Reliability! That's the ticket. Show me a manufacturer that can build a bullet-proof motorcycle, and I'll show you a motorcycle that's too heavy and too slow. Sure, the Germans built the BMW R-60, Honda built the Gold Wing, and there's always the Nimbus or Suzuki Water Buffalo. If a manufacturer wanted to, they could build a motorcycle that would last for 100 years of hard use with no maintenance, but who would buy it? Not me! The bike would have to weigh 2000 pounds, have a top speed of 12 miles per hour, and the styling of a Yugo.

So let's get down to basics. A motorcycle is expected to have reasonably good handling, to be responsive, and have good acceleration. In fact, there are some who expect more. Some expect a motorcycle to stop on the proverbial dime from 200 miles per hour, leave a trail of molten rubber in it's wake at every traffic light, and unicycle down the road as they powershift through each gear.

Certainly designs have changed dramatically in the last 100 years or so, but there has been one constant throughout the century: the continuous quest to make a motorcycle lighter and faster. So you have Gold Wings and Road Kings on one extreme, and maybe a 26-speed, 15-cylinder, 65-pound Kreidler road racer at the other extreme. In the middle are thousands of motorcycles we really ride and have learned to love or hate.

That love / hate relationship is often influenced by reliability. I've ridden motorcycles for 36 years, raced for 20 years, and worked within the motorcycle industry in numerous capacities. I've been a parts man, mechanic, service manager, and restorer of motorcycles for quite some time.

During that time, I came to realize that some motorcycles are more reliable than others. I mean, try and find a 1972 CB500 Honda that doesn't have a slipping clutch, or an early Penton 100 with Sachs engine that will shift properly for more than one run through the gears. Yeah, there are some good ones and some bad ones.

Over the years, people have remarked many times about the pristine condition of my bikes, or the reliability of my race bikes. I've come to the conclusion that most motorcycles are well made and carefully designed, only to be abused by lead-footed, adrenaline junkies who ride with the wrong air pressure in their tires, never change the oil, and have no idea that the long, sturdy shift lever that they're stomping on is connected to a very small, delicate set of shifting forks in the transmission.

Yes, you can do wheelies, pull whole shots, ride fast and furious without doing unnecessary damage to your motorcycle. But you must maintain it properly, have a healthy understanding of how it works, and what it likes and doesn't like. If you're just starting out, ask a more experienced rider for tips that will save you embarrassment and money. A stitch in time saves nine. I know from experience; my lessons in bike maintenance and reliability were learned the hard way at an early age.

My first motorcycle was a Honda step through 50. I only had it for three weeks. My friends and I drove it day and night, as fast as it would go. I never checked the oil (I didn't even know it used oil), every shift was accomplished with a healthy kick at the shift lever, and for good measure, we drove it for a week on a sandy beach and submerged it in the lake on a number of occasions. It was a torture test, done in grand style, yet I assumed everything was fine until the engine began to smoke badly and rattle like nails in a coffee can. Not to worry! I traded it in on a Honda CA 95 (Benly 150).

The owner of the Honda shop was a little upset when he discovered the poor condition of the trade in. Of course, the step through 50 was still under warranty, and a deal is a deal. Maybe so, but when I took delivery of the Benly 150, the dealer was irritated and made me promise to bring the bike back for a 500-mile checkup and oil change. He also gave me a few tips about proper break in, which went in one ear and out the other. I stood drooling, in anticipation of the end of his lecture, and my first ride back to the neighborhood to show off the new bike.

On the ten mile ride home, I remembered something in the dealer's lecture about breaking it in easy for the first 500 miles. So, with due respect for my new red beauty and anxiety over the increase in power, I kept it under 40 miles per hour.

Within minutes of arriving home, my friend Ernie and I left on our first real motorcycle adventure. For some time, we had heard tales of a motorcycle track about 50 miles away that belonged to the Iron Mustangs M/C. Older biker types had informed us that hundreds of bikers, from all the local gangs, hung out there on the weekends and watched the races on Sundays.

As the tale was told, real men on loud motorcycles, surrounded by wild women in tight leather, all headed for the Iron Mustangs M/C on Saturday. I was 16, shaved every day, had a real motorcycle, and Ernie and I knew we'd fit right in.

There was an expressway that ran almost directly to the club, but with due respect for my new motorcycle, we took the back roads, never exceeding 50 miles per hour, two up against a head wind. We arrived at the club grounds and rode in, heads high and proud. Weaving in and out of hundreds of Harleys, Triumphs, BSA's and Nortons, we found a suitable parking spot, rolled the sleeves up on our T-shirts, and wandered among the hard guys and painted women.

Laughter, conversations punctuated with profanity, mixed with dust, beer, occasional fights, long-haired beauties, roaring motorcycles: yes, this was the life for us. We were pumped. Ernie and I made a pact to purchase black leather jackets, get tattoos, and come back the next weekend. Filled with excitement, we left early to tell our friends of the wild time and revelry we had taken part in at the Iron Mustangs.

Other bikes, Harleys, and Triumphs were leaving as we did, and we fell into the back of the line like members of the gang. What a feeling, roaring down the road like Hell's Angels. Everything was fine on the winding side roads, until we reached the expressway. A decision had to be made: should we take our leisurely path back on secondary roads, or roar onto the freeway with the gang. There was no question in our minds, and as the big bikes accelerated down the freeway, we chased in hot pursuit.

I'm not sure what the stated top speed was for a CA 95, but I think something around 70 to 75 mph put it around 10,000 rpm. There was a strong tail wind, and we cruised for 15 miles down the freeway at 70 miles per hour with no regard, other than the excitement of riding with the gang. We were already riding faster than ever before, when we came to a long downhill grade.

In unison, the riders ahead of us twisted their throttles and left us in a wild rush down the hill. At this point, the new Honda had acquired 10 miles of moderate driving, 50 miles of hard use, 15 miles of wide open labor, and now Ernie and I crouched low, held the throttle wide open, and with a strong tail wind, reached a speed of over 80 miles per hour. We held that speed to the bottom of the hill, when abruptly the motor quit.

The rear wheel locked up and the bike was sliding sideways at an incredible speed. With no riding experience, by luck I pulled in the clutch lever and we fish-tailed wildly all over the freeway until finally the bike was headed in a straight line again. Panic-stricken, I was afraid the rear wheel would lock up again, so I kicked repeatedly at the shift lever, trying to find neutral. When I thought I had found neutral and we had slowed down to maybe 30 miles an hour, I let the clutch out again. There was a horrible noise, the rear wheel locked again, and we slid to a stop at the side of the road.

Thankful to be alive, we examined the bike and could find nothing wrong except the real wheel wouldn't turn and there was a large puddle of oil under the bike. Upset, we stood at the side of the road, muttering something about Japanese junk and Ernie added that it wouldn't have happened on a Harley. After a 30-minute wait, a good Samaritan with a pickup truck stopped and asked if we needed help. He was headed in the right direction and offered to drop us off at the Honda shop.

Around 4:30, we unloaded the Honda at the dealership - a mere six hours after taking delivery. We assured the owner that we had been driving at a leisurely pace and the bike had just quit. Due to the late hour, he said to check back with him Monday afternoon. We complained a little about such poor reliability from a new bike, and with a disgusted look, he said "I'll see you Monday."

When I arrived Monday, the dealer was hot. He said I had destroyed the motorcycle and there was no way he would cover it under warranty. The mechanic explained that one piston had seized and then disintegrated, taking the rod and crank with it. It had cracked the main cases, and when I dropped the clutch into first gear at 30 with the engine stuck, it wiped out the transmission.

The Honda Benly 150 was a reliable motorcycle and the dealer knew that type of damage could only be accomplished with flagrant abuse. He said I was the only person he knew that could destroy a motorcycle in one day. After another considerable lecture on the merits of properly breaking in a motorcycle, he did something Honda dealers are famous for. He gave me service above and beyond the call of duty, and sent me off on another brand new Honda Benly.

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