Cycle News - Archive Issues - 1970's

- • - - ---- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - ....,.. UJ I¥lI ;II I¥lI ..,; g Death of a. Matador ~ g l!'l r-... O'l ...... ~ r-... >.... C':l ::l By Allan Abbott, M.D. t:: C':l "'""l ... h e first days' soreness mellowed and our blisters hardened to calluses. Rick and I had spent the previous week exploring the back roads of Baja, m eandering so uth fr om coast to coast . Thoroughly fed up with dusty desert ruts and wh oo p -de-doos, we welcomed the smooth graded section th at marks the last stretch before pavement. Overlooking the gulf, the road winds aro und steep, stark cliffs that cast eerie gray shadows across the water with the evening sun. We marveled at nature's spectacle as we raced along narrow tire tracks between tall rows of gravel. Baja had laugh t both of us a great deal about tiedowns and we proudly noticed that neither had dropped a single can of cerveza from the last town. We were anxious to settle into camp for the night. A warm breeze greeted the sunset and the evening's ride was perfect. We experienced a mind-bending exhilaration that only a true motorcycle enthusiast can appreciate: an enchanting harmony with man, machine and nature, all in perfect balance. I remember smiling the whole time. Just before dark we set up camp under a dilapidated thatched half shelter on a deserted beach. Rick was already asleep and. I lay there thinking under a star-filled ; moonless sky. I chuckled to myself about the evening's meal. We discovered Spam can't be roasted on a stick without falling off. We also learned motorcycle tiedowns don't work underwater when we anchored the beer in the gentle surf to cool. Sandy Spam and half-a-beer apiece hadn't been very filling . We spent most of the evening discussing everything we would eat the next day in La Paz. I gazed through the darkness at my motorcycle propped beside me against the lean-to. Thoughts of the experiences I'd had with that old bike t umb'leil' through my mind. I knew its every part. Just before the trip I tore it down to the last gear and bo lt and made sure everything was right. It performed flawlessly. It brought me 'th ere and would take me ho me . It became an extension of myself. I realized then that several years hard use was making it obsolete. It was becoming like those old worn bikes that no o ne notices in the back of motorcycle shops. We usual ly glance away to the fasci nation of some shiny new, high-performance model. Rick was riding a brand new DT-I and its pe rformance challenged myoid bike . Yet whe n he sat on his mach in e (and I don't mean to put down Yamahas) h e was astride of a contraption that cost so many dollars. My bike was part of my anatomy. A recent event made me recall that old bike an d prompted me to understand how it came to be th at way between us. It is a story I haven't told before. T n the fall of '67 I traded my little Honda for a second-hand Matador. I was still in med school and already in debt. That bike came very dearly an d I missed a few meals for a couple of months to mak e en ds meet. My first apartment was o n the second floor of a peeling-white frame h ou se. I shared it with two fellow st udents and had already heard grumblings about the Honda in my bedroom. I never did have the hear t to leave a m o to rcycl e o utside and right away the Matador became a problem. On e of my ro o mma tes was a classical music freak and the other a sex m aniac and both could hardly care less about motorcycles. It was n't un til after a demons tration of h ow little space it would take and how clean it was (I had just given it a 25 cents spray wash) that I got a reluctant push up the back stairs. I had to endure complaints daily . True, it wasn't perfectly oil-tight. "At least," I argued, "it's paper trained." True, it didn't take m uch room leaning in the comer where my chair had been, but more often than not it was spread p iece by piece across the floor and in to the kitchen. Once I recall being served my corn flakes in the primary case cover I'd left draining overnight in the sink. Whe n ' my landl ord caugh t me wheeling the Matador do wn the stairs, even he complained. He said it was a fire hazard and was afraid the gas tank wo uld explode at any 1 38 moment. I told him I always emptied or removed it outside. He thought for a moment and concluded that sparks from the battery were dangerous and was frustrated to learn that there was no battery. When I volunteered the fact that it was paper trained he lost all composure and blurted that either the motorcycle had to go, or me. From that day on I never moved the bike without first making su re he wasn't around. Nothing more was said. I think he was afraid he wouldn't be able to find another paying tenant. My sex fiend room mate still kids me about that firs t night the Matador stayed in my bedroom. I just sat fondly admiring my new prized possession an d dreamed about, climbing monster hills, jumping tall buildings, and escaping from the cops cross-country . It was my first Bultaco and my first two-stroke and I had a lot to learn. I used to hang around the local Bultaco shop and listen to racing stories and various tall tales. Every Wednesday and Friday night at closing time someone would show up with a case of beer and the Bul session would begin in the back room. I made friends there with a skinny young fellow whom I'd seen racing at the local scrambles. His dad had just bought him a new Matador and he claimed it was the only way to learn what real motorcycle riding was all about. I was itching to do it in the dirt and I still thank him for getting me started. My used Matador had already suffered a summer of abuse and neglect. The rusty chain looked like it had a permanent wave, I discovered sand and mud inside the chicken wire air cleaner, and at least half of the bolts were loose or missing. I wasn't surprised when I turned on the lights and they both blew out. Everything that said Lucas was soon put to rest in the cardboard box with the broken speedometer and toy hom. Soon the Matador was t uned and worth y of its name. My friend ta ught me a few things about dirt riding and the rest I made up as I went. He proudly exhibited his crunched rear fender and insisted that no Matador was properly ch rist en ed until it had been looped. My aluminum wonder assu med the typical crinkle on the first try. I learned a lot about motorcycle mechanics too, and about motorcycle so unds. '1 often hear motorcycle speaking. Obviously they don't speak English or words, but they do have a language of their own. While most people assu me that they are merely man-made machines making racket, a few individuals understand what it's all about. Such understanding develops only through experience and through love for the breed. Several years, thousands of miles, and hundreds of repairs were behind before I really understood that Matador. Some people are partial to the throaty roar of a Triumph o r the authority of a Harley. I pe rsonally am intoxicated by Hailwood wailing at 16 grand on his Honda six. I've never heard it live of course, but my roommate made me listen to Bach, minute for minute, whe never I p layed my Isle of Man record. The rasp o f a two-stroke does nothing for most people, b ut I grew to love it. I never could identify makes of cars but I would brag about my ability to recognize motorcycles by their sounds. O f course there is more to motorcycle speech than the exhaust note alone. Every .mo ving part can make its own peculiar so und and each vibration is meaningful. Every bike says its own thing and has its own character. J ust noisy machines? I wonder. That night in Baja my Matador was completely silent, and I und ers to od anyway. y first competition that fall was an enduro . One hundred rugged miles were marked through the nor thern Indiana woods in a drizzling rain . No sooner had we started than my buddy disappeared ahead. I think everyone passed me at least once. I fell down hills, got stuck in mudholes and pushed up hills. One steep slope was mucky and slick from previous t raffic. Three ti mes I spun to a stop hal fway up and slid back down. A few spectators found this lonely obstacle and seemed thoroughly amused as I watched a Honda 90 pass and clear the top without a dab. More determined th is time, I took his line and was just feeling good and getting a bite when the front end got light and came up. 111 never forget that moment of panic when I realized gasoline was leaking over me and I was stuck fast in the goo. Those well-meaning spectators, having gotten their money's worth, came to the rescue and pushed the bike off me. I was too exhausted to be embarrassed. Afterwards my buddy seemed almost envious as we laughed over the distinctive new crinkles sported now by both fenders. Both my Matador and I had become proper christened veterans. Like most new motorcycle enthusiasts I soon became dissatisfied with the engine's performance. A friend had a Sherpa S which he rode only in the summertime and I persuaded him to let me borrow the expansion chamber and carburetor. Before installing them, however, I explored inside the cylinder. The piston came off easily and everthing seemed OK so I scraped away the carbon and bo lted everything back in place. Proud of my accomplishment, I promptly treated my neigh borh ood to the delight of an open-chambered two-stroke doing wheelies. It was hard for me to tell if it actually ran any quicker but my novice ears were filled with power. Under a scorching sun the following Sunday we located an abandoned motocross track. The course was now part of a cow pasture and the fresh pasture pies added to the challenge. I began playing Joel Rob ert. Th ump ove r the jump, pinch thro ugh the ha irpin, a li ttle warm pie in the face ... I wondered if Joel started th is way . I was just shutting off from the sweeper when the engine scraped o ut a new sound - the rear en d loc ked I highsided. As I righted th e bike my shoulder fe lt a little weird and I felt it pop when I tried to straighten the bars. I'd never had a broken bone before. My skinny Bul buddy dropped by my apartme nt just as I was shaking pieces of piston from the cylinder with my one good hand. It seemed thoughtful of him to be cheering me up until he spotted the engine an d mused, "You say it really was fast with the piston in backwards?" Three - w ee ks later I was testing m y shoulder, and the Matador was seating its new rings . After a year or so I was beginning to understand the bike better. I had been inside the engine several tim es and kn ew h o w it worked. I could iden tify all so rts o f Matador sounds. The manner and noise when loaded up became quite familiar. I learned the peculiar tint of running lean. My Bul b uddy always used lingo like "sour, ratty, and flat" to describe what he heard. "Umph - gla, dub, dub, dub . . . " means "Watch those front wheel landings, and the front fender is bent under again." "Psssss . . . ." translates, "Ouch, that barbed wire back there sure was sharp!" There's one sound 111 not forget as I was always picking myself up off that cleverly humped tank just after hearing it. It means, "Hey, watch those big rocks" - or - "Get your rocks off my hump." Occasionally that Matador seemed to have a mind of its own. I came to dread one particular clunking sound the firs t time I h ear d it . We ha d ar rived late after driving over a h u ndred miles through miserable rain and sleet. It was still pouring 10 minutes before the start . Everything was soaked. My friend's Montesa wouldn't fire at all. Viva! A wet short so mewhere. The Matador was more dramatic. One kick, one backfire, one cia n k. That was all. It seemed the motorcycles didn't like th e weather any better than we did. Later I discovered what makes Matadors clunk and ha d my first loo k at a Bultaco gearbox. M

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