Motorcycle History Part 2 - My Thrashed Seca
In college I totally fell for a girl in San Francisco, and visited her there several times. I decided that San Francisco was the most wonderful city in the world, and that I needed to live there. Unfortunately, parking a car in San Fran is next to impossible, and trying to learn to ride a motorcycle in San Fran is suicidal...so I bought the cheapest real bike I could to learn to ride in Albuquerque.
I ended up with the most thrashed 1982 Yamaha 550 Seca in the world. It had gouges down the sides from being dropped at speed, smashed speedo and tach, both hand levers were snapped off leaving only two fingers' worth of grip. Its rear tire was dry-rotted and slipping out of its bead. Its white and red tank was faded and dented, but the red-and-white seat was in oddly perfect shape. Go Figure.
Its carb bodies were cracked and it was severely out of tune. It would run, but wouldn't idle, would struggle to chug up to 3000 RPM, and then it's DOHC four-cylinder engine would rev like a bat out of hell instantly to 9000+ RPM. The teeth on its severely undersized front sprocket were worn down to tiny nubs and would actually skip on the chain under load...but the undersized front sprocket gave it insane acceleration. The engine made all kinds of awful noises, and sometimes the headlight would cut out until I turned the key switch off and back on again. The maroon helmet that came with it reeked of gasoline and would leave little bits of its disintegrating black foam rubber in my hair. It was reluctant to start on the best of days, and had no kick starter...so after running down the battery trying in vain to get it to fire up, I'd have no recourse but to take the battery inside and charge it.
It was, at best, a chore to learn on.
After a near-death experience of trying to ride it for the first time in my apartment's parking lot in its horrible state of tune, I decided to fix it up before any further attempts. I bought some rebuilt carbs that didn't drip gasoline out of cracks in the carb bodies, and a new rear tire. I pushed it a couple of blocks to the empty football stadium parking lot, and got kind of proficient riding it there.
Over the next year or two, I'd ride it almost any time I had to travel anywhere alone. I ended up replacing the gauges, chain, and the front sprocket with a stock one. After a few stupid mistakes that I luckily survived, I think I ended up being a pretty safe and decent rider. I really liked riding around at night in the winter, seeing my shadow orbit the motorcycle as I'd pass under street lights, with the cool desert winter air filling my nostrils. Riding a motorcycle lets you experience the world in a different way from driving in a car. I liked smelling the Christmas tree lots as I'd drive by. I liked being able to smell that the occupants in the car four cars ahead of me were smoking marijuana. I liked being surrounded by the world on all sides and being able to move through it effortlessly.
Despite all the fun times I had on that motorcycle, it was still an unreliable rolling death trap. In retrospect, it was so dangerous and sketchy that it really should have been scrapped. Also, I was foolish to just "figure it out" and not take a real motorcycle training class.
The relationship with the girl in San Fran (thankfully) didn't work out. I left the motorcycle at my mother's house when I moved to Colorado for a summer internship, leaving it baking in the hot sun for the summer. When I decided never to return to Albuquerque, I sold it through the classifieds for a couple of hundred bucks.
I ended up with the most thrashed 1982 Yamaha 550 Seca in the world. It had gouges down the sides from being dropped at speed, smashed speedo and tach, both hand levers were snapped off leaving only two fingers' worth of grip. Its rear tire was dry-rotted and slipping out of its bead. Its white and red tank was faded and dented, but the red-and-white seat was in oddly perfect shape. Go Figure.
Its carb bodies were cracked and it was severely out of tune. It would run, but wouldn't idle, would struggle to chug up to 3000 RPM, and then it's DOHC four-cylinder engine would rev like a bat out of hell instantly to 9000+ RPM. The teeth on its severely undersized front sprocket were worn down to tiny nubs and would actually skip on the chain under load...but the undersized front sprocket gave it insane acceleration. The engine made all kinds of awful noises, and sometimes the headlight would cut out until I turned the key switch off and back on again. The maroon helmet that came with it reeked of gasoline and would leave little bits of its disintegrating black foam rubber in my hair. It was reluctant to start on the best of days, and had no kick starter...so after running down the battery trying in vain to get it to fire up, I'd have no recourse but to take the battery inside and charge it.
It was, at best, a chore to learn on.
After a near-death experience of trying to ride it for the first time in my apartment's parking lot in its horrible state of tune, I decided to fix it up before any further attempts. I bought some rebuilt carbs that didn't drip gasoline out of cracks in the carb bodies, and a new rear tire. I pushed it a couple of blocks to the empty football stadium parking lot, and got kind of proficient riding it there.
Over the next year or two, I'd ride it almost any time I had to travel anywhere alone. I ended up replacing the gauges, chain, and the front sprocket with a stock one. After a few stupid mistakes that I luckily survived, I think I ended up being a pretty safe and decent rider. I really liked riding around at night in the winter, seeing my shadow orbit the motorcycle as I'd pass under street lights, with the cool desert winter air filling my nostrils. Riding a motorcycle lets you experience the world in a different way from driving in a car. I liked smelling the Christmas tree lots as I'd drive by. I liked being able to smell that the occupants in the car four cars ahead of me were smoking marijuana. I liked being surrounded by the world on all sides and being able to move through it effortlessly.
Despite all the fun times I had on that motorcycle, it was still an unreliable rolling death trap. In retrospect, it was so dangerous and sketchy that it really should have been scrapped. Also, I was foolish to just "figure it out" and not take a real motorcycle training class.
The relationship with the girl in San Fran (thankfully) didn't work out. I left the motorcycle at my mother's house when I moved to Colorado for a summer internship, leaving it baking in the hot sun for the summer. When I decided never to return to Albuquerque, I sold it through the classifieds for a couple of hundred bucks.
posted by veloandy at 12:12 PM
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