Unrequited Love

After almost a year and my life’s savings, the old Bonneville was back in one piece, complete with a fancy stainless steel carburetor sleeve rebuild. Even all the Prince of Darkness, Lucas electrics were still in one functional piece; no kidding. When it was time for the first ride, the carburetors were tickled until gas dribbled onto the freshly polished engine cases and the bike awoke groggily the first time I romped on the quaint kick-starter.

Now was the time I would finally find out why everyone seems to get misty when talking about the 650 Triumph Bonneville. I rolled out of dads gravel driveway and down the empty country road careful not to over-rev the motor until the oil was warm, which could take quite a while since most of the oil lived in the frame – at least until it found its way onto the driveway or dads new garage floor.

Clunking up through the four gears by shifting with my right foot, I tipped into the first corner thinking for sure the mystery would be revealed. Instead my eyes went loony-toones as several hinges in the frame were exposed. The enormous 21-inch front wheel took forever to change direction and I could feel everything flex from the handgrip, through the handlebars, the triple trees, down the forkleg, through the axel and finally along the spokes before the thing started to lean through the corner. The antiquated damping rod forks bobbed and wobbled over bumps in the road and I couldn’t imagine riding on wet cobblestone – let alone jumping a 15 foot fence to escape the pursuing Nazi’s.

With the engine finally warm and in top gear, the motor felt like it was about to grenade and I tried to decipher the wobbling speedometer needle. I guessed I had maxed out the antique somewhere between 50 and 70 miles per hour, give or take 20mph in either direction. Needless to say, I was very disappointed.

I tried for several years to fall in love with the old Triumph. It was delightfully pretty – without a doubt, but I soon realized that I enjoyed looking at the air-cooled twin whole lot more than I liked riding it.

But then I found the bike that represented my unanswered love. I found it not quite as dramatically as the Bonneville and the single-wide, but found it living in a barn under a thick layer of pigeon excrement. Beneath all the white splotches, dirt and straw sat a very sad looking Honda Hawk GT. With 10,000 miles on the clock and original tires that probably still had Japanese air holding the it up. Filthy and few cosmetic problems the bike jumped to life despite the very weak battery. Cautiously I took the bike out for a jaunt around the block to make sure everything worked before I would decide on the bikes true value. By the time my feet were on the pegs I was in love!

The little v-twin motor growled - more like a playful puppy begging to play tug-of-war than a ferocious Rottweiler threatening to eat my left arm. A sloppy clutch release as I shifted from first to second and the front wheel popped skyward by an inch or two, taunting me further. The first corner would be nothing more than a right turn onto a side-road and I was all too aware of the knackered tires keeping me from auguring into someone’s muddy front yard, but the V-twin pulled strong, the twin spar frame and robust forks almost completely compensated for the worn rubber.

I ended up paying a bit more than the bike was worth, but the little Hawk met all of my expectations. It would be another two years before my meager funds would get it back onto the road, but the more I ride it, the more I really love this chunk of aluminum and plastic.

When released the Hawk was priced only a few hundred dollars less than the 600 Hurricanes, which put the bike as far from my reach as Vincent Black Shadow. Now, Hurricanes are all but forgotten while the Hawk has a very active and loyal following of like minded souls (www.hawkgt.com). And it’s not that the Hawk is the perfect motorcycle – probably no more so than the Bonneville, but in my youth I dreamed of owning one more than anything else I can remember - with the exception of the Mellenium Falcon. I imagined racing through empty canyons and past autumn cured fields of wheat- me and my puppy-dog of a V-twin. Some would say it’s a boy and his dog sort of love but I think it’s the dreams I had about this bike in my youth. Dreams I can achieve, unlike the Mellenium Falcon, the little Hawk allows me to relive those dreams every time I take it out to play.