My next bike didn’t come until 1994. A guy in town had a couple old Hondas chained to a tree in his front yard. I drove by every day. Dreaming of a little Honda to tool around town on. A week or two later I spotted the owner mowing his yard and pulled in to talk. We quickly arrived at the ugly truth that he wanted too much for the little bikes. The owner was an avid vintage cycle collector though. He eventually asked if I wanted to see his collection. “Absolutely.”

There, in the back porch area, near and utterly overwhelmed by a BMW Paris Dakar sat the cutest little bike I had ever seen. A 1966 Honda Dream 305. I was smitten. “How much for that one?”
“Oh, the Dream! You like that one?”
“I love it!”
“Um, I guess I would take $1000 for it.”
“SOLD!!! I’ll be back at 5 O’clock.”


I promptly went back to work and sold my car to a wholesaler that serviced our Subaru dealership. Got my bike that night and never looked back. I kept the Dream in my living room during the cleanup and mild resto. I had still never ridden a bike with gears and a clutch. I had very little mechanical ability, very few tools, and even less disposable income. But I spent every free moment playing with that little bike. Pull off a piece, figure out what it does. Shine it up while watching TV and put it back on. I basically did the whole bike a bit at a time. When I was bored, or between pieces, I would sit on her and pretend I was riding. Making engine sounds and shifting when I needed to. This is how I trained myself to ride.

With my limited mechanical ability I was never able to get her running. It would pretend it was going to start and then die. I finally broke down and took it to the shop. A friend on his way to work gave us a ride to the shop in the back of his truck. I walked home. Within the hour I got a call that the bike was fixed. “If you can be here in the next 20 minutes you can pick it up. We’re closing.”
“I’ll be there in 15 minutes, click.”
I hopped on my trusty old skateboard and pushed my way to the shop.
The bike was running when I pulled up. Carbs balanced and leaky carb float replaced.

I was ready to go. Except I had never ridden her for real. I sat in the parking pretending to do some sort of pre-ride check on all the systems. In reality I was waiting for all the bike shop guys to go home. I didn’t want these “real bikers” to see me wipe out in traffic.

My first ride was terrifying. Helmetless I took to the rush hour traffic. The steering, if you can call it that, was really loose. The bike was not at all like my little moped had been. The gear box was temperamental. Stalling, and embarrassing me at every light. Balance and braking were not my strong suits. The same could be said for the bike. Part of the time I was on the sidewalk pushing it along. Then I would regain my nerves and try riding it in traffic again. I barely made it home in one piece.

It was the greatest day of my life.

The next month or two were a blur of scared children and scolding old ladies. The joys of summer time riding. T-shirt and goggles weather. During one particularly spirited Saturday jaunt I heard this terrible screeching sound. Some of you have heard it. The sound of a Dream dying. Cylinders frozen in place. I didn’t know how to fix it but I knew what had happened. Ten minutes later I was able to get the kick starter moving again. I guess it cooled enough to release the pistons. We crept home on 1/8 throttle and rolled back into the living room. I can’t fix the dream.

I can’t sell the Dream.

Even though I knew the engine was shot, or at least severely injured. I just couldn’t part with it. I kept that bike in my living room as a piece of art for the next few years.

While the Dream languished in dignified retirement I found another prize. A guy in the paper had a 1975 CB550F with 4800 original miles for sale for $600. That was back when you could still buy a nice Honda for a Dollar a CC. He lived way outside of town so we agreed to meet in the Sam’s Club parking lot. He rolled in right on time. I was early. I could see the nature of the bike before he even stopped the truck. Black spray paint on the tank, tatty old seat, rusty muffler. Looked like an outdoor bike. After checking it out and listening to the old mans stories about it. I bought it for $550. Took it home and began the restoration. Strictly cosmetic. The drive train was perfect. No need to tamper with good old Japanese internals. Same learning curve with the 550. Work on it to learn about it. I found a local painter willing to do motorcycle parts and had him paint the body work for me. Replaced the muffler with a genuine $400 Honda item. Replaced the tires and polished everything I could find to polish. As you can tell from the photo it looked great.
That 550 was 1000% the bike the Dream was. But even then, as my riding skills progressed I knew I wanted a bigger bike. I just didn’t know what to get.

I began buying old bike magazines and drooling over the exotic thoroughbred machines. Even though I could barely afford a beat-up Japanese bike, names like Triumph, Vincent, and Ducati, and of course Norton fired my imagination. I officially had the “Old Bike” bug. My bike was my exclusive mode of transportation for months at a time. Cars are so restrictive. I rode my little Honda for a couple of years after that. Ultimately selling it to help with cash to start a business.

About 18 months into my stewardship of the yellow Honda my Grandmother passed away. I was left $5000 to do with what I saw fit. As a full blown motorcycle addict the decision was not difficult.