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Sometimes a bike comes along unexpectedly and really knocks your socks off. Then, like an idiot, you sell it.
Well, let me back up a little here. Before working for RevZilla, I ran my own cycle shop, specializing in vintage British and American machines. I always had plenty of customer jobs in the queue, but would also buy a steady stream of bikes to resell as another source of income. I stumbled on a ratty-but-handsome little 1971 Yamaha R5 a few towns away on Craigslist. I was not hunting for one in particular but knowing that two-stroke street bikes are pretty rare, especially ones that have not been overly modified or left outside for decades, I had to go check it out.
The original owner’s son showed me the bike in his garage. I could smell the foul old gas from 20 feet away. The seat was torn up and the paint was pretty faded. It even had the original tires on it, crusty and cracked. He said his father bought it new and rode it mainly to work and back until the late '70s and then bought a Sportster, so the Yamaha just sat since then. It was all there, but It would certainly need some TLC before running again.
The Sporty he mentioned was joined a few years later by an Electra Glide. Both AMF-era Harleys were also in the garage and for sale. At the time, I already had one of each of those, but I did not own anything like the little R5. After confirming the bike had good compression, I gave the guy his $600 asking price and he gave me a stack of files with all the original service receipts, sales brochures and some magazine clippings. A few weeks later, he hired me to get both Harleys running so he could sell them a little easier, which mostly covered the cost of the Yamaha.
I got the bike home and parked it, thinking I would clean it up and get it running as time allowed. I could easily double or triple my money on it when I needed to. Well, I was so busy, the R5 sat for a couple months until my bud Doug asked if he could work on it for fun. He worked some magic on the control cables, switches, carbs and electrical system. We replaced the tires, chain and sprockets, then cleaned the fuel and oil tanks. I had the tank repainted with the stock orange-and-white scheme, added some new Yamaha tank badges and reupholstered the seat. The ratty, neglected little Yamaha was really looking nice at this point. After some bench tuning, it was running as good as it looked! Of course I had to put some shakedown miles on it before putting it up for sale.
This is where my plans inadvertently changed. I have ridden a lot of bikes over the years and none have put a stupid grin on my face like I had when I rode the R5 for the first time. Every time I revved it up over 5,000 rpm and let it sing, I would laugh like a schoolgirl. I was immediately hooked. My normal 10-minute test ride loop turned into an hour of giggles, blue smoke and power wheelies. I absolutely loved the juxtaposition of a small, cute bike that could put me on my ass in a second. Sitting at traffic lights, hearing that angry hornets' nest sound of the 350 twin just had me tickled. Not only that, but it really handled and stopped much better than I expected. It was just purely fun and exciting to ride
Coming from the world of custom vintage Harleys, Triumphs and BSAs, oddly enough, the Yamaha was the unique one. I was feeling a little burned out on the fake tough guy crap and the little smokey creamsicle was just what the doctor ordered. I took my wife out for ice cream on it. I took my friends for rides on it. I took every opportunity to run errands on it. It reminded me of when I first started riding motorcycles as a kid. My other bikes remained parked, while I rode the R5 as much as I could. I even took it on some high-mileage overnight camping trips. While plenty of big-bike riders laughed at the little 350 Yam, they’d be left in a cloud of blue smoke when the light turned green with my front wheel reaching for the sky. The bike certainly lived up to its “giant-killer” nickname.
I rode the R5 a ton, but I did already have plenty of bikes and I needed some scratch so I considered selling it.
"You ride that thing every day," my wife said. "Why would you sell it?"
Like a dumbass, I posted it up for sale and a friend from RevZilla bought it. I always regret selling bikes but it usually fades. With the R5, the seller's remorse grew exponentially as time passed. The friend who bought the bike was pretty content with it and planned to keep it, so I kept searching for another one to replace it.
A couple years later, I stumbled upon a cherry 1970 R5 in upstate New York. This one was in much better shape than my previous one was when I bought it. Also, ‘70 was the only year it came with a lovely purple-and-white paint job. The fellow I bought it from had recently bought it from the original owner and it also came with some great original documentation and OEM spare parts.
This is the only time I ever bought the same motorcycle twice. Thankfully, it feels just as awesome to ride as my previous one and I have no plans to sell this one.
There is something inexplicable about what qualities a bike must possess to give you that goofy giggle when you ride it or make you just stare at it from the coffee shop window. A bike that just has the perfect combination of looks, sound, feel and performance. I have ridden plenty of brand new, 100-plus-horsepower motorcycles with all the tech you could ever jam into them, but none ever made me feel like I do when I'm on my R5.
