There’s this elusive joy I’m always searching for. The pangs of longing strike me hardest when I’ve been sitting in a room for too long, or I’ve had too much coffee.
It’s that desire to get up and go — that pull to accelerate. I began feeling the longing when I sold my first motorcycle. I began to notice bikes that reminded me of the days I used to take to the winding trails of Cameron Park. There was suddenly an absence of movement, and I had to have it back.
So I bought another motorcycle
I remembered an 80’s Honda caked in its own rust and grease, sinking into the ground at my buddy Mike’s house. It was a CM400E he had gotten for free from one of his old teachers. Mike sold it to me for $50. I’ve been consumed by it ever since.
After I removed the motor and cracked it open, I realized how neglected the bike was: A rusty soup of dirt and twigs had been fermenting in the left cylinder for months, as the spark plugs had been left out. Miraculously, the lower half of the motor was left completely intact, and the tires still held air — not to mention, the bike came with a title.
After months of disassembling, soaking, scrubbing and repeating, I’m getting closer to finally getting the motorcycle running again. Until then, I can be found putzing around the parts bin — figuring out how the hell I’ll ever arrive.