The Jersey Devil
There were so many beautiful machines in your September/October issue that it would be hard to guess which garnered the most reader response. Nevertheless, I’m sure you heard from a lot of Honda Scrambler guys.
If your Jersey Devil was a '66, it must have been from late in that model year. Pictures seem to show the later, much larger, and much needed Super Hawk front brake. Also, on earlier models the ugly can muffler was easily unbolted. Jerry Dowgin’s was clearly sawed off leaving pipes that appear to be, but in fact are not, equal length. At least it seems to be jetted right; they’re not discolored near the heads.
As for me? Approaching eight decades I tell myself that another CL77 is the last thing I need. But I still check Craigslist on occasion and I still have a pair of Snuff-R-Nots in the original packages.
Joe Arnstein, Portsmouth, NH
Electric start
In the September/October issue of MC you covered the X-Start system for the Yamaha 500. Having installed one of these on my 1981 SR500H model I can say it is a very professional and well executed kit. The installation instructions were clear and easy to follow, all the parts were well made and fit with no extra modifications. And fighting two bad knees, the kit made it so I can still ride. Only extra piece needed was a plug adapter so the Euro-style battery charger will plug into U.S. sockets. All in all 100%.
Bill Fulmer/via email
A race for the ages
Some 50 years ago, in late summer 1973, was the debut year of the Kawasaki Z1 and I was excited to get one. I heard the railroaders talking about setting up a race between a good quarter horse and a motorcycle on Arizona red dirt. The motorcyclist had a 650 Triumph and the horseman was O’Haco, probably the best man for that job in all of Northern Arizona. After weeks of talking about it they set out to actually do it. The motorcyclist got the bike ready. He tuned it, added straight pipes, a larger rear sprocket and an oversized rear tire. The site and date were selected and a cowboy used a measuring wheel to measure the distance. This was a big deal and it took a lot of preparation.
I didn’t even know this date had been determined, I was riding around through Bushman acres and up to the area behind the Winslow community pool when I looked over and saw people, trucks, a horse trailer, etc. To the West I sawI heard the booming exhaust and saw the huge rooster tail shooting out the back, it was about 10 feet long. The bike was slewing side to side on every gear change. He was having a tough time. The horse beat him soundly. Then one of the guys from the horse side came over to me. They brought their wives, kids, everybody, and said "you’re next." Your bike is faster than his, isn’t it? Prove it if you’re not afraid. We’ll give you about 15 minutes to get ready. I remember lifting the seat, pulling out the small tray that held the owner’s manual and setting it down and with the tool kit. I removed the mirrors and set them down too. That’s it. Tray, manual, tool kit, mirrors! They had weeks to prepare, I had 15 minutes. I was told do not start early, to wait until the flag was all the way down. I was at the starting line after giving the quarter horse a 15-minute break. I didn’t want to wreck, get hurt or damage the bike. I wanted to start slow and easy. I didn’t want to spin out. I wasn’t afraid to lose and I didn’t want to look like a fool. I found out later a good quarter horse goes from zero to 35mph in two steps. The flag dropped and I heard a sound that’s seared into my memory — BLADUMP is what it sounds like. I heard that sound BLADUMP and he was gone! I released the clutch at about 2,000rpm. The rpms dropped to about 1,500 just to get the bike going. I fed the throttle in slow, painfully slow actually. More and more, never once spinning the tire, just feeding the gas. Then, at about 30mph, the bike started to accelerate better. With about 50 feet to go to the finish line I looked at the tachometer. I was catching up to the horse but I had already just passed redline at 9,000rpm. It was then that I elected not to shift! The throttle was finally opened and the bike was charging. My mind jolted as I faced another problem: a weird looking reddish-brown shape just a few yards past the finish line, and I was heading straight towards it! I flew past the finish line, chopped the throttle and glanced down at the tachometer. It was moving into 10,000rpm. The actual rpm was about 10,400 or 63mph, all in first gear. I knew that evasive maneuvers wouldn’t work so I didn’t swerve or slam the brakes, I just grabbed tight on the grips. CRACK!!! The forks bottomed out and bounced my feet off of the pegs. I was hanging on for dear life, my feet somewhere over the bike. I did everything but crash, landing front end first, slightly turned front end plowed in, and the very thing that I fought the whole time, the lack of traction, is what probably saved me from wiping out as I got a millisecond to straighten it out as the soft dirt broke away. I wanted to see what I hit so I turned around. I saw it and looked to the east and saw the backdrop. I looked to my left and saw first base and in front of me second. That’s correct, right in the shutdown area, a short distance from the finish line, I smashed into a permanently fixed bag at second base at 62mph on a box stock 73 Z1. Rider and bike combined was 690 pounds. An abandoned ballpark was where they decided to measure out the race. I rode back by the crowd to go back to get my tools and mirrors. Heads were hanging down, shoulders hunched, the cowboys looked like they had just seen a ghost!
