For the Love of Old Shit By: Pavement

Ah, in the spring a young man finds his fancy. So taken with her is he as to drive him near mad. Her sensuous lines enrapture the eye, her voice a melody of love. She's not the fresh spring lass that so many lust for, but you know hers is a time tested beauty that will endure, with the mileage under her belt that invites you to give your all with out fear of harm coming to her. You must have her, the burning is too strong. You pursue. Soon, after some cost, she is yours. To have and to hold, to clutch and to twist, to wrap your legs tightly around her midsection and hold on for dear life. She's aggressive and a fast mover, and she always satisfies you, even if its just a 5 minute ride. The coveting of spring gives way to the joyous romps of summer. You take her places no one has dared go before. You ride her as hard, and as fast, and as long as you can. So much so as to numb your groin, and leave your back crying out for mercy. But as soon as you're rested, she's ready to go again. But alas, the fervor of summer must give way to the reserved retrospection of autumn. Spending more romantic time with her, exploring the same peaks valleys and canyons that you had in your passion attacked in lustful hunger, now with a calm and loving appreciation. Soon, though, the fire smolders out You awake one morning to find her not quite as radiant as she once was. but, in good faith, you try to rouse your love to enjoy the splendor of morning with you. You gently touch that spot that once infallibly turned her on, only to find that she does not respond to your inputs as she once did. You gently probe deeper to diagnose her ills, and love turns to angry frustration when you discover the bitch has a destroyed clutch release bearing, mutilated spring plate and a gas tank that now leaks like a siv! Why do we do it to our selves? Why do we find these old bikes to fall in love with and find our selves saying,"even when I can afford a new bike, I'm never getting rid of this...". Some pose the possibility of reliving the high times of youth, time traveling on the bike that was the envy of the day. A fine theory, for mid-life crisis geriatrics who polish there fenders to go out and tell "back in the day.." speed stories to the latest generation of adrenaline junkies. But since I'm of a mere twenty years vintage my self, and the bike I love being an '83 kaw GPz 750 ( you do the math: that would make me 4 when the bike was built) this theory is obviously not applicable. Others might suggest that it stems from me and those like me being bereft of the necessary (did I spell that right?) financial leverage to get a more current machine. While I'll not deny the impact of being a broke mother fucker on my previous and current bike selections, there was something more. You see, it wasn't a matter of finding a good bike at a good price. I had wanted to find a GPz 750 for some time, and wanted to put rearsets and a Yosh on it to make it competitive. I had fallen in love with the GPz while I still had my shiny new chunk of debt in the form of a '96 FZR 600, and Spider was riding a tricked out '83 GPz 550. I was impressed at how well it performed in comparison to my more modern, and more capable machine. And its looks; sporting and aggressive, yet with that jagged edged Mad Max air that said it wasn't afraid to rub fairing with any thing willing to give it a go. Of coarse at the time I had my fizzer and wasn't in the market for another ride, and certainly not an older one. Two months later that little fantasy ended in a 100+ mph high side that folded my bike into an impressionist/abstract modern art rendition of the sears tower and left me on crutches for some time. Soon I had healed, and again I was in the market for a new bike. Unfortunately I was under budget constraints, as my hospital bills and paying off the bike absorbed most of the insurance settlement. Hold on to yer panties now, this is where the tale takes an unsuspected turn; I didn't buy a GPz! With little cash flow, I opted for an '81 zuk GS 750, a near replica of the one I learned on sans the blue rather than black paint. I had always liked the size and feel of the 750's (feeling a bit like a circus bear on a bicycle when I had crammed my 6'4" frame onto the sprightly little FZR), but longed for the sporting prowess of my late steed. I did what I could to make my GS sportier within my budget ( clubman bars, the 4-1 exhaust from the first GS, scooped seat), but despite that and its notably more satisfying torque curve, it still felt like a truck ( read: HARLEY) in comparison to my now departed fizzer. But I had a bike again, and would be happy in that it was mine and love it accordingly ( and try not to let it catch me ogling at younger, lighter rides or spanking it over the latest issue of PERFORMANCE BIKES). That lasted right until one to many clutchless shifts and lax valve-train maintenance sent it to its grave in a wheel locking fire works display and a fish-tailing block long skid. I spent the next 8 months without a ride, and I coveted like never before. I remembered Spidey's 550 , and I new that's what I wanted. I quickly decided that a 550 simply wasn't big enough for my needs, but I couldn't afford the big 11, and I had always had a thing for 750's... I new what I wanted and started looking. I was informed that one of my associates was in possession of an '83 750 and I bit. When I went to see the bike I got a hard on that stretched into next week; it already HAD rearsets and a Yosh with stage three jetting. It was in good shape, ran strong and was priced to sell at $1k. I was happier than a two peckered puppy in heat. There was only one problem, I didn't have a thousand dollars. I knew I had to have that bike. I whined, I sniveled, I shamelessly begged until J loaned me the money to buy the bike. I wasn't settling for what I could afford, because I couldn't afford roller skates. Yet it seemed the gods of hooliganism felt need to further test my loyalty to this bike; two days and a scant 60 miles of riding, and an errant shift yoke retention pin found its way into the driven gears...boom. Motor blown to holy hell, it sat in my garage waiting for the money to be fixed. The amount of internal chaos was well beyond my ability to mend, so I took it to the shop. It soon earned the nickname Pandora's box as the extent of the damage became painfully apparent. As each new gremlin reared its ugly head, it gobbled up money and precious riding time. The mighty GPz spent nearly 4 months in the shop and cost another grand to fix. But I signed the check, and was in the saddle again. No, this was no budget bike. Fast forward to the present, and the gremlins have reared there little impish heads again, biting the tender flesh of my rump right through the black naugahide seat. Speedo cable snapped, tank began leaking prodigiously, and finally the clutch release bearing went. I ran red lights and speed shifted to the loving embrace of my fathers spacious and well tooled garage, where it sits waiting for the parts to arrive. So why? Why do I, or should I say we, continue to take out loans for non-current motorcycles? Why do we spend hours searching catalogs for performance mods even current budget bikes come with as original equipment? Why do we spend hours discussing projects based on bikes our fathers rode? Why do we try to make bikes from the very dawn of modern sporting machines able competitors to the current flock of nocturnal emissions inspiring rides? Why can't we just save up and buy bikes that already do what we try to make these primordial sleds do? Perhaps romance? But us hooligans are not what Danielle Steele would call a romantic lot. Pride maybe? It seems that others are quite cable of taking pride in modifying new bikes. Nastiness? Bloody minded anti-social behavior? Criminal insanity? All good possibilities, but I think we all are in silent agreement to take advantage of our 5th amendment rights, so that will be stricken from the record. We've already covered miserliness, and I think we've established that if we were actually tight asses we wouldn't all be piss broke all the time. So outside further self glorifying, sanctimonious pontification, I feel we must chalk it up to little more than riding for the love of old shit.