Usually,
when I want to buy another motorcycle that I should not, I'll make up
a good excuse to justify the act.
In
this case, it's my wife.
Yes,
you and me would agree, after some debate and a few beers, that is
all her fault.
It
was her the one who bought a 125 first.
One
day out of the blue, she announced that was quitting the back seat of
my Triumph to become “Pilot in command”. Partially inspired by
other women ridding their 125s in our group, she embarked on seven
hours of instruction at the local “Auto école” and spend long
hours on the net looking at motorcycle ads and researching technical
information.
Just
like we, the real bikers, often do.
She
ended with a candy apple red Yamaha YBR 125, fuel injected.
So
now we could spend Sunday ridding around the area, enjoying the
scenery and hunting for cafés that were still open, maybe even
getting a baguette, all the while, ridding into the sunset on our
125s.
Except
I did not have one.
And
following her with my Triumph Trophy, was like keeping formation with
a Tiger Moth, while flying a Gloster Javelin.
Easier
said than done.
So,
voilà, there was my excuse. I now had a clear conscience to do
whatever I wanted.
It
should have been easy, except I'm cheap, old and hard headed.
It
was definitely out of the question that I would end up on something
like my wife's YBR.
People
go to work on those things !!
Reliable,
fuel injected, easy to operate daily drivers have no place in my
stable. No sir, I wanted a “real man's” 125, one that would speak
of my experience, character and most importantly, my unfathomable
mechanical ability...
First
I searched for a Sachs, the brand of my first motorcycle, a
recalcitrant 125 two stroke from the 60's, complete with an
adjustable main jet, dreadful ignition system and no brakes.
Another
copy of the venerable DKW of WWII, I think.
Nothing
there, just some overpriced four strokes with engines build by
someone else.
How
about a Moto Guzzi or Benelli “due tempi” ??
I
found them, wrecks, cheap, but with no hope of finding spares.
Then
there was the usual plethora of efficient Japanese go to work bikes.
Considering
I had artificially set a maximum of 1000€ there was not much left
in the area.
The
lovingly Motobecanes and Peugeots of the 50' didn't have enough power
to get out of their own way and saddled with my 95 Kg, they would
have been a lamentable sight.
I
did sat on a friend's Honda Rebel, but it was too low, I looked like
the Pink Panther ridding a minibike.
Then
there was the 1996 CZ 125 for 500€, not far from here...
Hmm...
On
the photo, she reminded me of my old Sachs, the air cooled engine,
probably still bearing a Schnürl scavenging system, no reed valves
and no rotary exhaust stuff... suddenly al those memories locked away
in a dark corner of my head, came back to life.
Hmm...
Research
on the net did not turn up much, and my biker friends had no idea
about the type.
I
put the project on the back burner for a while, but I could not shake
off the image of that corny blue bike, with looks from the 70's and
technology of the 60's... and the red seat...
At
work, at home, the sole photo of the ad haunted me, her smiling
rectangular headlight seemed to call: “Save me !” in a sort of
paranormal message.
After
a few days, I called, an affable man agreed to meet me on Wednesday
afternoon.
As
we spoke, I made a mental image of him. I never seen a CZ owner, but
I figured they must be like Moto-Guzzi owners, an underground group
of large men, of certain age, with big mustaches, and bags full of
camping stories to tell. Their bikes parked in disorderly garages,
full of spares, vintage oil cans, old Moto-Guzzi posters on the wall,
and good whiskey and cigars hidden nearby.
Yep,
I'm sure they're all like that.
I
told my wife that this time, I was going to “act mature” and not
buy the first bike it came across, and to prove it, for the first
time in my past 43 purchases, I was going to see the bike without
taking the money.
The
GPS guided me to a pristine neighborhood 15 Km away, on the other
side of the river. The trip ended on a house in a corner, when I rang
the bell a smiling man in his 30's opened, he was tall, slim, and had
a baby in his arms, he excused himself.
“I
have to see about the baby, my wife is not in yet” And he motioned
me to wait in the back.
He
had no mustache.
I
hadn't gone ten steps, when a car pulls in, his wife, a smiling lady
also in her 30's , waves and goes in the house, a few moments later,
he shoots out of the kitchen's door, relieved of his duties, ready to
do business.
This
was a typical French family that have been overwhelmed by modern
stereotyping.
Their
house was too big, the yard was also too big, and the 3 car garage at
the back of the property, had no cars in it, just a bunch of
expensive stuff they didn't use any more.
And
of course the CZ.
There
where no posters on the wall, and as far as I could tell, no booze or
cigars.
Everything
inside was covered by a thin layer of white chalky dust, tell tale
sign of a recent or ongoing house renovation project.
We
had to move one big antique wine barrel, and three bicycles to get to
the CZ.
He
rolled her backwards on the paved driveway and set her on the centre
stand.
“There's
no side stand” Was his first technical advice.
She
looked dirty, abandoned, lonely, her headlight didn't seem to smile
any more, and she wasn't talking.
I
then remembered the advice the elders had shared in my young days :
“Kid,
you must NEVER choose a woman or a motorcycle, based on pictures
only, you must go down there and ride 'em first“
As
he attempted to clean her with a rag, also covered in white chalk,
his wife showed up. I could see that behind those welcoming smiles
lay the stress of living life too fast
Clearly,
they had no more room or time in their lives for the CZ, she was
slowly dying away.
He
produced a key, then prepared the bike for starting. He explained
the swivelling start/shifter lever, a first for me, then the need to
“tickle” the carb on cold starts.
That,
I've seen numerous times.
He
was telling me that at least three months went by since she had run,
as he prepared for the first kick.
Wrrrrrr....
“I
hope the petrol is not too old” He said.
Wrrrr...
TEM !
Aha
!
Motivated
by the single, miraculous explosion, he shoved once more...
WrrrrRRREMM...TEM...TEM
!!
Haleluyah
!
Incredible
! The thing started on the third kick, old fuel and all...
Try
that on a Commando...
As
she sat there burbling away, covering the yard with smoke, I was
overwhelmed with excitement, hadn't heard that noise in over thirty
years !
What
is it about this hobby of ours, that makes an old experienced biker,
be completely mesmerized
by
the simple act of an old two stroke coming to life ?
For
me, the moment was filled with emotion, I could feel the memories of
my beginnings in motorcycling mixed with the apparent honesty of the
machine and the mystery of engineering solutions from a strange land
I never visited.
I
realised right there, that this little 125 offered a depart from
mundane biking, a connection with the past the elders that coached me
and a front row look at how things were done behind the Iron Curtain,
years ago.
I
was sold before ever swinging a leg over her.
And
now, it was time to do just that.
He
whipped the seat once more, pointed the bike towards the street, and
motioned for me to mount.
“It
only has four speeds” Was his only advice.
Despite
not wearing a helmet, I embarked on a little tour around the quiet
neighborhood.
By
the time I got to the street, I've found three things about her :
One, the first gear was shorter than a pig's kick, two: The clutch
was ridiculously easy to operate, and three : She vibrates a bit.
Once
on the street, I accelerated respectfully, then made a mess shifting
to second... thanks, in part, to the clutch being engaged by the
shift lever when it starts to move.
I
didn't know.
Bogged
in second, we slowly picked up speed, carefully feeding in throttle,
then, the next surprise :
Second
speed sounded like my friend's Jeep Willys, or like an old Russian
tank must have sounded.
I
was alarmed by the loud gear noise. First I thought there was
something really wrong here, then I reasoned that second must be a
straight cut gear, put there to withstand the abuse.
To
this day, I don't know.
The
owner later assured me that “Always sounded like that.”
So
be it.
I
continued in second at half throttle for about one hundred meters to
clear up the engine and to see if the gearbox exploded.
Then,
a clean shift to third.
Aahh
! Now we're cruising ! She felt good in third about 50 Km/h, I
started to enjoy the ride.
A
momentary trip to fourth, to see if it was still there, and I set
course for home, happily cruising in third.
Back
at the driveway, the owner smiled, relieved that we had returned in
one piece. I smiled too, like a kid, I had just spend a merry fifteen
minutes with my new Czech friend.
Back
on the stand, engine off, petcock closed, I asked : “ Why did you
buy a CZ ?”
“Because
at the time, I didn't have the money to buy anything else” Was his
answer.
I
liked it, a straight, frank answer, particularly when he said
“Something else” rather than “Something better”...
He
pointed at a sticker on the front mudguard, the dealership where he
bought it.
“They're
still there” He said, in a suburb of Nantes.
“But
they don't do much CZ stuff lately” He added.
Well
I'll take it, and if I had brought the money, I would have ridden her
home and come for the car tomorrow.
Now,
I have to ask the wife for a ride.
“ Friday”
She said, “I'll get of work early that day”
Two
days was a long wait. I prepared a space for her in the garage, lined
up tools and cleaning supplies and daydreamed of the places we could
go together.
Friday
evening. The weather was nice, blue skies and a warm breeze. I'm
sitting in the passenger seat of my wife's car, telling her about
this bike with wide eyed excitement.
She
smiles and nods politely, acting like all wifes do when driving
around a child, locked in an old man's body.
Once
at the house, we were greeted by all three of them. The smiling
couple, and the CZ, just cleaned and checked, she was also smiling.
Keys
and owner's manual at the ready, we signed the papers on the
kitchen's table.
Back
outside, the ladies engaged in an animated conversation about their
stuff, while the owner shared the last few words of advice.
I
could see it was a bit sad for him. Yes he had found a sucker that
happily paid the five hundred asking price of a nearly unsellable
motorcycle, but, all those years of memories where leaving him for
ever.
Been
there before.
“Don't
go too fast” I told my wife as she walked to the car, then, with
one last wave, I started my new adventure.
She
followed the efficient indications of the GPS in her car, and I
followed her. Ridding on quiet country roads the bike felt good, we
shared a felling of freedom much like when you take the dog to the
park on a sunny Sunday afternoon, and cut him loose...
I
did have to stay concentrated on the engine feel, often shifting
between third and fourth to keep station with the wife's Citroën,
and listening to the kaleidoscope of mechanical noises for the
slightest sing of trouble.
We
rode calmly through some beautiful twisting roads passing under the
canopy of big trees, then descended towards the river bank, with a
large view of the river valley, the wine yards and farmland spotted
with a few pointed church towers of the little villages and the
occasional castle.
The
bizarre convoy of the roundish red car, the noisy blue motorcycle and
the long white exhaust plume, crossed the river Loire at the old iron
bridge.
I
even managed a look in both directions.
On
the other side, we rode on the familiar flat roads passing through
some neatly arranged farm fields where vegetables grew under big
skies.
And
then, home.
I
parked in front of the garage of our converted farmhouse, propped
her on the centre stand and let her idle while I fumbled for the big,
antique, garage key.
I
closed the fuel petcock and opened the door. Then I shut her off as
she was going lean.
The
wife observed the ceremony, then with better things to do, locked the
car and went in the house.
I
was left alone with my new little friend. She looked great, happy
rejuvenated, ready for new adventures.
How
ever modest and out of date this little motorcycle may be, she would
later prove an excellent companion, for some relaxed, low speed, road
adventures.
And
or that, I love her.
