September 1971 - From The Saddle
September 1971 - Volume 1, Issue 4
BUYING A USED BIKE?
By Rick Sieman/September 1971/Dirt Bike
(Notes: You know what? I like this old story. Mostly, because it reminds me about how inexpensive it used to be to get back riding in those simple, early days of the sport.)
Dirt riders are spoiled. It seems that we must have a $1300 machine or we won't go riding.
A good friend of mine recently had to sell his 400 Maico to pay some unexpected taxes, and was without a mount for quite a while. You know how miserable life can be without a few Sundays each month of dirt riding to straighten your head out, so I was surprised when, after nearly half a year, he didn't have a bike yet. When I asked him about it, he said that he hadn't saved enough money yet for a new scoot, and with his bad credit record, there was no chance of financing it.
“How much more do you need?” I asked, just making small talk.
“Well, lemme see. I've got 550 bucks saved, but it'll take me another five months to get the rest—that is, if I don't eat a whole lot. You know what a new bike costs these days.”
“What about picking up on a used scoot?” I cheerfully suggested. “You know, until you can afford to buy a new one.”
“Just where do you think I'm going to find something as strong as my 400 was,” he replied sarcastically, “and for 500 bucks, yet?”
“Hell, let's try anyway, and see what we can scrounge up,” I said hopefully. “Who knows? You might run across a deal.”
Two hours later, we had a fistful of local newspapers and the two weekly motorcycle papers. We broke out the cold beer and a few sharp pencils.
“Hey, here's one that sounds good,” I said. “Listen to this: 1968 Bandito with 34mm Mikuni carb, comp release, Curnutt shocks, Bates desert seat, extra number plates, many extra parts … never raced, $500 firm.”
“Never raced!” my friend exploded. “That thing probably has 300 races on it and should have been gracefully retired a year ago! Christ, I'd probably spend a fortune getting it in shape. What I want is something stone reliable, with tons of brute torque and at least half-way decent handling. For under $500 bucks.”
Six beers later, we had circled about 10 different bikes that looked like possibles . After some phone calls, the list was shortened considerably: most of the 10 had been sold.
The remaining bikes included a ‘69 Victor for $525, a ‘67 360 Husky for $595 (maybe he could be talked down?), a ‘68 Montesa for 450 bucks, a ‘68 Greeves 360 for $495 and a ‘65 Matchless 500 single for $475.
A quick trip to the sugar jar for the savings, jump in the van, and we were off for a Saturday bike-shopping spree—with a lot of doubts in our minds.
The Victor turned out to be a bummer; it had almost no dirt equipment on it, and still had the stock (gag) suspension. It would have taken at least $200 more to make it half-way dirt-worthy. Scratch the Victor.
The guy with the Husky wouldn't come down one penny on his asking price, and had about 20 calls on the machine while we were talking to him. (Those Huskies hold their price well, no matter how old they are. Too well for our wallet.)
The Montesa had a brand-new paint job and looked really bitchin ', which made us suspicious right off. When the owner fired it up (34 kicks), a hollow, metallic rap deep in the bowels of the engine could be heard over the crackle of the expansion chamber. Hmmmm . Someone trying to slip us a ringer. Before we left, the asking price had gone down to $350, “as is.” A bad engine is no bargain, no matter how cheap you get it.
When we pulled up the driveway of the Greeves ' residence, a man was pushing it out of the garage with a big grin on his face and a pink slip stuffed in his shirt pocket. Too late. That was too bad; the big Challenger looked strong and clean. A real desert bike.
We almost didn't go look at the Matchless, after missing out on the Greeves . It was late in the afternoon when the owner of the bike led us out to his garage and raised the large double-doors.
There it stood. Big . . . impressive . . . and right. Man, did it ever look right. The knobbies were fresh and had a lot of meat on them. The rims were only slightly squared. Cerianis were mounted front and rear, and the tall, tall engine was protected at the bottom with a huge skid plate. Wide bars, a thick desert seat and number plates added to its ready appearance. And the color was British racing green, beautiful British racing green, with a Limey flag decal on each side of the tank.
Too much. This wasn't just a motorcycle - this was Tradition.
It turned out that the man's son had owned and campaigned the Matchless until the Army had sent him off to the war and an untimely death. The bike had been sitting unused for the better part of a year.
Gas was added to the empty tank and the oil level was topped up. The beautiful green bike was then carefully lifted from the wooden box, and a fresh spark plug installed.
My friend straddled the bike, kicked it through gently with the clutch in to clear the plates, then performed the starting ritual: gas on, tickle till flooded, two easy kicks with the release held in, then a big healthy boot with full body weight behind it. Chuff. . . shudder. . . baroooom thump, thump, thump, thump . The damn thing started on the first kick and immediately settled down to a rumpety -rump idle. A small quantity of blue smoke hung in the' air for a moment, then drifted out of the garage into the outside air.
The man wanted to know if he wanted to take it for a spin around the block.
“Never mind,” said my friend with a faraway look in his eyes, “I don't think that'll be necessary. Here's the $475; I'll take it.”
That was eight months ago. My friend still owns the green thumper, even though he now has enough money to buy a new super bike. He races it every Sunday, and it always finishes. It doesn't handle as well as his former bike, and it's physically more tiring, but he loves it and swears he'll never buy another machine. He's rediscovered a forgotten phase of dirt riding: the big thumper.
Before we got spoiled with all of our fast, light new toys, the thumper was king. The next time you can't afford to buy a new bike, look around for a while. Who knows? You might end up with a tradition—and learn to enjoy riding again.
- Rick 