Remember that name, and remember The Longest Ride. This is a guy who had never left his native Argentina, thought it might be cool to see the world on a motorcycle, bought a Gold Wing (which he named the Black Princess), and then…well, you can guess the rest. He rode around the world on a motorcycle.

Emilio took 10 years for his trip around the world, and he covered 500,000 miles in the process. He’s another guy who is good with a camera. I thoroughly enjoyed The Longest Ride. I think you will, too.

Two Wheels Through Terror

Glen Heggstad…that’s another name you want to remember. Mix one martial arts expert, a Kawasaki KLR 650, a kidnaping (his own), a trip through South America, and a natural propensity for writing well and you’ll have Two Wheels Through Terror. I love the book for several reasons, including the fact that Mr. Heggstad used a KLR 650 (one of the world’s great adventure touring motorcycles), the way he tells the story of his kidnaping in Colombia (a country I rode in), and his wonderful writing.

I’ve met Glen a couple of times. The first time was at a local BMW dealership when he spoke of his travels; the second time was at his booth at the Long Beach International Motorcycle Show. Glen is a hell of a man, a hell of a writer, and a hell of a fighter (all of which emerge in Two Wheels Through Terror). He is a guy who just won’t quit when the going gets tough. I admire the man greatly.

Jupiter’s Travels

Ah, Ted Simon, one of the granddaddies of adventure motorcycle riding. I’d heard about his book, Jupiter’s Travels, for years before I finally bought a copy and read it, and then I felt like a fool for not having read it sooner.

Jupiter’s Travels was one of the first books about riding a motorcycle around the world, and what made it all the more interesting for me was that Simon didn’t do it as a publicity stunt. No big sponsors, no support vehicles, no nothing, a lot like the other great journeys on this list. It was what the guy wanted to do, so he quit his job and did it. Simon’s bike was a 500cc air-cooled Triumph, and I liked that, too. I’m a big fan of the old British vertical twins (the Triumph was a state-of-the-motorcycle-art when Ted Simon did his ride). Trust me on this, folks: Jupiter’s Travels is a motoliterature classic, and it’s one you need to read.

10 Years on 2 Wheels

Helge Pedersen is another name you want to know. He is a phenomenal world traveler, writer, and photographer, and 10 Years on 2 Wheels is a phenomenal read.

What sets 10 Years on 2 Wheels apart is the photography, and you get a sense of that just by seeing the cover (this is one of those rare books that you can, indeed, judge by its cover). 10 Years on 2 Wheels is what inspired me to get serious about capturing great photographs during my travels, and Helge’s photos are fabulous (they’re art, actually). This is a physically large book, and that makes the images even more of a treat.

Next Up: The Five Worst Motorcycle Books

Look for a blog in the near future on the five worst motorcycle books I’ve ever read. That one will be tough, because I pretty much like any book about motorcycles, but I’m guessing it will elicit a lot of comments.

So that’s it: Our list of the five best motorcycle books. What do you think? Leave your comments and suggestions here. We want to hear them!

More book reviews? You can find them here!

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Bikes Gone By

Do you dream about the motorcycles you used to own?

Yeah, me, too. I don’t have photos of all my bikes that have gone down the road, but I have a few and I’d like to share them with you.

My first motorcycle was a Honda Super 90. I bought it from Sherm Cooper, a famous Triumph racer who owned Cooper’s Cycle Ranch in New Jersey. My Super 90 was cool…it was white and it had an upswept pipe and knobby tires. Mr. Cooper used it for getting around on his farm (the Cycle Ranch actually started out there). I was only 14 and I wasn’t supposed to be on the street yet, but I was known to sneak out on occasion. I liked that Honda Super 90 motor, and evidently so do a lot of other people (it’s still being manufactured by several different companies in Asia).

Yours truly at about age 14 on the Honda Super 90. What’s that stuff on top of my head?

The next bike was a Honda SL-90. Same 90cc Honda motor, but it had a tubular steel frame and it was purpose-built for both road and off-road duty. I never actually had a photo of that bike, but it was a favorite. Candy apple red and silver (Honda figured out by then that people wanted more than just their basic four colors of white, red, black, or blue), it was a great-looking machine. I rode it for about a year and sold it, and then I took a big step up.

That big step up was a Honda 750 Four. I’ve waxed eloquent about that bike here on the blog already, so I won’t bore you with the details about how the Honda 750 basically killed the British motorcycle industry and defined new standards for motorcycle performance. The 750 was fun, too. Fast, good looking, candy apple red (Honda used that color a lot), and exotic. I paid $1559 for it in 1971 at Cooper’s. Today, one in mint condition would approach ten times that amount. I wish I still had it.

My first big street bike…a 1971 Honda 750 Four. It was awesome. It’s a miracle I never crashed it. I rode it all the way up to Canada and back in the early ’70s. Check out the jacket, the riding pants, and my other safety gear.

There were a lot of bikes that followed. There were two Honda 500 Fours, a 50cc Honda Cub (the price was right, so I bought it and sold it within a couple of days) an 85cc two-stroke BSA (with a throttle that occasionally stuck open), a 1982 Suzuki 1000cc Katana (an awesome ride, but uncomfortable), a 1979 Harley Electra-Glide Classic (the most unreliable machine I’ve ever owned), a 1978 Triumph Bonneville (I bought that one new when I lived in Fort Worth), a 1971 Triumph Tiger, a 1970 Triumph Daytona, a 1992 Harley Softail (much more reliable than the first Harley, and one I rode all over the US Southwest and Mexico), a 1995 Triumph Daytona 1200 (the yellow locomotive), a 1997 TL1000S Suzuki (a sports bike I used as a touring machine), a 2006 Triumph Tiger, a 1982 Honda CBX (a great bike, but one I sold when Honda stopped stocking parts for it), a 2007 Triumph Speed Triple (awesome, fast, but buzzy), a 2006 KLR 650 Kawasaki, and a 2010 CSC 150. Here are photos of some of those bikes:

My high school buddy Johnnie with a Honda 500 four I later bought from him. That sissy bar was the first thing to go. It was a fun bike.

A Honda 50cc Cub, the most frequently produced motorcycle on the planet. In China and elsewhere, this bike is still being manufactured. I bought this one in the 1960s, mostly because I knew I could sell it and make a few bucks quickly.

My ’79 Electra-Glide Classic. I called this one my optical illusion, because it looked like a motorcycle. I couldn’t go a hundred miles on that motorcycle without something breaking. And people badmouth Chinese motorcycles.

Me with my 1982 Suzuki Katana. In its day, that was a super-exotic bike. Uncomfortable, but very fast, and way ahead of its time. I bought it new and paid over MSRP because they were so hard to get. I was a lot skinnier in those days.

My ’92 Softail Classic Harley. This motorcycle was superbly reliable right up until the moment the oil pump quit at 53,000 miles. At about the time I shot this photo on a trip through Mexico, I started thinking that maybe a Big Twin was not the best answer to the adventure touring question. And I know, my motorcycle packing skills in those days were not yet optimized. That’s a Mexican infantry officer behind the bike.

My buddy Louis V and me with our bikes somewhere in Arizona sometime in the mid-’90s. I’m not sure why Louis had his shirt off…we sure didn’t ride that way. Louis had an ’81 Gold Wing and I had an ’82 CBX Six. That old CBX was a fun bike…it sounded like a Ferrari!

My ’97 Suzuki TL1000S on the road somewhere in Baja. Wow, that bike was fast. Here’s a story about my good buddy Paul and me featuring this motorcycle.

The 1200 Daytona. I won it on an Ebay auction. It was an incredible motorcycle and you can read more about it here.

I’d always wanted a KLR 650, and when I pulled the trigger in 2006 I was glad I did. Smaller bikes make more sense. They’re more fun to ride, too. It seemed to me that this was the perfect bike for Baja. That’s me and Baja John out at El Marmol.

The ’06 Triumph Tiger. Fun, but a little cramped and very heavy. It was styled like a dual sport, but trust me on this, you don’t want to get into the soft stuff with this motorcycle.

Potentially the most beautiful motorcycle I’ve ever owned, this 2007 Speed Triple was a fast machine. The joke in motorcycle circles is that it should be named the Speed Cripple. That’s what it did to me.

My CSC 150. Don’t laugh. I had a lot of fun on this little Mustang replica. My friends and I rode these to Cabo San Lucas and back.

That brings up to today. My rides today are a CSC TT250, an RX3, and a Royal Enfield Interceptor 650. I like riding them all.

Do you have photos of your old bikes? Here’s an invitation: Send photos of your earlier motorcycles to us (info@exhaustnotes.us) with any info you can provide and we’ll your story here on the blog. We’d love to see your motorcycles.

Want to see some of our Dream Bikes? Give a click here!

Day 7: Volcan Nevado del Ruiz

On my 8th day in Colombia and 7th day on the road, we left the town of Honda and rode to the top of Volcan Nevado del Ruiz, which took us up to about 14,000 feet. It was the highest I’d ever ridden and I was surprised at how well the RS3 (the carbureted version of the RX3) was doing. But I’m getting ahead of myself…let’s get into the blog I wrote for CSC Motorcycles at the end of that fine day.

Posted on December 21, 2015

A delightful hotel, sweltering heat, more mountain twisties, freezing cold, fog that cut visibility down to 30 feet, dirt roads, riding at 13,576 feet, hot sulfur baths, and a burbling volcano that killed 23,000 people in 1985…all in a day’s ride for us.

The hotel first…it was the Epoque, a great little boutique hotel in Honda that was one of the coolest places (in one of the hottest cities) I’ve ever parked a motorcycle. It was arranged in a square around a small pool (which we enjoyed immensely the previous night). Here are a few shots of the courtyard, Juan and Carlos having breakfast, and an antique record player in the dining room…

From there, it was another trials ride following the boys from Medellin as we twisted, turned, climbed, and descended cobbleboulder streets in Honda. Juan took us to the first bridge to ever span the Magdalena River, where I grabbed this shot of a Colombian woman taking in the humid morning air of Honda…

Here’s the bridge. It has planks across the bottom as the road surface. It’s real Indiana Jones stuff….

We saw the Magdalena River museum, and stopped in to check it out. Folks, it was hot. I was soaking wet by now, drenched in sweat.

The museum was interesting and it had some bizarre art. This guy reminds me of a boss I had a couple of decades ago…

The Colombians used steamships on the Magdalena, just like we did on the Mississippi River.

We left Honda and started to climb. The temperatures dropped mercifully. We stopped in Fresno. Yep, Colombia has a Fresno, too.

That’s me in the town square. I’m the guy on the right.

Two young ladies in a small store in Fresno.

As we were sipping energy drinks, Juan pointed out our destination for that evening, the Volcan Nevado del Ruiz. It was showing a little steam, and I stuck an arrow in this picture so you could see it.

We continued our climb. The roads were magnificent.

The photo below shows my front tire, with chicken strips that are about as small as I’ve ever been able to make them. I was getting better at keeping up with the Colombian motorcycle community.

Our riding positions are Juan, me, and Carlos. Juan is amazing. I’m struggling to keep up in the twisties, and I know he’s dialed it back for me. He’ll ride through the corners (and the roads are all corners, folks) standing on the pegs. At one point, we were taking a set of curves at speeds way above those at which I would normally ride, with the bikes leaned over at an unimaginable angle, when I looked ahead and saw Juan. He was standing on the pegs, similarly leaned over, and while all this was going on, he was reaching back to check the latch on one of his saddlebags as if it was the most normal thing in the world to do. The guy is an incredible rider.

As we continued to climb, we entered the clouds. Literally. We left the pavement and got on a dirt road headed up to the volcano.

4,138 meters! That’s 13,576 feet, and it’s as high as you can go on a motorcycle anywhere in Colombia. Juan told me he once did this ride on a Yamaha DT100, carrying a passenger on the back!

That’s not dirt on my RX3, folks. It’s volcanic ash. This was not your typical motorcycle ride.

Yours truly, posing with Carlos, on the top of the world, on top of a volcano with indigestion. Wow. This volcano is the very same one that blew in 1985 and wiped out an entire community. It was like Pompeii, as the guys explained it to me. 23,000 people lost their lives in that event. And here we were, riding in conditions where I could barely see Juan’s tail light in front of me, on dirt roads, in bitter cold. Wow.

Here are a couple of shots showing my helmet and my jacket, dusted with Volcan Nevado del Ruiz ash.

We left the volcano, rode another 20 kilometers on this dirt road, and found our hotel in the middle of nowhere.

The hotel had hot springs, and they were awesome. I had a good soak, we had dinner, and that was the end of Day 7 on this epic journey.

Today is our last day. We’re finishing our great circumnavigation and headed back to Medellin. Much of our ride today will be on dirt. I’ll take a few shots and post about it tomorrow.

Later, my friends.

You can read the earlier blogs from this great trip, and a few other moto adventures, here on our Epic Rides page!