I am a motorcycle man. I suppose I always will be, and my girls love me for it. 

But, there are motorcycles and there are Italian motorcycles. Now this...

  

...is an Italian motorcycle. Sex on wheels, they called it in one review.

I cut my teeth in the blackened hills of Pennsylvania in the early 70's, first on mini-bikes that weren’t mine, and later a sweet, lime-green Honda SL125 that I bought for 350 hard-earned, paper-route dollars.

That crappy little Honda changed my life.

After beating the Honda to shrapnel, I graduated to an ISDT Penton 125 with the Sachs mystery gearbox that had me in tears, waiting for months on the 'ship that brought the parts from Germany'.

I've done high speed wobbles cliffside while racing freight trains and have executed spectacular "Flying W's" on a 360 CZ twin pipe, the one with that killer tank bolt in the crotch.

I have launched under-suspended Ossa's skyward to my own detriment, and cursed the "missing link" DKW that blew up rather beautifully. I have had my arms nearly pulled from their sockets gunning the notorious square-barreled 501 Maico-Breako. I have been on the wrong side of massive rear knobby tires that fired a deadly blast of gravel, and came to understand the motivation behind the inventor of the Gatling gun.

But that was back when boys were men.

I then rode it to Florida during that notoriously cold winter when the plane hit the 14th St. bridge in Washington DC.

That summer, I rode it from Savannah Georgia to Scranton, Pennsylvania in the rain. There, I was to be best man in my best friend's wedding. As a result of that punishing 26 hour trip, one of the bridesmaids had to perform chiropractics on me the night before so I could stand straight enough to escort her down the aisle.

At the peak of my so-called racing career, I raced a Yamaha V-four two-stroke RZ500 at the only Paul Revere 250 to be held at Daytona, that featured motorcycles.

The flag dropped at midnight, I qualified on the fifth row after drafting a much faster rider, blindly for one burning lap.  2:11.  In the  process however, I nearly vomited up a vital organs when Kevin Schwantz passed me, like an F-16 on the outside, when I thought my throttle elbow was about to scrape the walls of the high banks at speeds that actually make your hair grow faster.

It was then I realized that there are riders and there are riders, and I was not the italicized version and quit racing, at least with the intention of doing it professionally. My last race was for fun, the weekend before my wedding through the streets of Steamboat Springs.

My seven month honeymoon featured a rented BMW K-model, a dome tent, the Blue Mountains west of Sydney Australia, and my pregnant bride. As a young husband, father and Christian I did the right thing. I sold the race bikes to pay my rent in Georgetown. But it was to a spunky young courier, who dyed his hair jet-black and whose blood is probably on my head.

Then, I lived without a motorcycle for three or four years until tax time aligned with a co-worker and an '85 GPz550, that he only rode once. (and only crashed once)

I sold the GPz 15 years and 35,000 miles later, for more than twice what I paid for it, to cover one semester of my daughter’s college tuition. 

In short, I love bikes and have paid my dues.  Motorcycle-less again for several years, I drove a mini-van and sold software I had never actually used, in an industry I'd never really worked, to people much smarter than me.

UPDATE: Sold the mini van!  

Then, one day I see this ad. On Craigslist. A vintage 1974 Yamaha RD200! Just like the one I borrowed from Stevo back in the Mountain Park house! My four-hundred and ninety dollar inheritance check was burning a hole in my pocket. OK, ANOTHER hole.

For sale in Colorado Springs. 3127 miles. Original tires. My heart skipped a beat. I picked it up with a borrowed truck and my 14 year old daughter in tow. We followed the heavy kid and his pregnant girlfriend throught the trailer park and down rows of a dilapilated storage facility on the outskirts of town. Storage unit 421, my birthday.

 

My daughter glanced at the bulging belly, she looked at the dirty woolen hat, bungee-corded around the extra 14 inches of foam bursting out the back of the the seat. Why didn't he just trim it off? And why in God's name, a woolen hat?  I asked for no explaination. There was none. She questioned my sanity in handing over the four hundred and twenty five dollars.

2 weeks, 57 dollars, and one ebay seat later. I had it gleaming and idling at the touch of the button. The guy drove down from Breckenridge with 15 crisp one hundred dollar bills and put up no fight. He wanted it, badly. It pained me to let it go, even at that profit.

Fast forward to the 1995 Triumph Thunderbird. Non-mechanic. New baby, his wife forbid him to ride it. The 900cc Triple!  It sat humbly in it place in the alley, OUTSIDE the fence with the compost heap and the big green trash bins.  Heavens to Mergatroid.

Weeds entangled the wheels. Mud dobbers built nests. A bushel of leaves to rake out of her. 14,000 miles. She would not start, but I was smitten. Good-bye fifteen hundred dollars! No, good riddance!..This was too good to be true. Pinch me.

Again, I made quick work. 8 days later, with three rubber boots from a salvage yard EX-500, a fully charged battery and a can of carb cleaner, it roared to life in my driveway. I almost cried. It is a dream come true, it absolutely howls and it did not have the much feared sprague clutch problem. It's sits in a space I can see from my cubicle. My hair is a rat's nest. I cannot stay off it.

Enter the 1983 Moto Guzzi LeMans III.

Sweet Mother of Flying Monkey's!

My dream bike. The same vintage I moved to Colorado and met that beautiful woman who married me. She not only supports, but encourages my habit. 

I post an ad, offer to trade and he responds. Not a mechanic, just like the last guy. Needs brakes and carb work. How do I choose? I shoot off a quick email to my fellow addict and friend Richard, the editor of Motorcycle Classics magazine.

"Why, you get the Guzzi, of course." is his reply.

 I do.  A few months later, he features my Guzzi in the 'Readers and Riders' section.

And that's why I will be a lifelong subscriber to his publication. My passion for life, my circle of friends, my love life, have all grown substantially. My Life, in Motorcycles.

Moto Guzzi -  celebrating 90 years!

©2011 Raymond Roske