1977 Honda CB750K

Time Warp

It was early evening as I studied the map on the seat of my bike in the motel's parking lot. As I planned the route back home, it occurred to me that I really wasn't tired or sore after spending almost an entire day on the Honda. The bike had performed flawlessly mile after mile so far, while the accessories I had added had provided me with near perfect comfort. I knew I would have many hours of riding that night, but the confidence I had in the 750's capabilities actually made me look forward to the challenge. This would be a true adventure.

After making sure the map was easily accessible, I headed off. A couple of hundred miles later, I pulled in for a fuel stop. It was now late at night and getting cooler. I donned all my spare clothing and contemplated purchasing a newspaper for added insulation, but decided that it wasn't yet necessary. After a couple of stretches to get any kinks out, I was back on the road. At first the opposing traffic bothered me due to the diffraction of light through my windshield, and I had to sit very upright and try to look over its edge. But as it got later there were fewer and fewer cars on the road and I could once again slouch into my backrest and a more relaxed posture. Then I started to get drowsy. At the next gas station, I purchased a large coffee that I planned to sip while continuing to make progress towards home. That was when I learned that using a straw is not a good idea in combination with a hot beverage, and I had a very sore tongue for hours to help keep me awake. Like the Energizer Bunny, both the Honda and I kept on going.

It was now after midnight and I had a new concern: finding an open gas station. The effects of the coffee had long since passed, and I was getting very tired. To keep alert, I had tried to follow the chatter on the CB, but it became too sporadic. After passing a deer on the side of the road once, I started to imagine seeing them everywhere. Every shadow suddenly became a potential disaster. As I watched my trip meter roll closer to the point when I would need to switch to reserve, I would play a little game in my head. If I found a place to refuel within the next 20 miles, then I would carry on. If not, then I would stop at a motel even if it was against my religion. Just as I thought that I would be calling it a night, a Texaco would appear. And so I continued, listening to the drone of four pipes rising on the straights where I tried to make time, and lowering on the corners where Bambi was waiting for me.

Time eventually became meaningless for me as I rode through the night on auto pilot. It therefore was with some surprise that I suddenly discovered it was no longer dark as I entered the interstate highway that would take me to the Canadian border. I pulled up to customs, answered all the questions without raising any suspicions and was given the green light to enter. Problem was I couldn't get the bike in gear. I had coasted to a stop in neutral as close to the booth as I could and was keeping the bike upright with my left leg, the right resting on the foot peg. When I looked to use my right leg to balance the bike so I could use the left to shift into first, I discovered that I had stopped beside a drain that was installed in a depressed portion of the road. The Honda was a tall bike to begin with and very well suited to those with the long inseams that I did not have. I could just manage to keep my feet flat on the ground under level conditions, but there was no way I could ever reach the ground that day without tipping over. I was so tired by then that I was afraid that even the slightest lean would have been enough to send me over. After what could have been seconds, or possibly minutes (my mind was no longer fully functional), I asked the border guard to please come out and push the little lever for me. I thanked him for his patience and weaved and jerked my way a short distance to a parking spot in front of the customs office - I knew I had to take a break. A customs officer quickly scurried out of the building to greet me, obviously looking forward to strip-searching me or something. I dashed her fantasy however when I explained I was only stopping to get myself organized before continuing on my way. I sat on the sidewalk for a few minutes, looked at my watch and realized I could not relax until I had reached my destination. Must have been my type A personality at work again. Since it was only an hour or two to go, I went.

I arrived back home shortly after 8 a.m. that morning, twenty-three hours and almost 900 miles clocked from the time I had started. The Honda's fairing was plastered with the remains of unidentifiable flying creatures, and I wasn't looking much better either -nothing a hot shower wouldn't cure - for me, or the bike. In fact, apart from being sleep deprived, I could have still kept on going. Surely this must be a testament to the design of the 750K.

But as good a bike as the 1977 Honda 750K was, it wasn't good enough to keep me in a long-term relationship. New bikes were being introduced that were faster, sexier, more technologically sophisticated than ever before. In 1978, the fastest production motorcycle ever mass-produced was announced, and my Honda just didn't compare. It had become just another bike.