The Genesis.

1981 Honda CB650C Custom.

It started with this motorcycle right here.

A nineteen.

eighty-one.

C.

B.

six-fifty.

custom.

Four cylinders. Coffee brown paint. Hand stitched black and brown seat. The guy selling it had put Goldwing handlebars on it, claiming they were more comfortable.

Nine months into marriage and down to one car, three-ish jobs between the two of us, my wife Nettie and I went hunting for a new, cheaper, more adventurous means of transportation. Not entirely sure why. Maybe it was because at 22/23 neither of us really wanted the stability that rent and job assurance bring, or maybe because after 5 years of the opprobrious college experience we needed more self-inflicted chaos. Whatever the reason, we picked up this beauty, which had an oil leak. But quite frankly, I have yet to own a vehicle that does not have an oil leak.

Some death-trap of a dirt bike.

Sorry, minor correction. This is where it all started. Or, I imagine it was on something very similar to this. As a little kid, my family lived in Quito, Ecaudor and would go visit friends in the Amazon. I was seven and my friend's older brother drove up in a dirt bike of absolute disrepute and told me to "hop on." The low rumble of the little motor might well have been Kaa the Python's death song. Mezmorized by it, I "hopped"...failing to see the complete lack of muffler guard. Not that I even knew what a muffler guard was let alone the possible danger its abscence posed toward a passenger. After about three seconds, I understood the danger all too well. A good, solid, third-degree burn across the back of my right leg.

Despite the deep sense of danger and foreboding that accompanies narrowly missing gangrene, from that point on I set my mind on getting a motorcycle when I turned 16. Specifically a red crotch rocket that I could ride to high school, along with a red leather jacket. I'm pretty sure that in reality I had this   

Mr. Awesome-Ducati-Racer.

desperately confused with this   

The Red Ranger. Lightning and all.

Ultimately, tastes change. I don't think I would ever be caught dead on a crotch rocket now, no offense. They're just not my thing. And I seem to remember a brief period of time, somewhat ironically around age 16, when I wanted a scooter more than I could stand. But nonetheless, seeds will be planted and will soon grow into obsession. And the obsession reached fruition with the CB650C. I found it, talked it over with Nettie, bought it, and brought it home  all in the course of 24hrs. I couldn't stop think about it. I kept it in a shed near a parking lot and would drive out there just to look at it, to sit on it. I told everyone who would even remotely care about it, and my excitement nullified in my soul the negative waves that an unruly ammount of aquaintances had for me concerning the bike. Also, being somewhat stupid I just started riding. I thought "Hey, why don't I just ride this around. I'll take the safety class if I need it."

It is at this point in the blog that I would like to encourage every new rider to TAKE THE SAFETY CLASS!

Three months later I walk around with a cane, a leg full of metal and 2 1/2 ft of scars. Oh, and a missing bike key, which is quite frankly, the worst of it all.

Anyways, in the time I was spent held up, unable to walk (I didn't leave my house for the entire month of April, save the three days prior to the crash) I was left with nothing to do but look at photos of bikes, read about bikes, watch movies about bikes...

...and I realized something. I loved it. I loved every bit of it. This biker subculture I found. I never new it existed. No, not the hog and chopper army that every person I met thought of when I said the malediction "MOTORCYCLE," nor the posse of bros in visors that would race every night by the boardwalk drinking Tecate. It was a subcult that I thought only existed in discombobulated thought, an almost Rock'N'Roll species of motorcyclist.

Bob Dylan

Constituted by actors, musicians, poets, it is borne on Nortons, BSAs, and vintage Triumphs and Hondas. There is a lifeblood that flows through its comrades veins which is romantic, dauntless, intrepid, free.

 As I started to realize the existence of such a sub-culture and come to terms with it as a reality I found that there were in fact many "riders" in my area who would gladly weave

Steve McQueen

into such a group. But sadly, there were very few of them who had ever seriously considered it due to the fact that most of the beautifully vintage rides are hard to come by in working condition. It was at that point that I decided, with my wife, to fix that. Constantly on the hunt for broken down, abandoned bikes and mopeds (because hey, they can be fun too) to repair, transform, recast, transmogrify...to rescue.

Just a little bit of 70s colors here, and smidge of steampunk there, and our hope is to put a little bit of two-wheel motorized freedom and expression back into our generation.

"Four wheels move the body. Two wheels move the soul."

                                  -Unknown