1968 Yamaha 180

My First Solo Motorcycle Trip

My family had moved to Toronto just before my sixteenth birthday. It was one of my great desires to return to my old haunting grounds by motorcycle and hang out with my biking buddies. We'd all have gotten our licenses by then and thus could go riding together without fear of acquiring any fines, except for speeding of course. It would have been nice if the helmet law had not been recently enacted in Quebec, but that was a small price to pay for the enjoyment of the camaraderie with my friends. This would also be my first major solo trip on a bike.

By then, I had already started what would someday become a sizable motorcycle magazine collection. I purchased many types of motorcycle magazines, like for example Big Bike which had many great articles on touring with choppers. These magazines provided valuable information on what tools to pack, what camping gear to buy, and my favorite, the inspirational travel stories to get one motivated. Although I wasn't going across North America, or even traveling great distances, I would be using secondary highways intersected by many small towns, so the going would be scenic, and as I would soon learn, painfully slow.

I had not owned the 180 very long before I started planning my trip. The first thing I needed to do was to get my gear assembled. Since a basic tool kit came with the bike, I only needed to buy a spark plug gauge. Essentials like injector oil, plugs, and chain lube were certainly mandatory anytime one left home. I also packed an army surplus poncho which was very chic - and cheap - for that era. Hopefully it would not only provide me with adequate protection in case of rain, but it would also serve as a ground cloth for my tent. The tent was a small bargain basement two man canvas unit which I liberally coated with water repellent. Extra clothes in case of cold, a sleeping bag, some road side snacks, and a map along with the aforementioned items were then all stuffed in a large duffle bag. This I bungeed onto the luggage rack, the only accessory that had come with the bike, and I was all set to go.

The following morning with the crack of dawn I was heading for adventure. If I remember correctly, it took me well over an hour to finally leave Toronto behind. Even though the roads were quiet, the route I had chosen was littered with traffic lights and the posted limits were generally no more than 60 kph. The sun was well up overhead by the time I had passed the last major urban centre, and the blacktop jungle finally receded. From there the countryside opened up and the ride became far more enjoyable, at least as far as my surroundings were concerned.

Today I ride my Harley on roads like this and I am in seventh heaven. As the miles pass, the throbbing V-twin engine under me will put me in almost surreal bliss. I connect very strongly with the machine I ride. If the bike feels strong and relaxed, then I feel the same. However, if the bike seems to be straining then I will become exhausted. And so it was that I discovered that the Yamaha was not the best choice for the open road.

It had been five hours or so since I had departed that morning, and the sun was blazing away in a cloudless sky. The temperature had climbed into the high eighties and I was starting to feel the heat. The winds were blowing moderately strong against me. But rather than refreshing me (I did not have a windshield), I felt like I was riding into a blast furnace and fighting it all the way. I was less than half way to my destination, and I was starting to feel quite tired. But much worse than that, my bike was feeling very tired. Two strokes have a reputation for significantly outperforming their four stroke cousins with only half the engine displacement, but they do suffer from power loss as their operating temperatures climb. In the case of my 180 that day, the heat must have been at the top of the scale because the power had withered to almost non-existence.

On level ground, the engine managed to maintain a strained 80 kph, which, thank goodness, was the speed limit. Going up a hill, or even a mild incline was a different story. I would drop down one, sometimes two or even three gears in order to wring maximum power from the struggling two-stroke. The engine was giving all she could, but it really wasn't enough. (Scotty, where were you when I needed you?) My speed would all too rapidly reduce to as little as 60 kph by the time I reached the crest. To compensate for this disappointing performance, I would try and build as much speed as I could whenever gravity was available to assist me. This too I found to be less than satisfying, since the speedometer refused to budge past 100 or so kilometers per hour.

And so I suffered with the Yamaha all the way to my destination, arriving 14 hours and about 400 miles later. I was sun burned and wind blown, and my butt had gone totally numb, if not turned into iron. The only thing that had kept me going was the determination to retire that night in a comfortable bed at my aunt's house. Was I having fun yet?

As it turned out, all the friends I had planned to see were unavailable for one reason or another, so after a good breakfast thanks to my aunt, I was back on the road to do it all again in reverse. Surprisingly, I had recovered remarkably well from the previous day's ordeal, and the bike was also no worse for wear. I departed mid morning into another hot sunny day, and it didn't take long for the bike to show its dislike for the weather and possibly by then - me.

After such a late start, I was well aware that I would be stopping somewhere for the night. Like Captain America and Billy, I would be setting up camp in some secluded field near the highway, but hopefully without any roaming local yokels with baseball bats. The search for an appropriate campsite thankfully helped keep my mind diverted from the many pains my tortured body was experiencing as I slowly ring-dinged my way along the blacktop. Eventually the light gave out and I was forced to make a decision where to stop. I followed a cart trail through a small stand of trees into an open field and gratefully parked the bike for the night.

The next morning I awoke to rustling, snorting, and other strange noises surrounding my tent. Cautiously I peered out through the entry flap and was startled to see a herd of cattle grazing mere feet from me. Not being a country boy, I was rather alarmed by these intruders, particularly the ones with horns. How would they react to my presence? Would they go berserk and trample me? Very deliberately and quietly I emerged from my tent, and broke camp. I even pushed my reloaded bike back up the trail to the road before risking starting the motor. No doubt that my escape from that precarious situation was assisted by my biker wardrobe of black leather and jeans as the black and white bovines never even blinked as they watched me fade from their sight.

By mid afternoon I was home once more and my first solo motorcycle trip was over.

Next stop, getting a job to finance any future endeavors.