Honda CB100, CB125, XL100 project

Either I just wasted my money and filled my shed, or got myself a bargain. These CBs currently sell on Marketplace for close for $4000. My hope is that I’ll follow through on this project and by the end of it know how to rebuild every part of a motorcycle. That's the motivation, the reason for spending money that could have bought a whole running bike. Also, I have really wanted to own an early CB100 or 125, and what a pleasure to ride a bike you’ve completely restored yourself. One engine is almost done, with a new top end. The other has a quality aftermarket top end ready to go on. The third engine is in parts. That’s a nicely progressive set of projects. There’s numerous videos detailing the whole process with this engine on YouTube. Parts are surprisingly readily available both from Indonesia new, and from America as old stock, and very cheaply.

Black Jacks Track

Yesterday I rode across the Moolort Plains east of Maryborough. It was the first day of winter, which is as good a riding season as any if you seek out its special beauty. On this day I rolled along single lane sealed roads amidst paddocks and hills of grass, and here and there bluestone cottages. At one point the road took me north along the waters of Cairn Curran, and then on to Eddington and Eddie's Garage: a surf rock cafe in the paddocks. From there I wanted to pass through Donully but not on the tarmac, so I found a zig zag of farm roads which took me south, then west, then north, by flowing creeks, a deer farm, and old mud brick settlers' homes.

Today I felt greedy to ride again, so I repeated that initial route, but then explored farm and forest roads from Betley down to Bowenvale. The clouds broke apart but remained, to create a stunning oil painting bathed in winter light.

I finished the ride by exploring the Black Jacks Track between Bowenvale and Maryborough.

I'm starting to pick up the pace on the dirt, and want to focus on such roads for upcoming touring. When these tyres need changing I'll go for dual-sport options, and I've ordered some barkbusters to protect the levers in a drop. I must say, however, that as with my other bikes in the past, for example that Hornet 600, standard road tyres do a fine job on farm and forest roads. Many days during the week I have been testing that theory out for an hour in between clients, in the various forests surrounding Maryborough on all sides. Of course, in my grandparents' youth most roads were dirt, and people traversed them on a daily basis with what we now call "road" motorcycles with "road" tyres, which in our minds means the bikes are unsuitable for the dirt. They rode motorcycles which were a lot like this CB250. A part of what I am loving about this bike is not only its frugality, simplicity, and reliability, but also that same do-anything spirit. These virtues are in contrast to the decadent need for the always bigger, always more specialised equipment, which is fantasised as a "necessity" according to company marketing and individual ego. Such things may be a preference for some people, but they are not a necessity in many cases. I admit, of course, that this CB is an unsuitable bike for highway tours. I would have been unhappy in the past, and those wanting to ride the main highways should look elsewhere for a motorcycle. Yet, there is a gift to me in the limitations of this bike, they are partly why I am loving it so. When recently I decided to ride again, I had this trip strong in my memory. There was something metaphysical, essential, of the essence of things, about that ride. On that five day tour through the Wimmera and Malle fifteen years ago, my always reliable GR650 developed problems and could not cruise over 80kph. What terrible timing, why do that to me now. And yet it became one of my favourite rides, perhaps partly due to the increased emotion of anxiety which can make things feel more alive--I had very little money, and expected my motorcycle to break down hundreds of kilometers from home--but in large part it was due to the reduced speed, and the way the landscape was experienced at that slower pace. I learned a strong lesson which I have never forgotten. I was forced on to back roads, to change my route and discover new things. More importantly, I discovered a world of 60-80kph which is of a whole other order to the pace of the cyclist, or the rush of the modern motorcyclist. This is the world which is unfolding for me on this billiant, but in today's terms low-powered and slow CB250. There were moments today when I rounded a corner, skipping over the gravel while passing a flowing creek or facing an avenue of 1920s pines, and the sun flashed, and I let out an involuntary exclamation of joy.

Kooroocheang and onwards

I've been riding this wonderful bike almost every day. The CB250 Nighthawk is such an unsung hero. I work for myself from home, and most afternoons will go write in a cafe in town (Maryborough) for a couple of hours. Afterwards, I have been a spending a half hour exploring different bush roads on the edge of town as a long way home. Once a week I'll take a longer ride. This week I was greedy and took two such rides. Friday was to Ampitheatre, then south to Beaufort, lunch, north to Bealiba--including some exploring on the dirt--then Dunolly and home. Today I rode west in the Autumn light. I cruised at an easy pace on single lane roads, simply rolling the throttle on and off in top gear, through patches of forest and dale, and always emerging into green farmland. I passed through Smeaton, Clunes for lunch, then through the forests south of Talbot.

I could not bring the ride to an end, so the last hour or two were spend riding forest and farm roads south of Maryborough. It's so good to be on a bike again, and this is Nighthawk is such a simple, reliable, pleasurable choice.

2024 and a New Chapter

We were gathered around a table in the bar of The Clyde, on a warm Carlton afternoon. It was the typical Friday gathering of friends: retired philosophers, some of whom had taught me, and some of whom I had taught alongside. However, we had a lot in common beside philosophy: we were ex-seminarians (or an ex-monk in my case), we were all from working-class families in rural north-western Victoria, and we all loved motorcycles. You have already met Peter Drum on this blog, posing astride his Kawasaki W650...perchance outside The Clyde. He was there. This is me with his Model A on a very "drenched" New Year's Eve:

Why is this scene coming to mind now? Because of Brian Scarlett, a particularly fine example of a human being, who has since died. He was talking about when he gave up his BSA motorcycle after a nasty spill. He then paused, and remembered how his wife later said: "You know, I think you gave up too much when you gave up that motorcycle." After a second pause--with both a fear away look and a glint in his eye--Brian exclaimed "What a paragon of a woman!" We fell into laughter. Brian was a very funny man, and yet those words, "You gave up too much when you gave up that motorcycle," have in the last year gradually, increasingly slid ever so subtely into my mind's ear. It was from the periphery at first, like a wish for an old lover combined with the happy acceptance that life moves on, but then it became a longing, and eventually an ache. A motorcycle would arrive from the highway and pull over at the edge of my town, which is where I live, perhaps waiting for their friends to catch up, and I would stare out the window, my mind lost in its sound. I had given up too much. But of what? The thing, formless, nameless, invisible but fundamental, and yet present and somehow captured in those memories of a cold, winter day of blurred ferns and the silver of the wet road outside Toolangi. On the coldest days of winter I had those roads often to myself, and it felt religious to be in the silence there. Or out west, in a wholly different country, spreading myself across wheat fields and prehistoric flora as my struggling old bike pushed northwards into the desert. It has been almost a decade since my last post. Naturally much has happened. I will be brief, but will tell you the story in its relevant essentials. From touring 40,000km a year for a decade, heading out every weekend no matter the weather, I had begun to slow down. One morning, commuting through Melbourne, I crashed my W650 in the wet. I was taken to the hospital with severe pain in my neck but was ultimately fine, if very sore for a couple of months. I was also quite shaken by the hours of lying in a ward with questions about my injuries unanswered. Despite the shop repairs, the bike never felt the same. I sold it to a friend. That left me with the Royal Enfield, and I continued my trips around Victoria and Tasmania:

During this time I developed also a strong interest in cycling, riding daily plus taking some long trips, for example from Lancefield to Maldon via those same steep hills on which I loved to motorcycle. Plus I deepened my interest in electric bicycles, which had begun years before when we still used car batteries, and when lycra cyclists would lose their temper at our existence. Now I had lithium-ion, which could go so far (I always pedal my electric bikes). Below is an English-made Pashley with a 250w mid-drive motor that I fitted. This photo was taken on a trip to Warburton:

Here's a photo from a ride that began at Castlemaine, across to almost the border with South Australia, and then up to NSW:

I was still playing about with bikes, including borrowing and riding various machines from friends:

However, as I say, I had slowed down in terms of riding. Then came December 2016. While on a motorcycle trip around Tasmania something happened, a terrible experience. It was not related to motorcycling, but it both shattered me, and became a fulcrum, a turning point which led to much inward and outward change. For one thing, I got out of Melbourne. I had moved to the city at 17 to pursue a career in music, but I grew up in the dust of the Mallee and the mountains of southern Tasmania. My heart has always been in the country and the bush, and I longed to return. So in 2018 I pulled all my money together, and even sold my Royal Enfield, to buy a house in Maryborough, Victoria.

Like many people of my age and inclinations--doing work that put passion first and pay second--I had despaired of ever buying a home, at least in a place I wanted to live. I had not been saving for a house. It was a sudden decision and a scramble, which became heightened after I signed the contract for the house--subject to bank approval--and the bank went from wanting a 5% deposit to 20%. It cleaned me out. I moved two hours away, with no car and a few hundred dollars to my name. It so happened that the day after I decided to leap, and continue with the purchase despite not knowing how I would make it all work, a friend called, asking by change if I wanted to buy his car. I offered him a payment plan for that glorious Ford Falcon station wagon, and it served also as accommodation for the half of the week that I continued to work in Melbourne. The latter was an experience--living in a car half the week--but I come from working class people and remember my father doing so when he travelled to distant job sites, and my grandfather doing do in his Holden station wagon when he went fencing on farms. It was the obvious choice, and I enjoyed the project of making it work. If the experience became some kind of theme, it was mainly due to the fact that I was working as a counsellor at Jesuit Social Services, which is a very middle/upper-middle class world of social workers, some of which despite their passion for helping us poorer classes, were horrified at what I was doing. Because they considered me intelligent, they assumed I was of their class, and there was something shameful or frightening in their kind of people having to "resort" to this. As further good fortune, everything in my new house worked, so I could simply focus on sitting on my porch in disbelief at my beautiful new life, and saving money. This became an exuberant time. A motorcycling friend Marlon, whom I have since lost touch with, and who has appeared variously on this blog, bought a house during the same week in Ballarat, an hour south of here. He too had given up on the dream, and carried the force of that old despair into his new exuberant chapter. A song by The Peep Temple became, during the month leading up to settlement, a drunken anthem for our excitement, and we would sing along in joy: "I have ghosts in my walls and in my pockets...but at least I own my house!"

By living very frugally I got into a position in which I considered it prudent, given my distance from work, to buy a second, back-up vehicle. A cheap motorcycle was the obvious choice. I gave myself a budget of $2000, including on-road-costs. I found this Yamaha V-Star 250 for $1800.

The purchase of that bike was a whole experience in itself: I bought it from a young, very bogan mechanic in Dandenong who had lost his license. Throughout the whole inspection and later purchase his mother, unseen from somewhere inside the house, nagged at him, while in between explaining the bike to me or filling out the forms, he screamed back at her "WHAT!" and "Fucking shut up!" and other delights. I was reminded of this. Anyway, the V-Star was great fun. I have never sought great power in my bikes, and this 250 could do most things perfectly well, with the exception of losing speed on hills. But then some things happened. Two things, to be precise. In the decades prior I had ridden all over Victoria and Tasmania, in all conditions and at all hours, and had never crashed outside of the city. Around my new home, however, there are kangaroos in numbers I have not seen elsewhere. I have had many near misses, and have smashed up the front of one car from such a collision. Most people here have stories to tell of such collisions, indeed it is local tongue-in-cheek wisdom that if ever you become lost in the bush, simply follow a kangaroo, for very soon it will lead you into the middle of the road. Well, on the way back from Rheola on my exciting V-Star, I hit a kangaroo at speed. My left foot still aches, five years later. Fortunately I managed to keep the bike upright, to the astonishment of my passenger. Then, a mere couple of months later, the same happened again. This time it was night, in the short stretch of highway speed between Carisbrook and Maryborough. I had not intended at all to be out that late, but there you have it. I collided with the animal on the front right of my bike, and felt its continued impact across the right of my body, which hurt like hell. In the collision my headlight was smashed off, blinding me, and the combination of the impact and my evasive trajectory sent me off the road at 80kph. I only knew this because the surface below me changed--I could not see a thing. I grabbed the brakes but started fishtailing in the gravel while still at high speed. One's mind can move incredibly fast in such moments, and as I considered the choice between again and probably going down, or just rolling to a stop but with the risk of hitting a pole while still at speed, I chose the latter. I have never believed in "dumping the bike to avoid an accident," and consider such talk incoherent nonsense. As it was on that night, I was lucky.

In the weeks that followed, I found that I had lost my motorcycling mojo. I just couldn't relax on the bike, even in the middle of the day through open fields. Kangaroos are less common here at day, but certainly do jump out even then. I sold the bike and bought a 1980s ute. In time I took up drumming again, having stopped when I was 19, and like many musicians I became also extra protective of my hands--another reason not to ride.

In my work, where I draw on philosophy to help people with hardship and flourishing, I have seen many clients with chronic pain, and the emotional misery and despair which they confess to me in all its dreaded dimensions, sometimes week in and out, has changed the way I feel about risks. I dont want to experience that. So, motorcycling became something "I used to do." A risk that was a great passion at a certain time in my life, and for which I was lucky to walk away mostly without injury. And so I have not ridden for five years. And yet, there's a danger in doing some things, but also in not doing them. There's a danger in staying in an unhappy job, or relationship, and a danger in not leaving. I have a good life. I am more happy than I have ever been in my life. During Spring and Summer I play multiple gigs every weekend. I make a moderate but, given my old-fashioned frugality, very adequate living doing work I am passionate about. I spend my spare time reading and writing in my field of work. I have a great relationship that is now half a decade old, with a deeply intelligent, empathetic, and talented woman, and we share many similar passions and ways of being. And yet, something has been missing. Life is good, secure...safe. I've become comfortable. And soft. This of course is the usual answer we give: I need some more adenture. Well, hiking or gravel cycling is an adventure, and is much healthier, and much safer. No, there was something more that was missing. Something beyond mere adventure and the virtues associated with it. There has been an aliveness that was missing. An aliveness of a distinct kind, which comes from flying through the air, whether cold and grey, or golden and blanketing. Which comes from lying your body down on the forces that push back as you corner at speed. That comes from the journey at speed, where you forget yourself and your seperateness and become the sun, the heat, the landscape. There is also a beauty, almost undefinable, in chrome and wheels and the hot smell of leaking oil. There is a danger in motorcycling. But there is a danger in not motorcycling. In not riding I had lost something of my spirit, the spirit that is particular to Matthew Bishop. Plato suggests we are composed of intellect and spiritedness and appetite. I had become all intellect and appetite. I decided that, while I need do motorcycling in a way which makes those kangaroo collisions less likely, yet I still need motorcycling in my life. Like last when I bought the V-Star, I am in a frugal situation, but of a different kind this time around. Last year I paid off my house. I am mortgage free, but that was also my savings, so I have started again to build some basic wealth. So, as a kind of history repeating, I gave myself a budget of $2000, and found a motorcycle for $1800. I bought a 1997 Honda CB250 Nighthawk, with 23,000km on the clock. It is very good condition, very well stored and maintained. Despite the low kilometers, and probably because of the age, the previous owner had opened up the engine, top to bottom, to satisfy his mechanical care, and he refreshed the top end while there. The bike came with a box of high quality consumables including a chain and sprockets, even though there is no need for such things at this time. Perhaps like myself, the previous owner had what I call sparanoia. As promised by the previous owner, the motor purrs and runs perfectly, and the bike rides beautifully. For the sake of my own sparanoia I have purchased a spare engine for $200, which I intend to dismantle and refresh, with the help of a friend who also rides. After all, I now own two sheds, full of good tools and much bench space. This time around, I want to become the kind of motorcyclist who rebuilds his own engines. This is the life. Some people would consider a 250cc below them, or too underpowered. I don't have much respect for the former attitude, which is typical in motorcycling, and among too many men in general about things in general, but I can respect the latter concern. I cannot reliably achieve 100kph on this bike, so it would be problematic as a highway tourer. At the same time, numerous of my favourite 500cc bikes across the years have topped out at 80 or 90kph. They have done that either through an inability to safely go faster (bad brakes and a tendency to explode) or because the engine felt so strained and unpleasant at 100kph. For me, as I say, I want to do riding differently. No more long days which mean getting caught out at dusk, or returning after dark. But that's the beauty of where I live. It used to take an hour of commuting out of Melbourne to begin the real ride. Now I am in the midst of riding country. I pull out of my gate and turn right onto secondary sealed roads leading to other towns, or left and into the bush, on good dirt roads which lead also to other towns. I live in the land of contemplative motorcycling. I live in a place where the better roads and better rides allow for 80kph or lower. And, so, I begin my next chapter.

I'm back!

It's been almost a decade since my last post. And five years since I last owned a motorcycle. I have felt of late that I gave up too much, when I gave up riding. Today I bought this:

More to come....

Redesdale

Oftentimes I let the ride flow past, and into the past, without photos. But here are my two latest.

Today I rode to Redesdale for lunch on the Royal Enfield. I returned to Melbourne by a motley of routes, some sealed, some dirt.

It is Autumn, a wonderful season for riding. This is especially so on a Bullet. I meandered down this dirt road at 30kph, trying to absorb the space into myself, so that I might carry it within me like a light during the week.

Last Sunday I rode to Yea, then Ruffy, then to a friend's farm near Strathbogie. Again this was done on the Bullet. My new Royal Enfield is quite simply the best motorcycle I have ever owned. It is gutless, twice as tiring on day rides, and I worry about it in ways that I never do with a Japanese bike. But nothing else has the character, nothing else soothes the soul, nothing else gives abundant joy, like my Bullet.

I ate lunch at the Red Plate cafe while surrounded by bikes.

I made a friend on my way home:

Tasmania on a Royal Enfield Bullet, 2015

This is now a yearly pilgrimage; you might remember this and this. The difference on the current trip is that I fulfilled a longing and rode a Royal Enfield, purchased  new and just in time for the journey.

The first day was summer, yet it resembled a temperate winter as the joy of my single cylinder engine rang out across the hills. I wound through bend after bend west of Cradle Mountain. The air was crisp, the light soft, the world lucid and kind. Greener and greener it became, moving from farm hills to mountains which were dense with forest and ferns.

Later that day the land dried out by degrees as I descended the western mountains, out onto the undulating plains of the midlands. 

On and on, at dusk I arrived in Nicholls Rivullett where I would be staying the fortnight with my father and his wife. The Cygnet Folk Festival was in full swing and the town was transformed during those initial days. Soon it quietened however and I settled into my daily round, of motorcycling and reading and drinking coffee. Every day I would do this, enjoying the local roads many of which skirted the ocean.

I took along Iris Murdoch's The Sea, The Sea, a long novel which I read slowly over the span of the trip, finishing the day before I returned. It is full of delicious descriptions of food, eaten on lazy days by the ocean, a description almost of my own experience.

I would sit by the ocean reading this book, my bike beside me, local fruit in my napsack. Some days the sun shone, some days it rained, and on others a moody atmosphere hung - the sea dirty and frustrated, splashing at my feet.

I had intended to write, and did edit this older piece after the sad events just prior to my leaving, but mostly I lived the passive life. 

This is the view from my father's deck, looking across the mountains:

It changed from day to day as I drank red wine and read or thought or imagined.

I often sat on the Woodbridge side of the coast and watched the boats go by.

My God, the roads in this area are a joy to ride on a Royal Enfield. I felt perpetually in a scene from Heartbeat. Many of the roads are single lane and weave past farms. At times I had to dodge sheep, tractors, and encroaching black berries. Everywhere I stopped people came and spoke to me about the bike, many of them non-riders who loved its 1940s looks. 

One afternoon I sat against the church in Cygnet, reading my book in the shade. I took the photo below while sitting there, and it shows the main part of the town, which is more like a village. A fellow walked past and asked what I was reading. It emerged that he knew Murdoch through philosophy, which is also how I first knew her. He, Michael, then told me how he had been involved for many years in federal politics and diplomacy under Hawke and Keating including as diplomat to the international criminal caught in the Hague, and how he had become late in life a priest. On the same day that I arrived in Cygnet Michael did too, to commence at his new (and probably last) parish. All this was told to me as we sat on his kitchen chairs, which he had pulled onto the lawn as we spoke, and while drinking the tea which he brewed for me, and which we drank while sitting there in the sun, in an old rose garden.

I was to meet many different people. The next daywhile returning from Southport I wanted coffee. I pulled up at an olde English tavern only to find it closed. A girl on the verandah directed me in broken English to an adjacent building. It looked closed. I pushed open its heavy door and stepped into a wall of marijuana smoke and loud folk music. I had stepped into a den of French hippies. They were clustered in groups drinking, smoking, some playing pool. There was a bar which looked like a druggie's lounge room, and a barman who suggested he could boil an espresso coffee pot for me. He did, with a ten shot espresso pot, and handed me a pint mug filled to the brim with those ten shots.

On other days I did not ride but instead adventured onto the water. I canoed through Cygnet bay among moored yachts, and on another day journeyed out onto deeper seas.

But mostly I rode, read, ate and drank, my feet dangling over the edge of rocks above the waves.

On my second last day I traveled north through the midlands and finished Murdoch in an 1820s convict cemetery.

After consuming a wallaby pie for lunch, I headed further north via Bothwell and up through the lakes district. I was alone in this landscape and the Bullet motored along joyfully, never skipping a beat, making me happy in its pulsating beauty.

The landscape changes so much up here. The sky is pure, the landscape untouched and inviting.

From high up the valley below spreads like a map.

I stayed the night at the Poatina Chalet, a left-over 1960s lodge in a left-over worker's village in the mountains. This was the view from my bed.

A view which changed constantly:

In the morning it greeted me.

I spent my last day riding a loop which took me slowly back to Devonport and the ferry. I overtook tourists in the twisty mountains and the Bullet proved adept, the torquey engine pulling away lustily and sounding like a 1920s machine gun.

I caught the ferry in the evening. It was, as usual, a wonderful two weeks, which as usual left me wondering why I live in the city. I had put 2,500km on the Bullet, taking it to over 5000km, and it performed flawlessly. Why did I not buy one of these years ago. This is the best bike I have ever ridden.