First Rides
I had been running a 175 Yamaha Scrambler Twin (kinda dates me, doesn't it) in the dirt for about 6 monthes, when I had the chance to buy a nearly-new Suzuki X-6 Hustler (like I said; go ask your Dad!). This was a bike of the same vintage as the RD series from Yamaha, though didn't get nearly the same press. In a side-by-side race with an stock RD250, it would smoke the Yamaha. The way Suzuki produced such prodigious amount of power from a little piston-port 250, was through careful and selective port timing. In the two-stroke tuning world, you don't get something for nothing, and in the Suzuki's case, what you got was power from 8000 rpm all the way to the 9500 rpm redline. Below 8000, all you got was a loud WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA and a lot of blue smoke.

Acceleration when out of the powerband would be best described as "leisurely"; in the powerband, best described as "exciting" or "interesting", depending on whether everything was pointed in the right direction when the power hit. Wheelies in the first two gears were a matter of course, not a matter of choice or skill. A lot like a 200 lb Kawasaki H1 of the same vintage (for those that still remember).

Leaving stops signs without being crushed by the cars behind you consisted of revving the engine to near redline, and then gently easing the clutch out while keeping revs above that all-important 8000 rpm mark, meanwhile, leaning waaay out over the front wheel to keep from doing a ground loop. Starting from a stop on hills was even better. To top it off, the 6 speed! needlebearing gearbox was notchy, stiff and very fragile. Miss a shift between second and third and you'd be trailering the bike home.

This was my first streetbike. I assumed all were like mine. Within a few short weeks I became frustrated with MY inability to keep the bike at a steady cruising speed. I seemed to surge (that's what high performance two strokes do, as puddling fuel evaporates and is burned) uncontrollably, and it needed constant up and downshifting to keep things on the boil. Plus, the damn thing scared me.
After a couple of close calls, I figured I had made a mistake, and mebbe I should give it up.

A chance stop at the local dealer for parts changed all that.

The 'Zook shook so badly,it was constantly shedding parts; a steady stream of mirrors, turnsignals, nuts, and bolts. A pre-ride inspection took ten minutes and required most of your metric wrenches. I needed a new holddown bolt for the airbox that had vibrated loose, and stepped into the showroom as the mechanic I knew was rolling a brand new GT380 onto the showroom floor. A five minute test ride showed me what I had been missing; the little 380 was everything the 250 wasn't; smooth, well mannered, decent handling, comfortable and with a wide powerband that was there all the way from 3000rpm to redline. I was back that afternoon; the 250 was their's and I rode that little 380 home.

I brought it back the next day for the 650 mile checkup, and for the next two years it was my entry into a whole new world. I survived my first crash on it, survived my first tour on it, raced it, commuted to work on it, dated on it, learned how to work on it, rode it across this country and back several times, and learned how I wanted to live on it.

I hope your bike does the same for you.

Respectfully submitted

Leigh Mattson
Olde farte

What do I really need?
I was reading the lamentations of another rider the other day regarding what the perfect motorcycle ought to be, and whether to find a new bike or upgrade/modify his existing mount.

That got me to thinking about my own predeliction for buying/trading/swapping bikes; and why lasting contentment with my ride doesn't seem to be in the cards for me; I'me constantly perusing Ebay annd CycleTrader.com for the next great buy. I then stopped over at the Used Bike Emporium, drooled on a low milage ZRX1200, and then I spotted a 01 St1100 with less than 8000 Mi that the owner had priced waaaay under blue book. Sweaty palms. Didn't buy it. Yet. THAT got me thinking about my first tour.

It was summer of '74, I'd recently aquired a Suzuki 380 three-cylinder two-stroke, outfitted with clubman bars and a rakish Bates small windscreen. My best friend Gene; a rather greasy character who worshipped Brit autos and other hopeless cases had just finished "restoring" a basket case Honda 305 (toaster tank model, now worth thousands). Restoring in the sense that only two impatient 19 year-olds can; with the help of lots of "Liquid Metal", heli-coils, scabby-looking welds, and generous coats of purple-metallic paint.

"Performance modifications" we made were in the form of 20 over pistons and rings, ( the cylinders were galled so badly, it took two days of honing to get Most of the marks out); removal of the air cleaner, removal of the rusted mufflers with a hack saw, and the careful installation of Snuff-er-Nots from JC Whitney. If you don't know what those are, ask your dad.

A weeks worth of testing and tuning, which consisted of running the needles in the carbs up four notches to quell "some" of the backfiring and Gene and I were planning our first Tour.


A logical first tour for two young studs living in central Minnesota is the Northern "Great Circle" route; up US61 all the way to International Falls and into Ontario, East across Ontario to Thunder Bay, and then back down the North Shore of Lake Superior to Duluth, and thence homeward. No hill for a real climber, right?

We poured over maps and checked milages carefully (the Honda gas tank, due to modifications of a previous owner only held about three gallons, and the screw on cap didn't fit real tight, so filling it up all the way netted you a wet and potentially painful crotch. Fuel stops were carefully planned. The one hundred twenty mile stretch between Keckabeca Falls and Thunder Bay had us rightfully concerned.

Camping equipment consisted of two damp-smelling US military sleeping bags, and a carefully chosen (small) two-man tent with waterproof floor and rain fly,(which would later prove to be a Godsend). We also bought one of those stamped-aluminum nesting cook sets, great for saving weight and space, lousy for cooking on. Everthing got bungeed on our two sporty mounts in canvas duffle bags, along with appropriate clothing and toothbrushes. We were ready!

Started our trip on a Saturday in mid-July, and, of course, spent most of the first days' ride shakin' out the bugs. Loads seemed to mysteriously shift under the bungees, ending with panicked stops alongside the road to retrieve shed cargo; and of course, the rebuilt Honda needed a little massaging.

Local, short blasts around the town had not revealed some troubles that were to plague us for the whole trip, like; when you eliminate both intake and exhaust restrictions you markedly increase the amount of air a motor can process; without concomitant jetting increases, the marginally air-cooled machine runs leaner/hotter than normal. Mini-seizes after an hour or so were order of the day. We fixed this by taping the choke 1/2 on with electrical tape. Worked fine.

After the first morning of running the Suzuki, it was bogging and sputtering, lacking power and barely able to hold 45 mph with full throttle. Stepping off the bike, I noticed that the tips of the 3into4 exhaust pipes were black and runny with sticky goo. It seems as though our blasting down the highway had dislodged all the accumulated crackcase condensation of injector oil, and scavenged it out , plugging the mufflers' fiberglass wrapped silencer pipes. Solution: remove the pipes, apply flame from lighter, and after 15 or so minutes, the smokey oil fire extiguished itself. Reinstall the silencers and we were on our way.

When we left our families that morning, it was cool, dry and sunny. By mid-afternoon, we were less that a third of the way to my uncles cabin, about 400 miles to the north, due to our frequent and unscheduled stops. To top it off, it was growing warm, sticky, and dark clouds were mounting in the northwest, bearing directly down on us. The first large wet plops prompted us to stop and put on our rain gear. Now- you gotta remember; the only made-for-motorcycling rain suit at that time was the mega -expensive made in England Belstaff riding suit; waterproofed with some kind of black waxy substance which required constant rejuvination by sending it back to the factory before the start of every riding season. The only riders that would wear them were the ISDT guys and the old weirdo down the block with the R75/5 Beemer.

Our rainsuits were purchased at the local sporting goods store- too short yellow rubberized rain pants, coupled with bulky rain jackets that had sleeves too short when reaching for the bars. The combination started to flap at about thirty MPH, and by the time we hit 60, the cuffs and sleeves were vibrating so fast, it sounded like we were riding in the midst of a swarm of bees. In a little less than an hour, I started to notice that my rainsuit was letting in water in all sorts of areas. We stopped 'cause both the Honda and the Suzuki started running like they had dropped a cylinder. It was then I discovered that my rainsuit had vibrated itself to death, leaving large chunks of rubberized fabric in my wake and larger portions of my anatomy unprotected.

We also discovered a few more of our mounts', ah, special features; the Honda, having no aircleaners or side panels, was ingesting large quantities of water blown up by the front wheel and passing cars and trucks. It did allieviate the overheating problem, but the loss of power on the freeway was scary. We jury rigged an airbox out of cardboard and electrical tape and it cured (most of) the problem. The Suzuki , on the other hand, was being more difficult to diagnose. The problem was intermittant, and more frustrating, affected different cylinders at different times. Just by accident, we discovered that the rubber shroud that covered the bakelite spark plug caps would, when subjected to deluge, conduct current to the "Ram Air" vent on the engine, causing misfire. Throw the rubber shrouds away and the misbehavior stopped.

All in all, we pulled into the "middle of the forest" dark driveway of my uncle's hunting cabin about 11 pm, cold, wet, shivering and exhausted. That driveway was a dirt and grass track with about a 10%grade down to the lake, slippery and eroded from the rain still coming down, and we both made it to the bottom without major incident.

We upacked in silence, laid out everthing we had 'cause it was all soaked, found our respective beds, and slept the sleep of the dead.

The next morning was sunny and warm, with the bright light reflecting off the lake. We made bacon and eggs and ate sitting on the dock, and I swear, that was the finest meal I've eaten before or since.

We made it all the way around our planned route with a couple of flats, a few more minor "mechanicals" a couple more weather stories to tell, but we both got back safely, learned a lot and made some great memories. After that ride, you couldn't pull me off a bike unless it was snowing (and even then sometimes not, but that's more for later). I rode every chance I got , I commuted every day, I got street savvy and equipment savvy and spent my money and time carefully, and it (motorcycling)changed my life for the better.

The joy truely is in the journey; so maybe instead of expending my energy on constant dissatisfaction, I'll spend a little more time on my old Katana, give it some TLC, a little elbow grease, and some fresh motor honey; sync the carbs and maybe a fresh paint job (with some pearl flames).It's taken me this far and given me nothing but great times and long roads without complaint.

Respectfully submitted

Leigh Mattson
Olde Farte