Free. For me, the image of free, when applied to a neglected "diamond in the rough" vehicle (I know, it doesn't exist), be it a car or even better a motorcycle, just plain starts my mind a wandering. A wandering down that trail of "I can get that dent out," or "how much can a pair of new fork tubes really cost?" The free bug bit when a buddy of mine took a job back east, and offered up an old 125cc Yamaha enduro that he had no intentions of dragging along. For free. He picked it up from a co-worker for a Franklin, and never got it running, but managed to take off most of the externals for assessment. He wasn't sure what size the engine was, but was told by the previous owner it was a 125. Oh, and it sat outside for 15 years! "Only 2700 miles though!" Uh huh...

So, a roadie with the family from Northern to Southern California was in order. Separate vehicles, of course: I expected to jam this jewel into a Nissan Quest, and fitting my family of four into it with the bike just wasn't going to happen.

I'd never laid eyes on the bike before, so all kinds of visions ran through my head. Having nothing but Sportbike experience for 10 years, getting into the dirt bike thing was something entirely new. I expected something minimalist; light, narrow, chrome, neat tank bezels. I could name any sportbike, but trying to pluck an image of this bike out of my head just wasn't happening. When I did see the rusty, red XT tanked, four-boxes-of-junk-come-with-it rolling chassis, well, I still didn't have a clue what it was supposed to look like. In my excitement, I thought it was all there. I loaded it up in the Quest, hooked up with the family, and headed North.

I got it home, and did some digging. Looking at the size of the cylinder, I figured it had to be a 250. The barrel just didn't seem small enough to be a 125 or 175., .With help from Joe Arrananga at Vintage Dirt and Trail (VDT) in Laguna Niguel, CA, the VIN number designation DT1 was the proof. A 1969 model. Turns out the 125 was a 250! I know, my age and inexperience shows now; I wasn't interested in bikes back then, only cars, which is where my career is based, so I have alot of catching up to do. But, more troubling was what was missing: front fender and brackets, all control cables, skid plate, front brake shoes, complete Autolube system, cylinder pipe mount, and of course the orig tank. And, what was there was rusted. Not surface rust, deep pitting of the fork tubes, rear shocks and springs. Chalky corrosion on every aluminum surface. Looks like someone in, say, the late 70's, had painted the engine side covers silver. There was a huge dent in the front rim. Every painted surface had corrosion under, or pushing through the original paint.

What it did have, was the orig black and yellow California plate (Hey! Some things are important!), intact tail light assembly with lens, the carb and intake parts, the frame wasn't bent, battery box was there, original tires, the engine turned over and actually had compression. Christ, the original tool kit and tool kit tube was there!!

I decided before I wasted any time on collecting/cleaning anything, it had to run. It took awhile to get there. I had to educate myself on the magneto, lighting coils, and setting up points for a 2-stroke. Had to get a 6V battery, and clean out the horrid gas tank. The only thing I got from the local Yamaha dealer was laughter. They didn't even have a microfiche ("Gee, we've only been in business 5 years!").

One bright, shining day it fired. The piston had a death rattle, but it ran. I rode it up and down my block. The neighbors laughed. I cheered!

Another Yamaha store was more helpful (Berkeley Yamaha). They found a 1st oversize piston in Texas, one of six in the U.S. dealer network, so I was told. I had the barrel bored, assembled it all together, and it was officially a runner. I had collected enough parts that it was roadworthy. The California DMV had taken the original California plate off the books, but registering it went flawless (it even continued to run throughout the DMV's "rigorous" roadworthiness check). So I started riding it. It would run great until about 10 minutes of continuous running, or a constant 40-50 MPH speed. Then it would start pinging. Bad! I fiddled, adjusted, replaced points and condenser, and just couldn't solve this gremlin. I was pre-mixing with what everyone up to that point said was appropriate (35-40:1). I could write another entire article on how I solved this problem. So, I used it for short trips around town, and just plain babied it. To be honest, I expected it to blow up at any minute. But it was still a blast to ride, and I was enjoying the fruits of my cheap, now not too free experience.

Over the next year and a half I cleaned, painted, polished, and collected. Joe at VDT had near all the missing parts I needed. By mid-summer of 1998 I had it looking like a DT, albeit a rough one, and then I entered the next stage. I decided that I was going to enter the Barstow to Vegas enduro. Ride the DT, 300 or so miles. With my buddy, Dave Flanagan, who would be riding a '97 Honda XR400. In nearly two years I hadn't even put 200 miles on it! It was a dream, and I was determined to do it.

This was a big deal. In order to finance the trip and get the bike in what I considered to be good shape for the ride, I had to sell my '92 Honda CBR600. I rationalized this by declaring "I am going to become a Vintage MX rider, and the sportbike has to go." Just the past July I put my oldest son on a PW50, and dammit I needed a bike more suitable to dirt riding (heh heh), so, the sportbike had to go. I felt the bike was capable; well, barely capable, but some things had to be done. I had to put the "new" tank from VDT on, painted. I had to get new fork tubes. New tires. Get spare parts. Get a MX helmet (guess my full face Shoei was going into storage).

I attempted bodywork on the tank from VDT (best one Joe had, and the price was right).. Someone had filled the emblem depressions in the past life of this tank, so I just straightened it up, and smoothed out the sides. Then the paint. Yamaha was no help, and neither was a local Auto Paint supply shop. I picked a color that wasn't exact, but it sure looked good. 1998 Volvo Saffron Orange; not enough yellow, but very striking in the sunlight. Took off the upper painted fork tubes, and headlight bucket, and with the tank, had my neighbor spray the parts. Now, he had two weeks to get them done, so I could have enough time to get them on and log some test miles on the bike. This was the first week of November, 1998. The ride was the Saturday after Thanksgiving. To say I was pushing it is being kind.

Everything came together the night before I had to drive to Barstow (of course). I ended up having to clean and re-use the rusty fork tubes (no time to get the new ones before the trip) with new seals. These forks had to contain the original fork oil...what a mess! They sealed though, and I rode it up and down the street, declared it fit, loaded it up and didn't sleep a wink all night.

Driving into the motel in Barstow the night before the ride, one notices all the trick hardware in the parking lot. Not an old bike in sight. The next morning was the reality. We unloaded and geared up for the start. As we rolled up to the line, the starter looked at me and said "You're a brave man to ride that thing!" Yeah, plain as the nose on your face, right pal? Upon leaving the start, we went right for the gas station to top up. There were plenty of gas stops, so this wasn't a worry. What was a worry was how much gas spilled out of the tank. With the gas cap on! I had never filled it, so I never even knew the cap wouldn't seal! It wasn't a little bit, either. Just like that, I'm screwed. We put our heads together, and decided even if we got it fixed within 20 minutes, there was no way of keeping up with the ride if we left from here, so we loaded up in the truck and went looking for a parts store.

Thanks to the Barstow Kragen Auto Parts (I'm not getting paid for these endorsements!), we "rigged" the cap by stacking another rubber seal on top of the orig seal on the cap. The waterfall (gasfall?) was now a seep, so now, good to go, we hoofed it on the I-15 to the desolation that is Baker, California, home of the worlds tallest thermometer (whoever thought this thing up was definitely tripping in the heat). Baker just happened to be the first gas stop on the route. We rolled in right as the fast guys were getting in.

Once unloaded and geared up, we took off. The section from Baker was one of the few paved portions, approximately 14 miles of straightaway. Imagine a DT1 on a deserted one lane highway...yeah, 55 MPH at 6500 RPM (can you say numb butt?). We stopped at the checkpoint, to make sure the crew knew we were still in the ride. ESPN2/Motoworld had a filmcrew at this checkpoint, and of course the cameraman makes it over to the funny looking bike with dusty, sticky gas stains running down the tank. He was sympathetic, and did a 30 second profile, asking all sorts of questions. One was, "What made you want to do this ride on your DT1?" Of course, you know the answer..."cause I got this bike for free!" Glutton for punishment.

From there we had 7 more miles of pavement, then all dirt! I must say, this 14 mile stretch of pavement was, by far, the BEST the DT had ever run in my 2 1/2 years of ownership. No pinging, smooth, no surging or cutting out. Just beautiful. So, here I am, getting passed by everyone in creation, loving life and the outdoors riding a 30 year old bike, when I realized I had the absolute death grip going. I had arm pump just sitting on this thing going 55 MPH!. Relax, Clements, the bike is fine. I can see off to my right the dust rising from the dirt trail, and started getting heart palpitations thinking about roosting my bud riding his XR.

When, of course, the engine goes off song, and starts pinging like mad. I pulled in the clutch, blipped it, let it back out, gassed it, and it seemed OK again. The turnoff is coming up! Jammed on the brakes, dropped the trans into neutral, popped the clutch and....

Silence. I missed neutral and was in second, which killed the motor when I stopped. I popped out the kicker, and kicked. And kicked. And kicked. Oh, I must have kicked it 50-100 times; in retrospect, I don't remember the exact count. It had fuel, and compression, but no spark. The points were still set to where I put them, and every connection I could see was secure. By now, even if I got it running again, I was really missing my window for getting to Vegas on the same day. All the planning and hopes vanquished. Dave, claiming a previous weekend injury, used the dead DT as an excuse to call it a day as well. We loaded up, again, and drove in to Vegas.

At the awards ceremony that evening, I received many kind words, and plenty of other stories of failed bikes and injuries. Someone said something about the actor Perry Ellis going through three bikes that weekend. The DT actually ended up against a Rickman Metisse in the favorite old bike category. It was an applause-driven award, and damn if I almost won.

I let it sit for 2 months. I couldn't bear to dig in to find out what happened. When I did, it took all of 15 minutes to find the problem. Broken solder joint where the magneto, lighting coil grounds and point lead join to the condenser. I had replaced the condenser and re-soldered the connection one year prior to the ride! Oh, the agony!