The Delivery Guy We all need money. Some need it more than others and in my case I was down right desperate. The Yamaha had so far proven to be bulletproof, if not very powerful. But it still needed the basics like gas and oil. I needed a job, and once again the Toronto Star provided the answer. "Wanted: Delivery Guy for Auto Dealership; must supply own vehicle. Motorcycle preferred." Holy s***! Had I read that ad correctly? I get to ride my bike all day and get paid for it. This must be too good to be true. Like a rocket I was there in no time, and unbelievably was hired on the spot. The owner had at one time used a biker with a side-hack to deliver small parts to various businesses in the metropolitan area of Toronto. The arrangement had worked out very well and he wanted to do it again. I was to get paid for each delivery that I made. Sounded good to me and I promised to be back first thing the next day. In preparation for my new job, I built a lidded cargo box out of scrap plywood that I attached to the luggage rack on my bike. I also bought myself a map. The next morning I arrived bright eyed and bushy tailed and received a half dozen parcels that required immediate delivery. Working out a route on the map, I was quickly off.
The city of Toronto is a big place, and many of my destinations were to areas that I had never before visited. And although mild compared to today's traffic which threatens to grid lock at any moment, it was still very busy. If I thought the Yamaha was out of its element on the highways, I learned it was only worse in the city. Stop and go riding quickly tired out my clutch hand and heated up the engine to extremes. The resultant loss of what little power the bike had made it even more difficult to prevent my becoming a hood ornament for some crazed cabbie or trucker. I also had to stay off the major highways for the same reason and so was forced to take alternate routes that were neither efficient in time or distance. I also managed to get lost. Sometimes I would have to deliver something awkward like a section of tail pipe. Having to stop regularly to re-secure the load with bungees and rope only added to the frustrations, and of course affected the bottom line. At the end of a 10-hour day on the road I would fall exhausted on my bed. I hated my job. I hated my bike! And then it would rain. After two weeks of this punishment, I came to the conclusion that this was not the dream job after all. For all the punishment the bike and I were taking, the pay was only working out to less than minimum wage. I'm not sure if that even included expenses. I resigned a failure, but I was much wiser for the experience. No More Two-Strokes Shortly after my fiasco as a delivery guy, I found a better job. It was still menial labor, but it paid better and I didn't have to risk my life doing it. Better still, it provided me the funds to once and for all buy a decent bike. Believe me when I say that I lost no time in ridding myself of the 180. By pure chance, I managed to find a picture of the bike on the Internet. I even learned that the name of this model was the Bonanza. My only other link with the 180 is that I still have the cargo box I built and it holds much of my old camping gear. At least I think it does as I have not looked in the box for more than a decade. Although today I rarely give that 180 a thought, when I do, I usually associate it with hardship and disappointment. The bike taught me that size does matter, that anything is possible though not necessarily worth doing, that similar bikes from the same company can be worlds apart, and that I never ever want another air cooled two-stroke motorcycle unless it comes with knobby tires stock. Take a look at a snapshot of a spec sheet.
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