My Beloved Spitfire

Ode to the Joys of First-Car Ownership

 

Commuting on a Honda Trail 90 wasn’t gonna get it anymore. Feeling like an adult at nineteen, I needed a car. I was drawn to British roadsters likely because one of my most memorable toys was the red Hubley MGTD Santa left when I was about four. My ninth grade English teacher, Mr. Reed, drove a baby blue Triumph TR3; the county sheriff’s kid, a year or two my senior, had an Austin Healy 3000. But I liked MGs: Midget or B. Either one. British Racing Green if possible.

     Life, I was continually discovering, is nothing if not a series of compromises. One day, motoring south on Park Avenue past Arnie’s Kwality Kars on my Honda 90, I spied a yellow Triumph Spitfire parked at the corner of the front row. Pasted on the windshield was the bargain price: $1299. I rode around the block and puttered by again. Working half time at the wholesale house and making about two-and-a-quarter an hour, I somehow amassed most of that, so on day two, I stopped in for a closer look.

     The sales guy was as nice as could be although his breath smelled like an ashtray that no measure of Hai Karate cologne could obscure. I wheeled down Park Avenue on a test drive with him. Although it was far from an MGB and yellow certainly wasn’t BRG, I was feeling a bit obligated because the sales professional ~ it may have been Arnie himself ~ told me he could make a good deal if I acted today. My experiential file in this regard contained only blank index cards and in less than an hour, $1200 lighter in savings, the ’67 Triumph Spitfire Mk3 was mine. So pleased was I with my coming-of-age purchase that the little cough or two it gave up leaving the lot would be of no concern.

     My plan had been to park the Trail 90 and use it only on weekends up in the national forest, but plans have a way of not going as planned. After the Spitty stalled out multiple times at stop lights and Mr. Cigarette Breath said, “Gee, son, that’s too bad,” I found a foreign car service that would give my baby a good once over. The ensuing tune-up wasn’t too expensive but more than I wanted to pay and the mechanic said he’d had “a hell of a time” trying to sync the carbs, but I nodded and paid and drove away. Two days later, I was back and the kind mechanic said he’d give the carbs another shot “free gratis.”

     Ultimately, I figured that a bit of sputtering must be the spit part of owning a Spitfire, so I decided I’d enjoy the ride in this sleek British marvel even if the ride wasn’t always so enjoyable.

 

 

A couple of months into ownership, I hooked up with Brother Beebo who was home on leave from the Army. Beebo knew more about cars than I did, which arguably still wasn’t much. “You just need to blow the carbon out,” he said.

     “Blow the carbon out?”

     “Yeah. Let’s hop in and take it out to Seven Mile Lane and just get ‘er going and blow the carbon out of the system.”

     “Ummm… Okay.”

     Seven Mile Lane is (or was) a straight stretch of country road bordered by acres and acres of corn. Rural, it proved a mecca for hot rodders on Friday or Saturday nights engaging in “run it for pink slips.” I never quite knew what that meant but it didn’t matter because this was a Thursday or a Wednesday afternoon.

     Top down on the little roadster, we turned off Dayton Road on to Seven Mile and Beebo said, “Hit it!”

     So I did. Within about 20 seconds we were going a good sixty miles an hour. Then sixty-five. Then seventy!  Seventy-five! The little four cylinder topped out at 82. I checked the rearview mirror to, indeed, see a cloud of black smoke gushing from the tailpipe.

     Over the roar of the engine, Beebo yelled, “Let’s find out what the brakes will do!” So I crammed on the pedal.

     God or someone who’d engineered Seven Mile Lane made sure the shoulders of the road were wide. There must have been a good fifty feet between the pavement and the concrete irrigation ditches that lay parallel on either side.  Across that expanse, gravel would give way to dirt then to weeds then to that water. 

     As it would turn out this day, half of the brakes worked just as commanded. I think they were on the passenger side of the car because as soon as I crushed the pedal, my little Spitfire’s ass end swung around in front of me, off the far side of the road, spit up some gravel and dough-nutted in a cloud of dust that took a good two or three minutes to clear. In those initial moments, I wasn’t sure how I hadn’t flipped the damned thing and, as Mom would often aver about young people who died doing stupid things, “Become a statistic.” 

     I killed the engine, waited for my pulse to subside and crawled out to tiptoe along the edge of the irrigation ditch and assess what, if any, damage, might have occurred to my Spitty. Beebo, by this time, was at the back of the car, sort of laughing. He had endured this near-death experience from the passenger seat. Although perhaps thinking active duty was somehow safer, he was gracious enough to drive the thing back home for me.

 

 

North Valley Volkswagen was at the north end of town. A week after the ‘incident,’ I dropped by. In 1971, VW had just come out with the Super Beetle, a marginally larger version of the car that so many Americans had grown to love. An orange one had just rolled off the transport truck, and after accepting $300 as a trade in, I found myself comfortably tooling around in a vehicle that was much more my style.

     A week into ownership, I cruised down Park Avenue, and sitting at the prime corner position at Arnie’s Kwality Kars was a yellow Triumph Spitfire Mk3. Attached to the windshield was the bargain price: $1299.

 

© 2025

Church of the Open Road Press

SELECTING A CYCLE

 

“Don’t trust everything you read on the Internet.”

- Abraham Lincoln

Returning to my old office of employ, my former secretary said, “My son is thinking of getting back into motorcycling.”  I cringed a bit.  “He doesn’t quite know what he wants, but I told him to log into the Church of the Open Road and see what’s there.”  I cringed some more.  (See Lincoln’s quote, above.)

Most everybody’s initial foray into the sport of two-wheeled travel is a shot in the dark.  So many makes and models to choose from!  What to own?  My first bike was a 90cc Honda.  It was great for putting around town and knocking out some forest service roads up in the hills, but getting to those dirt roads was a bit more problematic.  As I raced up (and I do mean “up”) state highway 32 toward Forest Ranch at 27 miles per hour, even at seventeen years of age, I knew the bike wasn’t intended for the demands I was asking. 

My daughter’s experience is similar yet different.  Her soon-to-be husband had come home on a Triumph Bonneville Black – one of the Hinckley models.  Daughter went for a spin on the back and wondered why we hadn’t told her what a blast motorcycle riding could be.  She took the course, got her license and some gear and went shopping.  She fell in love with what would become her first – and only – bike: a 2007 Ducati Monster S2R.  No amount of counsel could convince her that something a bit more mild would be a better selection for the new rider.  One first-day spill and the thing was sold.

My secretary told me that her son’s first bike was one of those lean over motorcycles and this time he was looking for something he could sit up straight on.  He’ll have a fire-related job up in the mountains this summer and would like something to commute on.

I immediately thought of the KLR 650 I’d owned a while back.  The thing could clip along at highway speeds.  For sight seeing on back roads and forest service routes, the thing was terrific.  But, the handling wasn’t too precise and the brakes were anything but state of the art.  Still the upright-ness is good as long as her son’s inseam isn’t as short as my brother-in-law’s.  He’d straddled the Kawi once and could barely reach the garage floor using the tips of his toes. 

I reverted to son-in-law’s Bonneville Black, recently sold.  There’s a bike with some solid engineering, a moderate sit-up position, and cool retro looks - especially the McQueen signature Scrambler derivative.  Downsides might include the weight and the fact that in the mountains or far northern California, it might be tough to find a nearby dealership.

My two current rides are a BMW 1200 GSA – probably too big and undoubtedly too expensive for an I-wanna-save-money-on-my-commute livery – and my beloved and thus-far rock solid Guzzi Breva – see issues with dealer networks.

There are a ton of great bikes to choose from now.  Honda, Yamaha, Kawasaki and Suzuki are all producing some mid-weight bikes that are reliable and economical.  They come in a range of styles and seating positions and dealers are always close by.  Triumph has some 800cc Adventure triples and BMW some 800 Adventure twins that set butterflies loose in my tummy.  A Ducati Monster would be fabulous on the paved mountain roads where I know the young man will be stationed.  Not so hot off the tarmac.

What counsel I would offer this young man? 

Substance over style:  Determine where you’re going to ride, why, and on what surfaces.  Cross out anything on the list that doesn’t match.  Those bikes you check off will be there when your riding circumstance changes – and it will.

Dealer network:  If he lacks the mechanical skills I lack, having someone within shoutin’ distance who can keep the thing in top condition will only lengthen the life of the machine and greatly increase the enjoyment of ownership.

Fit:  Sit on several making sure your feet can rest firmly on terra firma at full stop.  Ensure the relationship between the handlebars, seat and pegs don’t cramp your style.  (After an hour on my old R65, I routinely had to stop, get off, and reestablish blood flow to my butt and joints associated with my hips.)  After you’ve narrowed it down, insist on as lengthy a test ride as the dealer will allow.  Sitting on it in the showroom and operating it on the highway are two completely different arenas.  Both need to be experienced, with the fit on the road being, by far, more important.

Research:  Read reviews from multiple sources and be prepared to eliminate that favorite bike that the press just can’t seem to get its arms around.  Look also for user reviews.  (I just eliminated the BSA 441 Victor from my wish list because circa 1969 reviews I found on line made the thing – new – seemed like it falling in love with a beautiful woman who had no intention of loving you in return.)

Gear:  Get good gear and wear it all the time while riding.  (Click the Church’s ATGATT label at the bottom of this post to link to some thoughts.)

Training and skill:  This is the most important consideration of all.  If you haven’t been riding in a while, take the MSF safety course.  Again.  The stuff you forget or the stuff you’re rusty on will be the stuff that gets you hurt.

I know the area where my secretary’s son will be summering. I used to live up that way myself.  I know the bike I’d want to have if I were blessed with the opportunity to ride those ranges.  But I’m not going to share that thought here, because what I’d choose bears no relationship with some other rider’s needs.  I hope my secretary’s son finds the perfect bike for him and that it will bring him great pleasure and very little pain.  I also hope he looks further than the Church of the Open Road for advice.  (See the quote from Abe Lincoln at the top of this piece.)

© 2012

Church of the Open Road Press

HOW TO SAVE A QUICK THIRTEEN HUNDRED BUCKS

HAVING BEEN HIT with a mild mid-winter cold – not one severe enough to preclude me from housework or yard cleanup, but one where the over-the-counter meds made me uncomfortable on the bike, I dabbled in a wholly unproductive pastime: E-bay. A week or so prior, a hike in the hills east of Chico revived early memories of riding a 70s era Honda Trail 90 into and out of chemise and oak covered drainages.

So, I thought I’d look up what might be on the market out there. The Trail 90 weighs a little less than I do now days, and they’re so compact, I’m sure there’d be room in the garage, particularly if we parked my wife’s Civic outside. I chose not to share this plan.

As luck would have it, the little Honda CTs seem to be quite available on the resale market. Listings abounded throughout North America. After only a few hours – okay: about three days – I had distilled the listings into categories based upon distance from home, professed condition, year, and finally color. I’d had two yellow ones, and another yellow one seemed fitting.


MID-ILLNESS, I was called to spend a weekend two-plus hours away with the “kids:” daughter, son-in-law and grandchildren. Hanging with them is fine as long as, in general, I can avoid diaper duty, and specifically this trip: I don’t breathe on anyone. Running errands with son Sam is always a delight affording me an opportunity to learn more about lovely Northern Sonoma County and to talk bikes with this young man, who up until recently, owned a very sweet Bonneville black. “I’ll replace it when the kids are older,” he said. “A wise call,” I responded. My offspring-induced hiatus had lasted 12 years.  It'd been a good call for me, too, at the time.

On the way to return some flooring samples at the home improvement center, we passed through the warehouse district of Santa Rosa. I’d been sharing memories of the little CT and we were jawing about how cheap and dependable they still are. “Think about it,’” Sam said. “Is there any mechanical thing built today that you could expect to still be running forty ears from now?”

I was about to voice the same thing when, in approaching our destination, on the left stood “The Motorcycle Shop.” At first glance it appeared to be a place where kids could buy aftermarket parts to soup up their KTM or GSX-R. But nestled between two minis on the concrete walk leading to the front door was the bike we’d just been pining about. An orange one.

“We gotta stop.”

(c) The Honda CT-90 Page

THE ’74 HAD ABOUT 1160 miles on it. There were rusted spots but the only tweak appeared to be a slightly bent brake pedal – coincidentally, bent almost exactly to the same degree as I’d bent the brake on my ’70. I sat on it. The suspension compressed. I rotated the throttle. Everything felt just like forty years ago. Even me. “You gotta sit on this, Sam!”

Sam did. I showed him how to access the under-seat tank, the button to pull if riding the thing at higher than 4000 feet in elevation, and the little lever than shifted the transmission from high range to low range. He nodded with what I assumed was appreciation.

Michele, the business owner, appeared. She explained that the little Honda was on consignment and that there’d been some interest. Me: “How much is he askin’?” Michele: “$1300.  But you could call him.  He might be flexible.”

My stomach did one of those little flips. That’s little more than a 24,000-mile service on the BMW – with a new tire or two. “I could store it over here where you used to park the Bonne…”

Sam pulled me away.


LATER, GIDDILY, I spilled the find to my wife. She did not act surprised. “No room in the garage,” she said. “I checked once I saw you looking at them on line.”

I looked at her: my eyes must have formed a pair of question marks.

“Yeah. I measured,” she said. “Oh, sure, it’d fit if you folded the handbars around like you can with that lever.” Wow, she really knew something about this model! “But we’re not leaving my car outside in the cold, and unless we do, there won’t be room for another bike and you sleeping on your army cot.”  Then she added:  "Maybe the cat could keep you warm..."


RESOURCES:

“The Motorcycle Shop” 3383 Airway Drive, Santa Rosa: www.the-motorcycle-shop.com

The Honda CT-90 Page – A wonderful website for everything Honda CT. Next time you feel too under-the-weather to ride, dabble here: www.ct90.net

© 2012
Church of the Open Road Press

MY FIRST ADVENTURE RIDE

…on the world’s greatest tiddler.

Google Image

ARGUABLY, THE GREATEST TIDDLER of all time was the Honda CT “Trail” 90. Back in the late 60s, I bought one of the little Hondas – well took out a loan from Laurentide because: A Laurentide loan is as near as your phone – so I could access the many dirt roads and rocky paths that lead from Chico, California, into the volcanic hinterlands of the Southern Cascade Mountains. At twenty-four cents per and with a gallon giving me 100 miles, the underseat tank would serve me for well over a week on about a quarter’s worth of regular.

American Honda Corp.

The CT 90 had a centrifugal clutch meaning I didn’t need to coordinate my left hand with either of my feet – just toe the shifter down, again and again to reach top gear and, ultimately about 37 mph.  By throwing a tiny lever on the bottom of the pot-metal engine, the bike four lower gears were accessed enabling the rider to climb a stump if necessary.  What a machine!

Google Image

My high school chum, John, had the 55cc version of this little beast. His machine carried two rear sprockets instead of the lever.  When the going got tough, he'd have to break the chain, pull a half dozen lengths from his pocket, drape the mess over the bigger set of teeth, hook 'em together and then motor on.  Lucky him.

A sunny – or a rainy – Saturday did not go by that we were not gathering mud on the service road paralleling the EsPee Tracks heading north from town, or winding ‘em out up State Route 32 in search of some dirt logging road that would lead to adventure.

[Didn’t have a camera back in those days, so sorry – no pictures other than those I might swipe from Google.]

Friends of Bidwell Park

I WAS REMINDED OF THE TRAIL 90 last weekend when I introduced my 7-year-old granddaughter to a little portion of the rocky road that leads “up past the cross” in Chico’s Upper Bidwell Park. Today, the road is a hiking-with-dogs-off-leash trail that follows a rugged basaltic ridge forming the north rim of the remote area of California’s second largest municipal park. Wildflowers grace patches of spare soil for a few days in the spring.

Kite fanatics find this the perfect launch point in March and April. A clear day offers 60-mile views across the Northern Sacramento Valley to the highest points in the Coast Range. Even today, I can pick out North Yolla Bolly Peak way off in Southern Trinity County, where Dad’s ashes may or may not be less-than-legally scattered.


ONE OF THE GREAT RIDES on the 90 was that old trail when – forty years ago – it was open for us to take vehicles up that way. Buddy John and I donned Army surplus fatigue jackets, put about nineteen cents worth in the tanks, and headed up to the park. The road was dotted puddles of water that couldn’t sink into the solid hard pan and the only flowers showing were tiny yellow things whose genus I cannot recall.

Friends of Bidwell Park

The route past the cross was rough. At some point, some entity attempted to grade a fire path up this way, but the chunky hardened mud would have nothing to do with a ‘dozer blade. Baseball-sized chunks of rock were littered here and there, but the timid suspensions of the little Hondas gamely rose and fell over rough patches that, now, four decades later, seem little changed.

Chico Creek.org

The gradient, however, was quite gradual. The greatest gain in elevation occurs in the first few hundred yards. Beyond this, the road simply follows a rise that was established eons ago when volcanic activity in the region of Honey Lake (Lassen County) spewed viscous lava and steamy mud through the canyons of ancient rivers. In the intervening millennia, the soft ridges, that had once separated these streams, eroded and leaving a resultant negative print of the old landscape. Creeks have rerouted themselves into the new canyons. For millennia, lichens, frost and wind have worked slowly on the hardened flow, but to little avail. Putting along on the 90, I suspected the landscape was little changed from how it “set up” after that last ancient eruption.

A mile or two on, the east running ridge swings southerly for just a bit. A promontory exists. John and I stopped to smoke a Tipperillo – no kidding – and survey the portions of Upper Bidwell that followed Big Chico Creek and rested at our feet. From this point, we identified the Iron Canyon, pointed out the Salmon (swimming) Hole, approximated Devil’s Kitchen, a grand, dark fissure in the basalt, and recounted, like old-timers, our previous explorations of the park on foot. Before continuing, we pivoted the Hondas’ seats back, unscrewed the gas caps and realized that in the hour or so it took us to reach this point, we’d used about a half-inch of gas. Prius owners, take note.

Chico Creek.org

The road dipped from this point a traversed a draw. The steep slope caused a great deal of concern form me, but John reminded me that I could shift the 90 into low range, straddle the low bar and simply walk the thing down if I “wasn’t man enough” to ride down the hill. I wasn’t.

Less than a mile further, we came to the trail’s end. Like the stern of a great sailing ship, the basaltic bluff proved to be a great sweeping curve, doubling back on itself over a precipice that would never be negotiated by the little Hondas. A deer trail ran to the northeast. On this clear winter day, looking off to that northeast, a snow glistening Mount Lassen graced the horizon. With a long enough arm, we both agreed, we could touch it.

Two hours on this road, we’d packed no jerky or Snickers Bars or water. An apple would have been nice to kill the nasty taste of the cigarillos. We connoitered the unexplored regions east of the park, then remounted and tiddled our way back along the north ridge.

American Honda Corp.

THE LITTLE ROAD is now closed to vehicles. While I’m more than thankful for the three or four trips I took up that way, I am grateful that this little realm is left to those who wish to quietly explore on foot or on a mountain bike. Dirt bikers of today, I fear, might race along on their high-tech machines and miss the subtle majesty of the place. Still I would not trade the memory of puttering over that cavity-rattling little road as a seventeen-year old, thinking that this was what “adventure touring” was all about.

Now, I simply look forward to the day that Grammy and I can hike these four miles with a granddaughter or two, point out the Salmon Hole and Devil’s Kitchen and tell the kids some tales.

RESOURCES:

Friends of Bidwell Park advocates for the preservation and protection of the park. Their website offers a range of pages of history and volunteer activities to support this cause. http://www.friendsofbidwellpark.org/

The Big Chico Creek Watershed Alliance coordinates community efforts to preserve and protect this vital ecological community as it runs from the peaks of the Cascade through the heart of Chico. http://www.bigchicocreek.org/

© 2012
Church of the Open Road Press