By T.D. Bash

It was 1977 when I had last straddled the seat of an infamous vintage Japanese twin produced by a maker of musical instruments. Somehow, it seemed fitting that a motorcycle that was already "aged" in design could be analogous to a violin that only gets better with the passing of time. Being the bearer of the tuning fork logo bore with it the responsibility to uphold this image, and so far Yamaha had done well in this area with both its musical instruments and motorcycles, particularly with the 650 twin. I knew back in 1977 when I first purchased my used '75 XS650B that this bike, like one of the many guitars that I had collected of the same brand, was destined to show its age well, improve while retaining its vintage roots, and find itself in classic status one day. Indeed, years later it would find its way into the first American edition (1995) of Hugo Wilson's "The Encyclopedia of the Motorcycle," the book of all books to own for any motorcycle enthusiast and collector. Even back in '77 the bike drew attention from enthusiasts of all tastes, as rumors abounded of its reputation as the "650 Twin that Triumph never built." This was perhaps the only bike from the Big Four in Japan that could live up to a title like that. Kawasaki had tried in 1965 with its W1-650 BSA knockoff, but it was short lived because of either being ahead of its time for the American market or more likely because its engine was a near clone of the BSA, and some folks did not take kindly to that. Consumers also may not have been able to find trust in a lone four stroke produced by a company with a stable of two strokes. In any event, despite the fact that Yamaha's new-for-'69 four stroke twin very much resembled a 1962 Norton 650SS Dominator vertical twin power plant, the company was able to successfully pull off the two stroke to four stroke transition beyond all logic, and carve a niche cult-like market with its outdated two cylinder model at a time when the multi-cylinder Super Bike race had captivated most buyers.

Yes, even back in '77, I was part of that niche. I suppose this was because I had already logged many miles on my college cronies' '69 Triumph Bonneville and '67 BSA Rocket years earlier and had fallen in love with the graceful styling and trumpeting sound of the British twins. But I was somehow never enamored with these bikes' gratuitous pitfalls of leaky transmissions, electrics that would fail always at night, and vibration that was not akin to that "good" type that the Beach Boys sang about, although admittedly, my ears did ring from the throaty sounds of Twinville.

So by the time I purchased my first XS650B, I had followed its development and reputation for a good eight years since Yamaha's introduction of the original '69 XS-1. This was a "tried" motorcycle by many, including the likes of Kenny Roberts, who took his flat track XS650 to the American Championships in both 1973 and 1974. And its maker had stayed true to "tuning fork" form. Previous models had already adapted standard upgrades like electric start and front disc brake. With the introduction of the '75 B came an improved handling frame, aluminum rims, a neat safety feature dash light that lit when the brake was engaged and would not light if the rear tail light burned out, and a new paint scheme that included a black base coat with gold metal flake clear coat and unique intertwining gold and white stripes that set it apart from all other XS650 models. This bike had come of age to not only meet the styling mark of its Brit rivals, but by 1975 had indeed surpassed them in design, reliability, performance, and handling. No longer could the failing British manufacturers hold a claim on that Twinville mystique. The Yamaha twin had superior paint and graphics (the Brits still used old school paint types and methods), and with engineered counter balancers, it was not plagued by the Brit problems of parts vibrating off and unusable rear view mirrors. The electrics were never an issue, it was oil tight, you didn't have to tickle finicky leaky carbs, and with advent of the new frame and lighter rims, it handled better than a Triumph Bonneville. Is it any wonder this bike was so popular for those long desiring to own a Brit twin but shied away from the UK models because of their unresolved problems?

I was sold on the XS650B and set out with a vengeance to find a nice unmolested, low mileage model, scouring the newspaper ads daily for several months. This was not, I remind you, the days of multiple "For Sale" publications and internet access where multitudes of bikes are instantly available for your finger tips to do the walking and peruse literally thousands of models at a glance. I was also young and on a budget, which limited my acquisition choices. The mighty Yamaha XS650 twin had expanded its reputation as a fine reliable commuter bike, so finding even a two-year-old model with fewer than 20K miles in Houston, Texas (where bikes are driven year round and "rode to death"), with limited resources and funds was like finding a needle in the proverbial haystack. Months passed and I was on the verge of giving up on my search when a friend told me about a bike that he had seen sitting along the highway near the Astrodome that had a For Sale sign on it. Buford espoused that although he was no expert on bike makes, he could have sworn it was a Triumph with some other name emblazoned across its tank. I wasted no time in coaxing the location out of him and reamed him a new you-know-what for not stopping and getting a phone number off the sign! I at least had succeeded in guilting him into giving me a lift to see this "unknown Triumph in disguise," figuring I was due for a break. It was Friday and I had just cashed my $650 paycheck that was burnin' a bike hole in my pocket! Besides, if it turned out to be my dream bike, it would not be the first time a strange synchronicity like this had happened to me.

As I verbally psyched us both up for the find of a lifetime, chalking it up to my good karma, my buddy reminded me that I was behind in a bill or two and owed him a $20 spot, and maybe he was not doing me such a favor by leading me blindly down the road to Twinville! "The heck with BILLS," I snipped, "just get in the damn truck and drive, fool!" It was only a 10 mile haul across Houston from the Westheimer apartment to the dome, and we arrived in its vicinity in short order.

My buddy Buford was by now stoned on Mexican reefer and Lone Star beer and was rubber necking at literally everything in glassy eyed "Wow man," Tommy Chong amazement. Even with the windows down, the truck was filled with cumulus clouds and I was wondering if his lucky spotting was nothing more than a hallucination. "I coulda' sworn it was right around here somewhere man," he proclaimed in slow motion as he tried to pass me his libation, knowing full well that I was not partaking. "Just find the damn bike," I barked back, further losing my cool with each passing moment. As we sat perched along the side of the road, my eyes wandered along the arc of the Camel butt that I had just flipped out the window and down at the macadam. Following its trail, I spotted a small paper sign with tire track imprints that had half ground it into the pavement. There, embedded with limestone particles, inscribed in barely readable chicken scratching, the sign read: "FOR SALE - 1975 Yamaha 650 $1000 OBO." As I jumped out of Buford's '70 Cheyenne and lunged for the paper, a tiny Texas twister picked up and threatened to sweep the vision of a sale right out from under me. But with my heart racing at what felt like a thousand beats per minute, a bramble bush came out of nowhere and brushed past me, as if a sign of destiny. From the crackling speaker of the old Chevy's AM radio, the sounds of Clint Eastwood's The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly wafted across the wind, and I came to my senses and screamed, "Where the hell is this bike?" At that point, I was at the driver's window with my hand "affectionately" around Buford's neck, threatening to hide his goodies forever if I lost out on this motorcycle, waving the sign in his face, and hoping that he would inhale some fresh air that might bring him back down to Earth.

I was nearly convinced that I had lost out on the deal to another buyer and that my dream bike was long gone when my ears perked up and pointed into the wind as the faint rumbling of a motorcycle could be heard in the distance. It was definitely moving in our direction. Raising my hand to my brow to visor the blinding Texas setting sun, I looked down the road a way to spy an indiscernible vision of a dark silhouette of a bike and rider against a bright auburn horizon littered with road signs, power poles, and redneck saloons. The infamous whistle theme from Eastwood's film chimed in as the figure finally slowed down and pulled right up in front of us. I was standing there dumbstruck, holding the sign against my chest like a hitch hiker clutching his destination placard. "You boys lookin' to buy a motorsicle?" an old codger inquired as he parked the gleaming metallic black and gold 650B next to Buford's pick-up, leaving its motor running. Without hesitation, I blurted out, "Sir...your sign says 'Or Best Offer.' Now I happen to have a week's hard-earned wages rolled up hare in my pocket...would ya' accept a little less for this beautiful motorcycle?" I suggested with beggin' dog eyes. "Well," he said, lifting his cap to scratch his head, "this bike was to be my son's comin' home present...but he never made it out of Nam...he turned up MIA right after I bought the bike two years ago. I was gonna hang onto it but his mother says it's just a sore reminder and we need to get rid of it. I only rode it around a few times to keep it goin'...jump on it and take her for a ride...she's a right fine filly."

I lifted a leg over and peered down at the odometer that read 02105.3 miles. Now that would not seem like a particularly strange number except that it was low, but I proceeded with little haste to pull my wallet out of my back jeans pocket to withdraw my Texas Drivers License from it. I held out the license with one arm stretched wide, offering it up for the old man to evaluate while pointing to the odometer with the other. "Can ya make out my date of birth?" I asked pensively. He took notice of the mileage out of the corner of one eye then peered with a squint at my license. "Well I'll be horse whipped," he replied with an expression of astonishment. "It's February 10th, 1953! I guess this bike was meant to be yours, son...so give me what ya got and take her away!" I pulled out my wad of cash and handed it to him, thinking what could be any more appropriate to top off this deal than $650 for a 650 twin? He took what I had and never bothered to count it. Feeling exceptionally grateful, I inferred, "I thank you sir, and I will take good care of her...just consider that I am borrowing her just in case your son ever makes it home." He pulled the title from his shirt pocket and handed it over. The purring motor that had sat idling while we cinched the deal came to life as I revved her a few times before popping her into gear, the twin cylinder exhaust note sounding like music to my ears. I rode off into the Texas sunset with mixed feelings of happiness for my own good karma and sadness for the old man's loss and the circumstances under which my new acquisition had come.

In many ways, this deal was about as illogical as Yamaha offering an outdated motorcycle at a time that others were making radical cutting-edge design changes to compete in the race for power and performance. In other ways, the deal was as classically dramatic and emotional as the sound of dual Yamaha violins playing a sonnet from J.S. Bach's "Double Concerto for Two Violins." The tuning fork was true to its promise. I had found Twinville at last. And it was music to my ears.