I was reminiscing about the old days, and looked back at all the strange old street bikes we had to make work in the dirt. I was a flat broke teenager, with a love of dirt riding, my only motorcycle at the time was a Jawa 90 that ran for about ten minutes before it blew up. Most of my buddies were in the same boat. Back then, we only had a few choices;
#1: Buy an expensive used European dirt bike, one that you could hardly justify spending five hundred 1972 dollars on.
#2: Buy a new/used English street bike, and modify it for the dirt. Again, too much money involved.
#3: Purchase an inexpensive thrashed Japanese street bike, and ride it.
Most of us opted for number 3, and since the off-road aftermarket parts industry cost money we didn’t have, we modified our cheap Japanese street bikes with a hacksaw, or a cutting torch. Much like the bobber guys before us, we got rid of everything that didn’t matter. Speedometers, lights, fenders, exhaust silencers. Horns, batteries, turn signals etc. all got sawed off, and unceremoniously thrown into a big pile in the backyard.
And there wasn’t a big difference in the bikes we modified too. Some went with little bikes, like the Yamaha 80 Trail Master, or Honda 55 Cub, while others went for the big stuff, like the 305 Honda.
But whatever cheap Japanese street bike we modified and rode, it was a sure bet that it had a safe top speed of about 35 mph in the dirt. With rotten street suspension, worse than bad frame geometry, and ergonomics that would make a contortionist scream in pain, 35 mph was about it.
About that time, thrashed Honda Dreamcycles were being discarded like used toilet paper, and a running one could be purchased for peanuts. Of course, it became our bike of choice. For about the same amount of money we spent on weekly rations of Lucky Lager, we could buy several running Honda Dreamcycles. Out came the Sawzall …
Pity the poor Dreamcycle. Things that worked fine on the street suddenly got put to the test in the dirt. Foot pegs bent, and got pointed straight down, frames cracked and broke. Forks would either seize up, or be permanently bottomed out. Seats flew off, steering head bearings mysteriously disappeared, wimpy triple clamps snapped off, handlebars came loose, the works.
I can remember once, wallowing through some sandy whoop-de-doos on a 400 lb. 305 Honda at about 15 miles per hour, and thinking to myself how blazingly fast I was. Of course, 15 mph on a 305 Honda in sandy whoops was the like going 70 on a real dirt bike, but what did I know? I thought I was having fun.
One time, we let a buddy ride our “community” CA77 305 Honda that had been stripped for dirt, and he disappeared down a desert trail. A few hours went by, and when he didn’t come back, we were forced to go look for him.
After some searching, we found him a couple miles from camp; the bike leaned up against a yucca tree. The battery had somehow fallen out, and taken half the wiring harness with it, which was now wrapped up in the chain, and rear sprocket. We looked everywhere for the battery, but never found it. Which was a bummer, since it was our only one. And we needed it to fire up the rest of our stripped, bent and twisted Honda Dreamcycles.
Within a couple years, we had exhausted the supply of beat-up Dreamcycles in the greater Los Angeles area, and had to widen our search to places like Lancaster, or Littlerock, places that still had ample supplies. But soon those dried up too, and without new old Dreamcycles to destroy, we were out of a ride in the dirt. And, because of that, a few of us were forced to actually get jobs, and buy bikes like Yamaha Enduros, or Huskys.
The Dreamcycles and parts got forgotten about, and ended up in a giant rusting pile in my buddy Rick’s back yard. Rick later sold all the crap to some guy in Japan, and made a killing on the deal.
So if you’re ever out dirt biking on your new wonder bike with water cooling, electric start and 30 inches of suspension travel, and see some poor sap on a old bike, wallowing and crunching along, remember this story.
And offer that rider a beer, ‘cause he needs one. Badly.
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