Yamaha RT1-B – The ExhaustNotes Blog

By Joe Gresh

The Yamaha RT1-B 360cc that I call Godzilla has been my long haul dirt bike choice for years. The old Yamaha has criss-crossed the country on dirt and on pavement and I had it set up to carry a lot of gasoline and a lot of gear. Up front, I removed the non-functional speedometer/tachometer cluster and replaced it with a luggage rack. The rack worked great, it redistributed the weight of my travel gear and made the bike handle less worse than if everything was strapped to the back rack.

I crashed in Beaver, Utah a few years ago and mangled the front rack so I removed it for future repairs. While I was at it I got rid of the cheesy GPS mount that fit a GPS I no longer owned. Truthfully, I don’t need that stuff because haven’t been doing any long distance dirt rides lately. It seems like all my rowdy friends have settled down. Anyway, with that junk out of the way the view from the saddle was kind of sparse. I decided to freshen up Godzilla’s front end.

I rode Godzilla for many years with the stock handlebars (bottom bars) and they were fine. The last couple rides my wrists started hurting a bit and I think the sweep back angle was causing too much stress on my decrepit body. The bars on the Husky are almost flat across and very comfortable so I bought a new, lower, flatter bar (top bar). The new bar has no cross brace and is made of powder-coated aluminum; I’m hoping they flex a bit more to smooth out the really rough trails where I tend to crash.

After replacing the handlebars my horn quit working. I figured that the process of removing and replacing the switch must have disturbed the rust inside so I dismantled and cleaned out the three switches in the control module. The horn button was really rusty and the other switches looked none too good, either.

After all that work on the switches the horn still didn’t beep. The Yamaha wiring supplies the horn with power and the horn button grounds the circuit through the handlebars, triple clamps, and steering head bearings then on to the frame, which is grounded. This convoluted electrical path makes the horn go beep. I took the headlight apart and grounded the horn wire inside the headlight housing. It worked. Then I grounded the horn to the new handlebars: nothing. Turns out, powder coat is an effective electrical isolator. Instead of scraping the powder coat off to make a connection I ran an extra ground wire to the switch pod. Now I had a horn.

For a speedometer I decided to try one of those cableless, GPS, analog types from Amazon. The voltage input on the speedo is 9 to 32 volts and the thing powered up fine on Godzilla’s 6-volt battery. Since this fancy electronic wizardry was all new to me I also bought a 6-volt to 12-volt converter to make sure the speedo had plenty of voltage. All this junk needed to go somewhere so I made a LeCrox template and chopped the side out of a storage cabinet for sheet metal.

After bending and welding the gauge console I gave it a lick of spot putty and some black paint to hide the sins of my welding. Next all the pieces went into the housing and I pre-wired the speedometer so that it would plug into an unused, key-switched, 6-volt power wire inside the headlight.

I used the existing Yamaha speedo/tach mounting base by adding a couple rubber lord mounts and assembled the whole mess onto the motorcycle. It powered up fine and was ready for a test ride.

The test ride was a failure. Not because of the speedo (it worked great), but the cantilevered gauge console flexed the rubber mounts so much the gauge was dancing up and down like a set of those humorous, wind up chattering teeth. It was back to the shop for a quick brace on the front of the console.

I used the high beam indicator hole on the headlight shell and ran a short brace to another lord mount that steadied the gauge nicely. Now I can bang around in the dirt without the speedometer trying to slap me upside the head. Hopefully it won’t push the headlight aim down.

To finish off the front-end facelift I bought a new mirror to replace the crappy bar-end mirror. The old bar-end mirror was a bicycle part and never worked very well. It was there for legal, not visual reasons. The new mirror gives me a fairly clear view of what is going on behind me.

The GPS speedometer is smooth. You have to wait a few seconds while it acquires a satellite fix but from then on it seems just like a regular speedometer except it is accurate and the needle is steady. With no reception it won’t work indoors but I don’t ride far indoors. I zipped the RT1-B up to 75 miles per hour and all was well.

There are several functions you can access like different color backlights, Trip 1, Trip 2, odometer and compass. Trip 1 is sort of useless because it resets each time you turn the key off. Trip 2 supposedly saves the data and you have to hold a button for 3 seconds to clear it. The compass is a 360-degree type so you get a numerical reading instead of north, south, east and west. I’ll have to mess with the thing a little more to see how all this flimflammery works.

One thing I don’t like is that the mode and set buttons are on the back of the speedo. This is not a problem for a motorcycle because you can reach behind and push them. If the speedo was mounted in a car or boat dash this would be a deal killer. If I had it to do over I would try to find a unit with the buttons on the face. Also, it would be nice if the antenna could be incorporated into the gauge, eliminating the external antenna but that probably wouldn’t work in a car.

For a prototype my dash console works good enough. If the speedo holds up I may re-work the design a bit. If I flipped the mounting flange 180 degrees the mounting bolts would be hidden inside the console and it would move the speedo back a bit which I think would look better. As it is the gauge console has a clunky, AMF-era, Harley-Davidson look to the thing. I may remake the console using aluminum as the sheet metal one, while thin, is not very light. Godzilla is a high society motorcycle now with its modern, space age speedometer; I guess there’s nothing more for me to do but to join my peers down at the local Starbucks.

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I have a hard time in Eureka Springs, Arkansas. The place is cursed, man. I either drink too much and get sick or don’t drink enough and make semi-lucid promises to people I only recognize by their colored lights, shouted conversations and loud music. By one o’clock in the morning Eureka Springs feels like I am wearing those flippers skin-divers wear on their feet. I look back fondly to my post Eureka Springs restroom sessions over a white porcelain toilet. It’s a refuge from the tourist anarchy. As long as I stay hunched over watching the better part of my gastrointestinal system swing lazily before my eyes I can’t possibly get into any more trouble.

Eureka Springs is situated in a steep, narrow gully filled with hippies, old buildings, artists, bars, restaurants, and music. Known for its healing mineral springs the town has always been a tourist spot that gives an buttoned down guy like me the impression he can hang out with the cool cats, if only for a day. It was a false impression.

Regardless of how it happens, I end up with my comically large feet awkwardly slapping the ground unsteadily and in a dead run. It’s my traditional way to leave Eureka Springs. So when Hunter sent me a link about the Vintage Japanese Motorcycle Club holding their 45th annual rally in Eureka Springs the first thought that popped into my head was “Oh no, not again.”

Hunter and I don’t have a lot of time to ride motorcycles lately, you know? Life is speeding by and eventually only one of us can end up owning Godzilla. There’s this whole, cats-in-the-cradle vibe going on. Losing a few years to the pandemic and chasing the American Dream doesn’t help much. What the hell, I’m old and expendable; I’ll try Eureka Springs one more time.

The plan was to meet at Hunter’s place in Oklahoma and ride our vintage Yamaha enduros to Eureka Springs, A distance of 200 miles or so. I tossed Godzilla into the truck and headed east. When I got to Oklahoma Hunter’s bike needed work and it was about 150 degrees outside. We decided to keep on going in my truck as Hunter stores another old Yamaha at his beat up shack in Eureka Springs.

The VJMC event was held in a gigantic Best Western located just outside of downtown Eureka Springs. It was the biggest Best Western I’ve ever seen, the place had three or four buildings, one of which was taken up by the VJMC. We came in on the Saturday and the greater part of the vintage bikes were not there yet. I asked some official-looking VJMC dudes, “Can we wander around and look at the bikes?”

“No, the show is only for VJMC members, if it was outdoors the public could see the bikes but for insurance reasons we can’t let you. You have to sign up for the rally.” There were maybe 20 bikes in the show, mostly Hondas. Hunter tried to explain to them I was a famous moto-journalist but none of the crew at the sign-in desk had heard of Motorcyclist magazine. It’s amazing how fast a star can burn out. The entry fee for the rally was pretty steep. The wizened old codger behind the desk decided to cut us a break. “Now, if you were VJMC members we can let you look around but you can’t participate in rally events.”

I bit, “How much to join the VJMC?” Turns out $35 for a year’s membership and with that you get a subscription to the VJMC magazine, an actual paper magazine. In this manner Hunter and I became part of the VJMC people. It was getting late and the taco truck across from the Best Western was calling our name so we beat it of of there vowing to return the next day when the vintage bike show would be at full strength.

Oark, Arkansas is a gas stop on the Trans America Trail. Oark also sells really good hamburgers. Hunter and me rode bikes down there on Sunday morning before it got too hot. Oark has changed a little since I was there so many years ago. The waitresses were younger and not so abusive. The interior had more tables and it was cleaner. It took some of the edge off the place.

By the time we finished our burgers it was getting late and the vintage bike show was waiting. Eureka Springs gets a lot of Harley-type bikers day tripping on the weekend and we managed to get stuck behind a slow moving train of the stuttering, popping, fart-bikes. They were weaving back and forth in the lane like they saw actor-bikers do in those 1970s Hell’s Angels movies. Hunter peeled off the main road and we blitzed through a small state park. At the other end of the park/short cut we came out just ahead of the fart-bikes. Hunter made it into the lead and I followed up on Godzilla passing the first farter in the train. One of the tattooed ladies riding pillion flipped us the bird as we pulled out in front of them. Just like in the movies. Godzilla laid down a fine blue fog for the fart-people to ride through.

The bike show had around 60 bikes; the majority were Hondas but there were enough Yamahas and Kawasakis to keep the big, red H honest. I didn’t see many Suzukis. The Best Western had two rooms with bikes and they spilled out into the parking lot. I parked Godzilla a discrete distance away so as to not shock the VJMC attendees. The bike show was a judged affair and as such we didn’t stick around to see who won. It doesn’t matter really. They’re all winners in my book. You know, the one I wrote called, “They’re All Winners.”

We missed the VJMC dinners, meetings and group rides because we didn’t sign up for the rally. That kind of geeky fellowship doesn’t appeal to me as much as it used to, and my old Yamaha is so ratty it wouldn’t do well in a show against new-looking bikes. If you like that sort of rally stuff there was plenty of it to do at the 45th VJMC rally.

It was a special day for me on Monday. You see, I’d made it out of Eureka Springs without any cellular level damage. Our old bikes ran fine; we rode about 180 miles over the weekend. I regulated my alcohol consumption and promised nothing to anybody. Staying away from downtown helped, although there was a hippy-dippy gathering at the big, natural amphitheater on the main drag. There was live music. People were dressed funny in purples and pinks. It started to get to me. I wanted to take my clothes off and run around naked but that would be old Eureka Springs behavior.

There are a couple things I would do differently if I was in charge of the VJMC. Of course it’s easy for me to critique because no one will ever put me in charge. The first thing I’d do is get the word out better. I have several vintage Japanese bikes and frequent many vintage sites and social media pages, even the VJMC’s own page on Facebook. I didn’t hear about the 45th until Hunter ran across it somewhere and told me about it.

I’d make event information clearer on the VJMC website. I could never figure out if I had to join the rally to attend the bike show. As a struggling writer, the rally was out of my price range and only when I was at the registration desk did we sort out a work around that allowed me entry to the show. And that was because one of the guys working the desk came up with a nifty plan B.

Next, why not invite the general public? It could increase membership if you charged a $35 entry fee to the bike show that included a year’s membership and a subscription to the magazine. Toss in a T-shirt! Finally, get someone at the VJMC to answer emails. I sent emails to the VJMC president and the person in charge of membership asking about the 45th event: crickets. Maybe the website has outdated contact information. No one has ever got back to me yet. I’m both old and into vintage Japanese bikes so I imagine I’m the target market. Not getting back to old guys makes them cranky.

We made it safely to Hunter’s ranch in Oklahoma and I only got one speeding ticket right as I crossed from Oklahoma’s No Man’s Land into the Texas panhandle. Even that wasn’t so bad as the cop chatted me up about Godzilla. His grandpa had an old RT1-B just like it. When I told Hunter about the ticket he knew the cop. Apparently it’s a popular speed trap. It was good to see Hunter again. It was good to ride a little dirt on the RT1-B. Life is short: go to the vintage bike show, any vintage bike show, if you get a chance.

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