The Seminal Motorcycle
The author on his beloved Yamaha HT-1, “wheelie-ing down the road on the thing, in defiance of all logic and gravity.” Photos by the author.
Recently I visited one of my favorite cafes, a short ride up the Pacific Coast from my Santa Cruz, California, home. Called Downtown Local, the place is a syrupy mix of old motorcycles, vintage gas tanks stacked on shelves like cordwood and decades worth of vinyl records, which sound a little bit like music and a lot like crackling bacon. Oh, and there?s plentiful strong coffee. I can?t stay away.
While elevating my heart rate with a double espresso and listening to a Janis Joplin album that may have been used as a Frisbee in a freshman dorm, I spied an object of great affection, right there in the middle of the cafe: a 1970 Yamaha HT-1 Enduro. Original color, no less: poop brown. Wearing a Honda shirt, riding a Yamaha, in jeans. Ah, youth.
This was, for me, the Seminal Motorcycle. It was the one from which all the madness sprung?the catalyst for broken bones, busted bank accounts and bad habits. It was the obsessive object of late nights in the garage when I was 12, divining the mysterious inner workings of the two-stroke engine. This zygote of a motorcycle would reincarnate itself dozens of time over the coming decades, in ways that would cause spousal distress, sidetrack serious pursuits like college and career, and generally wreak havoc on an otherwise promising life. In other words, there were awesome times ahead.
The ...
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