Matching 40-year-old Gold Wings: The new DGR plan

Recently, Ben and I were discussing what sort of tomfoolery would be needed to top our participation in the 2026 Distinguished Gentleman's Ride, where our pink and blue suits and sketchy bike choices induced whispers and snickers, as documented here. I casually said we should dress like Miami Vice or Michael Knight and ride 1980s bikes. To which Ben responded that we should ride '80s Gold Wings and blast "Rockit" by Herbie Hancock. You know what we need? Motorcycles with buttons. How many buttons? Yes.

The very next day, Ben sent me a picture of a white GL1200 Gold Wing on the back of his flatbed. The low cost of entry was simply irresistible and grass doesn't grow under his feet. How this super freak finds deals immediately is probably going to be studied by MIT's genetic research lab.

Ben wound up with one of the 1986 SE-i models that he named Goldie Hawn. It's complete with period-correct artwork, from murals to pinstripes. In my opinion, the design has become retro chic. The last 40 years have been good to it. It really was hip to be square back then. His bike also came with a Gold Wing duffel bag. Color me jealous.

Upon inspection, Ben found some immediate issues on his bike. First, it only ran on half of the cylinders. And the bike wouldn't turn down Electric Avenue and charge the battery. For the charging system, the upgrade to a Honda CBR1000RR regulator/rectifier sorted his spinny-electricy-makey-juicy thing, while a removal and cleaning of the injectors got him running on all four. Mostly.

Over the next two weeks, he sent me reel after reel, and a seemingly bottomless supply of Gold Wing marketplace listings. Peer pressure is a mofo, y'all. This man kink-shamed me into getting one. And get one I did.

If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, what do you call it when you buy the exact same thing? Asking for a friend. OK. It's me. I'm friend.

If one vintage Gold Wing is good, two is...

I also ended up with a 1986 Honda Goldwing GL1200 Aspencade SE-i. Same Pearl Splendor Ivory color, no cool art. However, mine does have some things his doesn't. Like the CB radio, which I probably won't use, but it lights up. Mine also has an alternator conversion and an air suspension delete. His tape deck works, my FM radio works. Mine also has 36,000 miles on it and was purchased ready to ride. You read that correctly. If you can believe it, Scott Renshaw acquired a running motorcycle! Tell your mom she can't ride it. Mrs. Renshaw is a backpack, your mom is a seabag.

If you've never spent any time with a GL1200, there are some wild Easter eggs. Like ours have trip computers and clocks that have the different time zones displayed in the way only a pixelated LCD screen from the 1980s can display. Sort of like the calculator you would type in "80085" then show it to your friends. Good times.

Worth mentioning if you find yourself in possession of one with the trip computer: These were designed in an era of three-quarters helmets. With a full-face lid on, you have to look way down to read it. There, motorcycle journalisming observations complete.

The cubbies and saddlebags are really good at holding stuff-n-things and the top trunk lid has a mirror that folds down flat. It was either to check the tensile strength of your Aqua Net post-ride or it's a coke mirror. Results may vary. Whatever its original intent, we are making fake vintage credit cards and rolling up Monopoly money for the DGR. Allegedly.

While mine does Gold Wing things (everything just works), all wasn't good in Benland. His radio didn't work initially, and neither did his trip computer. Those were due to the trunk and saddlebag lights being wired backwards, blowing a fuse. He was able to sort that quickly, since he is fluent in multimeter.

Suspiciously, opening the fresh air vents allowed the wonderful smell of a rodent urinal to permeate your respiratory system. Ben begrudgingly disassembled and removed the fairing and the resulting hate that consumed him was Emperor Palpatine-worthy. He would have made a great submariner.

During the removal process, the fairing dumped mouse-pee-water on his pants leg and shoe. For the agnostics, baptism by mouse piss is not for the faint of heart. I haven't heard that many cuss words in a driveway since holding the flashlight for my dad. At one point I saw a sledgehammer come out. Once the fairing was off, Ben used a liberal application of high-pressure water to remove the residue. Now he gets to chase grounds and power. Mice are stupid, and Ben's cats are freeloading. They could have helped.

On the surface, these are not in our wheelhouse. They're just rough enough to beat all day, but nice enough we can put our wives on them. Also, they were cheap, do good burnouts, and were born to boogie. Unbelievably, these are turning us into even bigger dorks than before, which is saying something since we own mopeds. Even Ben's 14-year-old daughter wanted the Clymer manual as reading material. Who knew kids could read these days?

I was able to find the one SE-i being parted out on eBay to get a spare saddlebag and lid in the correct color. So for the next little bit we get to ride a pair of twinsies. Let's see if we can make mine a sharp dressed man, because right now it's a rough boy. There is something inherently cool about twin motorcycles that are only desirable to us nerds (cough) I mean, discerning vintage motorcycle enthusiasts.

What are the goals for two dudes who regularly ride oddball stuff in inappropriate places and ways? For starters, blast '80s music. For Ben, it's Danger Zone by Kenny Loggins. I'll probably sing traffic karaoke to Don't You (Forget About Me) by Simple Minds. Y'all better sing along. Then, we need all the lights. Ben wants his bike to look like a UFO at night, while I want mine to look like a long-haul trucker who is trying to attract the least ugly lot lizard at the Flying Pilot Love's. Remember the way your Uncle Carl's 18-wheeler looked? That's the level of classy I'm aiming for.

Much like his sleeper cab, we won't be taking black lights to these bikes. I choose joy.

We fooled around and put the backrest on his bike as a test. That's a problem. I didn't know I wanted that, but now… I'm ruined. There might be something to riding a Papaw-spec motorcycle. We mounted mine, too. Maybe DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince were wrong, parents did understand.

Unrelated, when did New Balances get so spendy?

Rigorous Gold Wing test ride ensues

We took these matching beauties out on a maiden voyage together along both sides of the Ohio River. They traversed roads, bridges, and even a ferry. My bike's clutch acts up once in a while, Ben's right front fork seal decided to leave the chat and barf oil all over the bodywork, front rotor, and Ben. For the fun of it, we took my 9-year-old with us.

At first, he was very nervous and had a death grip on the grab handles. By mile 30, he was switching bikes and checking out the scenery. At roughly mile 75, we were on the Augusta Ferry going back into Ohio and he was ecstatic, talking faster than we had been riding. By mile 80, he had both hands out wide, like the girl from Titanic. (Side note: There was enough room on the door, Rose. I digress.) Core memory unlocked for the little dude. He asked when we could do that again.

Even with the ticky-tack issues, the bikes eat miles as well as any modern tourer. They're a bit cumbersome to dog walk, but once moving, they are surprisingly nimble. On the backroads, the big girls can dance. I've commuted to my nine-to-five on the old dinosaur and other than the girl driving a Nissan Kicks while wearing cat ears and filming TikToks trying to kill me twice, it was extremely comfortable, even in rush hour congestion. This was supposed to be a gag. Turns out, these old bikes are definitely superior to my Adidas.

We convinced another friend to buy a GL1200. Because we middle-aged dads need to be pampered in our group rides. He bought a 1985 Limited, also fuel injected. My takeaway: Whatever you do, don't go on Instagram and search #goldwingpropaganda. You'll own one, perhaps even multiple. This phenomenon appears to be venereal, and these bikes don't die, they multiply.

If the contagion escapes and the blame game starts, remember that Benjamin Richmond was patient zero.

In the meantime, if you're looking for Ben, he's likely being blessed with Hantavirus water by Pope Mickey III. But if you're trying to find me, I am either on my way to Miami to buy a pastel suit, set up a non-traditional Dade County IRA, or checking my sinuses in the trunk mirror. In any case, we have a plan for next year's DGR. Unless we come up with another plan before then.

P.S. How many song titles did you find? Your mom found more.