Hands on my knees, I bent over, arching my back, insides sounding like a bowl of Rice Krispies freshly doused in milk. Another snap/crackle/pop morning thanks to an old motocross mishap.
Looking up, my eyes fell on the Cagiva WMX125 permanently parked in front of my home-office desk. Even with an ungainly, purpose-built motocross racer, the Italians aimed for style and hit the mark. Red and silver, alternately angular and swooping, the Cagiva somehow, impossibly, manages to look beautiful. Just right. Ready to attack.
Without making a sound, without moving an inch, it still can make me smile. Sometimes, when no one’s looking, I climb aboard and remember some of the many great rides I had on this bike. The Cagiva was fast and exciting. No midrange. All top-end, and a fair bit at that. A very trick Öhlins rear shock worked so well at the back.
The Cagiva was magic at drifting out the tail, sliding forever through dirt-track-style turns, while I madly fanned the clutch to keep the two-stroke wailing on the pipe. Sitting atop the 38-inch-high seat, I can’t exactly recall how I managed it with an inseam some eight inches less. But I truly loved doing that more than anything else.
And yet, it was from this very saddle that I was launched into the worst crash of all my days in motorcycling. Not the bike’s fault, nor mine. A very inattentive ATV rider on the other side of a big, fast hill was going the wrong way on the track where he didn’t belong. Right next to a huge one-way sign going the opposite direction.
Sky/earth/sky/earth/sky/earth/ow. My first and only trip in a stretcher. My only never-ending pain to this day.
And yet, I don’t think about that when I look at the bike. I think about some especially fine days in the dirt. The good times with friends. The unexplored trails. The racing.
Rose-colored goggles? Selective memory? Nostalgia trumping arthritis? Who knows?
Looking up, my eyes fell on the Cagiva WMX125 permanently parked in front of my home-office desk. Even with an ungainly, purpose-built motocross racer, the Italians aimed for style and hit the mark. Red and silver, alternately angular and swooping, the Cagiva somehow, impossibly, manages to look beautiful. Just right. Ready to attack.
Without making a sound, without moving an inch, it still can make me smile. Sometimes, when no one’s looking, I climb aboard and remember some of the many great rides I had on this bike. The Cagiva was fast and exciting. No midrange. All top-end, and a fair bit at that. A very trick Öhlins rear shock worked so well at the back.
The Cagiva was magic at drifting out the tail, sliding forever through dirt-track-style turns, while I madly fanned the clutch to keep the two-stroke wailing on the pipe. Sitting atop the 38-inch-high seat, I can’t exactly recall how I managed it with an inseam some eight inches less. But I truly loved doing that more than anything else.
And yet, it was from this very saddle that I was launched into the worst crash of all my days in motorcycling. Not the bike’s fault, nor mine. A very inattentive ATV rider on the other side of a big, fast hill was going the wrong way on the track where he didn’t belong. Right next to a huge one-way sign going the opposite direction.
Sky/earth/sky/earth/sky/earth/ow. My first and only trip in a stretcher. My only never-ending pain to this day.
And yet, I don’t think about that when I look at the bike. I think about some especially fine days in the dirt. The good times with friends. The unexplored trails. The racing.
Rose-colored goggles? Selective memory? Nostalgia trumping arthritis? Who knows?
But motorcycles have a nearly singular power to make you feel good even when they don’t. And that’s why the retired Cagiva, worth less now than the dirt on which it was ridden, still gets polished and dusted from time to time.
This summer, just because, I think I’ll spoon a fresh set of tires on her. - Ty
This summer, just because, I think I’ll spoon a fresh set of tires on her. - Ty
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