I had ridden on motorcycles a couple of times when I had gotten rides from guys I knew, but never desired to have nor ever thought about getting a motorcycle for myself. Then in the summer of 1983 (July 26th to be exact), while on a boogie boarding vacation, I was standing on Wilshire Boulevard in LA idly watching the traffic when a guy on a small bike or scooter zipped by, obviously enjoying himself. At that very moment, for whatever reason, an overpowering thought tore through my brain, "I have to get one of those." In a sort of eerie sidelight to this, when I returned home to Milwaukee, I found out from the girl I was dating at the time that her cousin had been killed while riding just two days before I got struck by my strange compulsion. It tends to make one wonder......
I absolutely could not
forget nor shake the idea, but it took a while for the idea to come to fruition. After all, about the only thing I knew about motorcycles was they they had two wheels and a motor; and for some reason, I had to have one. So I was left with the question,
"What do I do now?" I began talking and
asking about riding at work where a number of guys
had bikes, to which I had paid virtually no attention
in the past. Even the language of motorcycling left me in the dark. What on earth was meant by rake and trail, and what went one down and four up (besides a poker hand)? Of course my naiveté was even more basic than that. I had no idea where the gas went or how the controls worked.
As it turned out, the company's
controller, who was as clumsy and awkward as I was,
was planning to get rid of his Honda 250 after several
mishaps. Earlier that year, he had felt an
urge to start riding, but he was ready to give it
up after wiping out several times while his body was still in one piece. Oddly enough, even though I worked in his department, I had not even been aware of his flirtation with riding until one of the other guys told me he might be in the market to unload his bike.
When the
next spring arrived, I acquired his bike a few days after my birthday,
officially became a motorcyclist by passing the written test, purchased insurance, bought a helmet, and began a long
and difficult struggle to teach my clumsy body how to ride a bike. While it may seem so silly now, the initial effort of easing off the clutch while feeding gas to the engine at the same time as I was lifting my feet off the ground and somehow keeping the thing upright was downright scary. Sometimes it did not stay upright. By all rights, I should have called it quits. Somehow I persevered and eventually ventured onto the road. Fortunately, I lived in an area with some lightly travelled roads. My native awkwardness made this whole endeavor the challenge of a lifetime. I am reminded of the famous line from President Kennedy: "We choose to ... do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard, because that goal will serve to organize and measure the best of our energies and skills, because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, ... one which we intend to win." Odd notion, isn't it?
Slowly, but surely, things started to fall into place. Then,
that summer, when I was at a local bike store, there
on the showroom floor was a new year-old GPz305,
bright red and ready to go. Another one of those
overpowering thoughts jumped into my head, "I have
to have that bike." The rest, shall we say,
is history.
Here it is, a 306cc (why else would
they call it a 305?) air cooled parallel twin. Some other
specs were:
-- 11,000 rpm red line (without a radiator)!
-- Belt final drive (how common is that?)!!
-- 342 pounds wet weight!!!
-- 4.0 gallon fuel tank with 79 mpg fuel efficiency (believe me; this is not a typo)!!!!
This buzz bomb was amazing. The engine could deliver
enough power to allow a rider to stay with nearly
anything on the road at any speeds in the vicinity of legal
(This was in the days of the dreaded national double nickel law) with
phenominal fuel economy.
With its light weight, handling was a breeze.
One thing I remember about it was that in sixth gear, the
ratio was almost exactly 1 mph = 100 rpm, so that 70 mph
was 7K on the tach. Of course we never actually rode that fast, or did we?
With that setup it was not hard to keep the revs up. The sticker price was $1799, and I
got $149 off because it was a year old model. Those were
the days. I don't think there has ever been another bike
truly comparable to this one, before or since. And it did
manage to get selected as one of Cycle World's Ten Best
in 1983.
Two noteworthy things happened that first year. One day in early autumn, as I was making a quick sharp right turn, I failed to comprehend the significance of a layer of wet leaves on the road surface. The bike and I were instantly slammed to the pavement. Fortunately, things did not turn out too badly. I suffered only some relatively minor cuts and scrapes and one very swollen, very sore, very slow healing knee. The bike acquired some scratches and a few bent parts, but I was able to ride it home. The front brake lever was easily replaceable, and the sore knee did not keep me from riding. The incident did provide an invaluable learning experience about the necessity of carefully watching for unusual road conditions.
Winter arrived in Wisconsin, and the bike was brought in from the cold. By this time bike fever was racing through my veins, and it seemed like it was going to be a long restless winter. On January 4, however, Street Hawk arrived. This television show (with a motocycle as a co-star) somehow seemed to catch the essence (at least for me) of the thrill, the adventure, the daring, even the risk of taking the motorcycle plunge. 
For a show that ran for only 13 episodes, it has a remarkable following even today, with numerous websites devoted to it. For more information on Street Hawk (or to relive some memories) I recommend http://streethawk.tvheaven.com/. The site has pictures, audio and visual clips, episode highlights, and information on the cast.
As winter passed, my knee slowly returned to normal; and I could dream about getting back on the road, while envisioning myself as some kind of kin of Street Hawk. That spring I decided it was time to get an additonal bike.
This bike marked the end of an era, the last of Kawasaki's air cooled middleweight sport bikes. It was released the same model year as the first 600 Ninja, and it really didn't command much attention in the media or in showrooms. It was a steady, dependable performer, a tested design. The color scheme was different from past models, but attractive.
It was on this bike that I had my most terrifying moments ever while riding. It was on a rural two lane road in Washington County, Wisconsin. I was cruising along at a comfortable pace, enjoying a pleasant spring day. Traffic was very light. All of the sudden, directly in front of my path, a pickup truck pulled out from a stop sign on the left. In a sheer panic reaction, my right hand and foot sent an unmistakable message to the machine, calling on its discs and pads to deliver every ounce of stopping power they had. The tires shrieked, leaving a line of black rubber on the road. Somehow, some way, incredibly, the bike then fought and shuddered to a clean, almost smooth, stop, just inches away from the obstacle, which rolled on through the intersection, either oblivious or unconcerned about the unexpected guest which nearly occupied the front passenger seat. To this day, I find it amazing that I was able to keep the bike upright. After my heart stopped pounding and my body stopped trembling, I was able to continue my ride none the worse for wear.
I did take away a couple of lessons from that experience. First, it was made perfectly clear what a dangerous place the road can be. What if, instead of clean, dry, smooth pavement, there had been a little gravel? Or water? Or grease? Or cracked uneven pavement? Or if my response time had been a fraction of a second slower? Or if the truck had ventured into my path when I was twenty feet farther along the road? The answer is obvious. The second lesson was how a properly ridden and controlled bike can almost behave like an extension of a rider's body. Its movements are responses to input delivered from the brain through the arms and legs, much like a person's feet respond by moving in a certain way when the brain decides it's time to ascend a flight of stairs. Balance, positioning, and movement are all considered together in a subconcious calculation which will result in the next neurological command. In a way that is maybe impossible for non-riders to understand, rider and bike become like one entity, fates inextricably linked. It doesn't happen this way in a car. One doesn't ride on a bike in the same way that one rides in a car. One rides with a bike. It rides with him.
I recently came across a paragraph in More Proficient Motorcycling by David L. Hough which I believe tries to convey the essence of the same message. "You are squeezing the lever or pushing on the pedal, and comparing that to your seat-of -the-pants feel of inertia ("g-force") pulling your body forward, the bike's attitude, and the sounds of the tires. If the bike seems stable and the tires aren't howling, you can squeeze a lettle harder, and expect to feel the g-force increase slightly. If the rear end starts to fly or the front tire starts to wiggle, you can ease up on the lever pressure and expect the g-force to lessen. That's why it is so important to maintain your awareness of what the bike is telling you."
When this model came out, it was time to trade in the
venerable GPz. By this time, I was living in South Florida. It
was one of those bikes I just knew I had to have. I had almost
sprung for a 600 Ninja; but, fortunately, I waited.
Here is what Cycle World had to say about this gem:
"The wait is over. Kawasaki is back in the game....Now comes the
Ninja 750R, proof that Kawasaki has spent its time
wisely. This
is a polished motorcycle, one that goes about its sporting duties
with ease and grace....
The requirement for power is capably handled by an all-new,
liquid cooled inline Four that marches to the tune of
106 claimed horsepower, the highest output in the class....
Given its looks, its engine performance and its mature, livable approach
to sport riding , the new Ninja is a thoroughly appealing
package."
It won another of Cycle World's Ten Best
for the year, with additional comments, "Apparently,
there's no limit. And the 750 class proves that point
better than any other class. Every year, the 750s get
better and better; and just when you think that technology
has topped out, that there's no way those motorcycles
can get any better, along comes a bike like the Kawasaki
Ninja 750. The designers of this Ninja took standards
that already were the highest in the world and raised them.
They took performance that already was awesome and improved
it. They took a segment of the market where excellence
already was the standard and built a standout. Thus, the
1987 Ninja 750 becomes the class's high-water mark,
demonstrating just how good motorcycles can be." I couldn't
have said it any better myself. This was the bike that
truly taught me how good that is while I rode it for 33,000 miles.
I have always thought that this was one of the most visually
stunning bikes ever designed. It was no slouch on the
road either. I put a downpayment on it when I first saw
the magazine previews and had to wait six months before
it actually arrived, the first delivery in Palm Beach County. While the cycle magazines consistently criticized this Ninja for being poorly suspended, I thoroughly enjoyed riding it. It was solid, stable, and surprisingly comfortable for mid distance touring and for commuting to work every day. And no one could deny its eye catching appearance. Plus, I liked the way it looked.
Sometimes, however, fate has a way of intervening in unforseen ways. My riding opportunities were lessened, first when I was given work assignments requiring long stays on the road. Then, when the travel eased, my employer (not me, the company I worked for) relocated to one mile from my house, making commuting on foot more practical than taking a bike. Then tradegy struck.
But now we're back!