leaks like a sieve

I haven’t done anything quite this bad since I got off the drugs and quit drinking.  Stray animal, adopted on an absolute impulse.  Saw it, told the man I’d take it, went to the bank, got him his money, put it on the truck and led it home.  The motor sounds like someone shaking a coffee can full of nuts and bolts.  The clutch takes two hands to pull in, it has no front brake, and it leaks oil and gasoline from every possible orifice.  It is–in a word–perfect.  “Bill?” you are asking, “why would you do such a thing?”  The answer to this question is a little complicated.  Mostly it is because I endured for my entire 6th grade school year, Dale Gerew’s older brother (I think his name was Alan) firing up a bike identical to this one every morning, and blazing by the spot where we waited for the bus.  We lived out in the country quite a way, and the distance between houses was significant, so Mr. Gerew had that 650 wound out in top gear by the time he passed our bus stop.  It had short pipes, and the sound it made banging through the gears was nothing short of adolescent-testosterone-perfection. 

Why? I just don't know.

Of course I have plans for this one, if I don’t implode with the rest of the economy, but you are crazier than me if you think I am going to admit to anything specific right here where my wife could read it.  Mostly I want to keep it as stock (or at least period) as I can.  So far, riding the bike has been a blast if not a little challenging.  My youngest child, a very capable rider raised on mostly modern Gsx-r and Hayabusa, says it best: “…uh…this thing is a handfull!”  It is, by modern metric bike standards anyhow, very very rough.  What it does do better than any of the pimped-out sportbikes I’ve been riding is draw admirers, young and old.   

all the neighbors came running to check out the new ride!

And yes, I have already located replacement headers and the shorty mufflers.