Farewell, old friend
Not the guy. The bike.
It’s extremely rare for me to be smitten by an object. Almost unheard of. I’ve been smitten by women, over the years. Dozens, if not hundreds. But a lifeless thing? Almost unprecedented.
In my prepubescent youth, sure. Just about any Mattel toy would fit the bill—especially in the Major Matt Mason line. As an adult, I almost never obsessed over objects.
And I’ve experienced some amazing objects in my time. My 1969 Toyota Land Cruiser, in blaze orange, for example. That was one hell of an object, more tank than automobile, practically unstoppable. Impractical, probably dangerous, a crazy gas guzzler, but what fun! Probably the reason I drove a Jeep Wrangler for so many years, later in life.
For the most part, though, cars never really caught my attention. Nor do homes. Musical instruments, not really. Tools, occasionally. Bicycles, cameras, old vacuum tube radios—yes, during some phases of my life.
I have desired and enjoyed such objects, but rarely obsessed over one. Until one night …
I’d had one of those crazy late-night ideas. An epic garage project of the imagination. What would it take to make my 1981 Kawasaki KZ550 look like a classic English bike from the 1960s? Could it be done? A bit tricky with the in-line four cylinder motor. The square lines. Mag wheels. Geometric gas tank and megaphone mufflers. Next to impossible, really. But when you’re bored and you have the Internet at your disposal, no question is too ridiculous.
It wasn’t impossible. But it would have cost a gazillion dollars. Probably way more than just buying an old Triumph or BSA. But, who cares? It was a Web-fueled fantasy, not an actual plan of action.
Not sure what I googled. But I ended up finding this, the object that led to the object of my desire.
I recognized it immediately, a motorcycle fuel tank knee pad. Many bikes had them, back in the day. Before the chopper craze turned nearly every motorcycle into a rolling Barcolounger, sitting on a bike wasn’t unlike sitting on a horse. And as every good equestrian knows, stability comes from the legs. They look retro-cool, sure. But knee pads on a bike serve a real function—they improve your grip on the machine as you squeeze it between your knees. This makes all the difference when you’re flicking around tight curves at speed.
But this wasn’t just any kneepad. It was made by Kawasaki. When that little revelation hit my synapses, they jumped to the next logical question; why does Kawasaki make knee pads? I became the paleontologist who just found the dinosaur’s toenail. It didn’t take many clicks to get my answer; the bike the pads belong to, the inimitable W650.
I had never seen one before. Didn’t know it existed. It literally took my breath away. And my brain jumped from admiration to obsession.
This, I must possess.
It was the bike I was trying to build in my mind’s eye. As much as I admired those old English rides, I wasn’t cut out to own one. They’re notoriously tricky to keep going. They leak oil. The carburetors are insanely touchy. And each is an electrical disaster, waiting to happen, wired with components made by Lucas, the Prince of Darkness.
“Why do the English drink their beer warm,” goes the old joke. “Because Lucas makes the refrigerators.”
One old Triumph rider told me a tale I could scarcely believe. It sounded like an urban myth, but he was the guy it happened to, not his cousin’s friend’s dog walker.
He and a buddy had been riding a while and the sky was getting ominous, so they pulled over to get something to eat while the storm blew over. It came down in buckets as they were having their lunch. He glanced at his bike in the parking lot and noticed the headlight was on. Odd, since the light comes on when you turn the key and the key was in his pocket.
He braved the deluge to investigate. As he got closer, he realized the bike was running. The rain had seeped into just the right combination of Lucas components to start the motor, without the key anywhere near the ignition switch.
Just one of 73 gazillion Lucas electronics stories that strike fear into the heart of any bike enthusiast.
But lo, what’s this? It looks like an old Brit classic. But it’s a new Kawasaki. That means Kawasaki quality. Kawasaki reliability. Kawasaki maintainability. I was beside myself. Smitten. Obsessed. Possessed.
I began scheming to get one.
I had the money. That wasn’t an issue. Under normal circumstances, I’d run any major purchase by Beth. Not this time. We were sharing a beer in Lancaster, Pa. in the summer of ’05. I didn’t cajole, charm, deflect or request. I just made an announcement. Oh, by the way. I’m buying a new bike. I’m telling you because you have a right to know, but the decision is made so don’t try to talk me out of it.
She wouldn’t have, anyway. She’s not that kind of girl. She gave me a surprised look but sensed my determination. She just said, “OK?” With the question mark. She’s one of the smartest people I know. She could tell by the look on my face that nothing on God’s green Earth would change my mind.
The hunt was successful. I found a real nice one with low mileage in Delaware. They were all used by this point, Kawi only released the 2000 and 2001 model years in the U.S. market. They didn’t sell well, so they never brought in more. American motorcyclists want one of two things; monstrous highway hogs or ridiculously fast crotch rockets. The W is neither.
And I never had a single regret. It was literally the perfect bike for me. We fit one another. It’s not too big. It maneuvers like a fighter plane. It’s stupid fast. It sounds amazing. It always started and never gave me an ounce of trouble. It’s a dream to maintain. If Japan bestows knighthood, the engineers who designed the W should get it. I never tinkered with a bike that paid such dividends for so small an investment.
The bonus; it’s not a Harley. Nothing against Harley, but everybody has a Harley. I’d rather ride something a little different. So different, in fact, that everywhere we went, middle-aged men would come running with their cameras out. From a distance, they assumed it was a meticulously restored Triumph. They were always shocked to learn it was a new bike. Ws have always been rare in the States and few had ever seen one before. She was a celebrity!
Even in the vast combine of the Kawasaki Heavy Industries monopoly—the W is special. It was designed as an homage to Kawi’s first motorcycle, the 1960 W1. Back then, the Kawasaki Aircraft Company bought Meguro, which had been building BSA A7 clones under license from the English maker. So Kawi’s first bike was also an English knock-off, essentially a rebadged Meguro. For its 50th anniversary in the bike business, Kawi conceived the 2000 W650 as the 21st century’s version—classic look, better engineering.
We went a lot of places together. All over the East Coast. North to Vermont, New Hampshire and Lake Ontario, south to the West Virginia Appalachians and anything and everything in between. I loved my old KZ550, but I adored my W.
As regular readers know, the next phase of our life will involve no permanent housing, nor sheds, garages or carports. We’re to be nomads, for a while at least. I’ll have no place to keep my trusty old steed. And it would be a sin to mothball it, anyway. It’s a superb bike that should be ridden.
And neither of us is getting any younger. Some day it will require a level of care I’m unequipped to deliver. My motorcycle record is spotless. Except for that day I dropped it from a standstill in the Wawa parking lot, I’ve never had an accident or been hurt on two wheels, motorized. (Pedal bikes? That’s another story.) While I’m sad to hang up my riding boots, it’s time. Motorcycling safely demands flawless concentration, reflex and coordination. I admire guys who ride into their 70s and 80s, but those odds I’d rather not play. So my W is going, poised to bring a new owner joy.
Parting is such sweet sorrow. I’ll never forget you, my old friend. Godspeed. Keep the shiny side up.
=S
TO BE CONTINUED
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Great stuff, Sal. As always.