1980 Honda XL500 and XL185 Street Enduro

War Stories

I don't have too many recollections of riding my thumper around Toronto. That is except for the one time when I had a few - no, make that a lot of beers one hot afternoon. My buddy and I were heading downtown to meet my wife at work and ride back with her. At one of the traffic lights on the way back, the relatively light Honda of mine became suddenly very top heavy and tipped over taking me along with it. My buddy immediately burst out laughing, which of course started me into fits of uncontrollable giggles as well, and I became far too weak to move from my comfortable position on the pavement. Meanwhile my wife was totally aghast by the two embarrassingly inebriated idiots in the middle of a busy intersection. At least that is the memory she still reminds me of whenever I get even a little bit out of line.

The best riding memories are of our off roading adventures together. Ironically, the one I treasure the most was our first

Caroline getting her feet wet.

which took place in Centennial Park in Etobicoke. Before it was refined and developed, it was a mini-paradise for dirt bikes and four-by-fours right in the city. Not long after my SO had her license, we headed out to the park to indulge in a little bit of trail riding. Although the trails were relatively easy, there were a few challenging hills that could intimidate the inexperienced. One hill in particular added to this challenge by having a mature tree growing at its crest. Unfortunately for me, as I neared the top I unthinkingly turned my head back to see if my wife was following without problem. By the time I had my eyes returned to the direction I was traveling, that tree had suddenly materialized right in front of me and I smacked an overhanging limb with my helmet at about 30 mph. That glancing blow was enough for me to see stars and provide me with a headache that lasted for hours. Thankfully my wife was too preoccupied with keeping her bike under control that she missed my moronic maneuver.

Later on in another section of the park, her bad luck would provide me with ample amusement instead. We were moving at a brisk pace down a trail when we encountered a very large puddle the size of a small pond. I aimed for what looked like the shallowest point and disappeared in a spray of muddy water. The bike handled the slimy potholed crevices underneath the surface with ease, absorbing the shock to the suspension in a totally civilized manner. I was quite exhilarated when I exited that section 30 feet or so later. I rode a bit further and then turned around to come back and watch my SO attack the same obstacle. But she was nowhere to be seen. Perplexed, I puttered around the area searching for her and wondering how she could have gotten that far behind me. As I circled back once more towards the mini pond I thought I heard a voice calling, but could not tell from where. Then I heard it again a bit more clearly, "Help me!" I followed the sound around a small bush beside the puddle and there I saw a sight that brought tears to my eyes. In the deepest part lay my wife fully submerged but for her head and arms, and on top of her floated the 185 effectively pinning her in place. It took me several minutes to compose myself from the uncontrollable mirth that had gripped me, and then a couple more to force myself into the pond to rescue her. After all, I would get stinking, stagnant water down my boots. I never quite understood how she managed to achieve that ignoble position, but neither she nor the bike suffered any damage save for the loss of her dignity which at least prepared her for child birth in the coming years.

The Performance Bug

As great as all the changes that year were, we made one more significant one that took us across the province to the nation's capital. I became a civil servant with the federal government and we rented a town house in the community of Barrhaven, a place my drinking buddies all approved of. The new home didn't have a garage, but it did have the next best thing - an easily accessible basement.

My wife's bike spent our first winter there under a tarp in the postage stamp sized yard, while I took mine inside to be next to the warmth of the gas furnace. I knew that Ottawa's winters were more like the ones I was accustomed to in Montreal; that is very, very cold with snowfalls that were measured in feet, not inches. So with the knowledge that I would have a lot of spare time on my hands and to avoid catching cabin fever, I decided to completely rebuild the 500. With the recent boost to my income, I was prepared to perform a facelift to the rather bland looks of the Honda and add some horsepower as well.