Post by Pardee on Jun 25, 2014 13:43:31 GMT -5
Thanks to Harry Moses for transcribing this article.
CYCLE CANADA
June 1995
column…. "FIRST PERSON"
"Can I admit to something without being accused of having masochistic tendencies? My motorcycle is an early 70’s Yamaha TX 750 – yes, the notorious, infamous TX 750. But how was I to know? It’s my first motorcycle.
I had ridden a few bikes from time to time, but never owned one. Years went by, there was a divorce, and I found myself footloose while starting to close in on middle age. Some of my friends had been riding together on an assortment of machines; a nice new Beemer and an old Harley, a flamboyant Honda CBX six, and an old CB750, which Rajoul had owned for 23 years. (Whew! I didn’t think we were that old.) They were obviously having fun, and it seemed time for me to have a motorcycle as well.
I wanted something conventional to tinker on and possibly drop without losing any sleep over it. A 650 or 750, I thought, something with a decent sound.
An evening visit to the yard of a veteran bike builder revealed an old heap under a tarp. It was a Yamaha, with spoke wheels, chain drive, pull-back handlebars and some good old-fashioned chrome. It had come in for a tune-up a few years before, but the owner had traded for something else. We didn’t haggle about pric, because it was the next thing to free. A couple of weeks later I decided to pick it up as a winter project. When I phoned about the Yamaha 650, I was told there was no Yamaha 650 around. "Sure there is," I replied, "that black one by the shed."
"That’s a 750.’ You sure you want it?"
"Oh, a 750. So much the better!"
Neither I nor the friend who helped me pick up the bike could remember an early 70’s Yamaha 750. We made it home, and after the bike received a scrub, some oil in the cylinders and a crankcase flush, I tried kicking it through. Everything turned over, which was a start, This was a backyard overhaul, not a restoration, but during the winter the 750 was cleaned, painted, lubed, and adjusted. The electrical wiring had been butchered, but this turned out to be less of a concern than another development.
The next person I told about my Yamaha TX 750 looked at me in stunned disbelief. "Oh no! You didn’t! That was Yamaha’s worst ever bike! You’ve got to be kidding!"
Well, hey. Everybody I’d ever talked to had said you really couldn’t go wrong with a Japanese bike. This wasn’t what I needed to hear. But the bike did run the following spring after some attention to the timing, valves and clutch. Unfortunately, it only lasted about 800 miles before the transmission dropped a gear. I’d been determined, though, and over the winter I’d picked up a second TX 750 engine and a quaintly translated factory manual. I swapped engines and was back on the road.
During the summer I tinkered with the first engine on the workbench and managed another 1,200 miles on the second. Most of this was just around town by myself or with Rajoul, but damn, we had some excellent jaunts. The bike was delightful! Fun to ride, comfortable to sit on, the TX sounded great. Camouflaged in black paint, the TX even fooled a few people into thinking it was a Norton or a Triumph – at least until they had a closer look. Then it tended to draw comments like, "Oh no! Not a TX 750! Eeeyuchh! Nobody rides those anymore!"
Next I had to endure all the banter, the horroe stories, the scorn and ridicule. But when I straddled the bike and let my weight down on the kickstarter, the fire would ignite and the engine would settle into a low rumble. It was a symphony to me.
Later in September we tool the bikes out for a good rip in the country, and the ride went quite well, all the way out and about half the way back. Moving along at above-average speed, with the wind roaring in my helmet and my buddy honking along beside me on his CB750, my vintage 20 year-old classic Yamaha suddenly coughed and burbled under my throttle hand. A glance in the mirror revealed a solid, blue-grey con-trail coming out of the left pipe, the tell-tale sign ofa thermo-nuclear meltdown right through the piston.
Drat! I’d just filled the tank, too. Instead of throwing the whole thing in the ditch, it seemed best to drag it home. But it was just like being a hapless teenager all over again.
Then again, perhaps for me that’s all it’s all about. Maybe the modern bikes make things too easy. I know an old bush pilot who used to say, "There was a time when ya could take pride in just getting there." Exactly. Anyone can learn to ride and gawk at the scenery, but with this bike it’s a case of "I’m heading for Montana, and I think I can make ‘er."
My black bird will fly again this summer.
Regan Clark, Calgary
CYCLE CANADA
June 1995
column…. "FIRST PERSON"
"Can I admit to something without being accused of having masochistic tendencies? My motorcycle is an early 70’s Yamaha TX 750 – yes, the notorious, infamous TX 750. But how was I to know? It’s my first motorcycle.
I had ridden a few bikes from time to time, but never owned one. Years went by, there was a divorce, and I found myself footloose while starting to close in on middle age. Some of my friends had been riding together on an assortment of machines; a nice new Beemer and an old Harley, a flamboyant Honda CBX six, and an old CB750, which Rajoul had owned for 23 years. (Whew! I didn’t think we were that old.) They were obviously having fun, and it seemed time for me to have a motorcycle as well.
I wanted something conventional to tinker on and possibly drop without losing any sleep over it. A 650 or 750, I thought, something with a decent sound.
An evening visit to the yard of a veteran bike builder revealed an old heap under a tarp. It was a Yamaha, with spoke wheels, chain drive, pull-back handlebars and some good old-fashioned chrome. It had come in for a tune-up a few years before, but the owner had traded for something else. We didn’t haggle about pric, because it was the next thing to free. A couple of weeks later I decided to pick it up as a winter project. When I phoned about the Yamaha 650, I was told there was no Yamaha 650 around. "Sure there is," I replied, "that black one by the shed."
"That’s a 750.’ You sure you want it?"
"Oh, a 750. So much the better!"
Neither I nor the friend who helped me pick up the bike could remember an early 70’s Yamaha 750. We made it home, and after the bike received a scrub, some oil in the cylinders and a crankcase flush, I tried kicking it through. Everything turned over, which was a start, This was a backyard overhaul, not a restoration, but during the winter the 750 was cleaned, painted, lubed, and adjusted. The electrical wiring had been butchered, but this turned out to be less of a concern than another development.
The next person I told about my Yamaha TX 750 looked at me in stunned disbelief. "Oh no! You didn’t! That was Yamaha’s worst ever bike! You’ve got to be kidding!"
Well, hey. Everybody I’d ever talked to had said you really couldn’t go wrong with a Japanese bike. This wasn’t what I needed to hear. But the bike did run the following spring after some attention to the timing, valves and clutch. Unfortunately, it only lasted about 800 miles before the transmission dropped a gear. I’d been determined, though, and over the winter I’d picked up a second TX 750 engine and a quaintly translated factory manual. I swapped engines and was back on the road.
During the summer I tinkered with the first engine on the workbench and managed another 1,200 miles on the second. Most of this was just around town by myself or with Rajoul, but damn, we had some excellent jaunts. The bike was delightful! Fun to ride, comfortable to sit on, the TX sounded great. Camouflaged in black paint, the TX even fooled a few people into thinking it was a Norton or a Triumph – at least until they had a closer look. Then it tended to draw comments like, "Oh no! Not a TX 750! Eeeyuchh! Nobody rides those anymore!"
Next I had to endure all the banter, the horroe stories, the scorn and ridicule. But when I straddled the bike and let my weight down on the kickstarter, the fire would ignite and the engine would settle into a low rumble. It was a symphony to me.
Later in September we tool the bikes out for a good rip in the country, and the ride went quite well, all the way out and about half the way back. Moving along at above-average speed, with the wind roaring in my helmet and my buddy honking along beside me on his CB750, my vintage 20 year-old classic Yamaha suddenly coughed and burbled under my throttle hand. A glance in the mirror revealed a solid, blue-grey con-trail coming out of the left pipe, the tell-tale sign ofa thermo-nuclear meltdown right through the piston.
Drat! I’d just filled the tank, too. Instead of throwing the whole thing in the ditch, it seemed best to drag it home. But it was just like being a hapless teenager all over again.
Then again, perhaps for me that’s all it’s all about. Maybe the modern bikes make things too easy. I know an old bush pilot who used to say, "There was a time when ya could take pride in just getting there." Exactly. Anyone can learn to ride and gawk at the scenery, but with this bike it’s a case of "I’m heading for Montana, and I think I can make ‘er."
My black bird will fly again this summer.
Regan Clark, Calgary