Sometimes, a garage is like that tempting snack aisle in a grocery store – you’re just drawn to wander through it, open to whatever looks good. In the garage earlier this year, catching my eye was this 1968 Honda Scrambler 90. Languishing at one side like a shrinking violet, it was nearly invisible alongside a modern naked bike.
I’d acquired the red-and-silver CL90 on a whim several years before, thanks to a Craigslist ad. It had belonged to an elderly couple, one of several Honda 90s their family enjoyed in the California desert. Showing 4,200 miles on the odometer (barely 80 miles annually over a half-century), it was entirely original, right down to its tires and coveted California “black plate.”
After recommissioning, the Scrambler 90 did little except tool around the neighborhood – and then promptly sat some more. Honestly, its primary role seemed to be filling an emotional void; for me, this bike’s predecessor was an identical model, bought as a teen in 1970 and used continuously. As I like to say, I learned everything about riding on that little bike. (Except for how to handle 200-horsepower modern superbikes, but that’s another story.) It was honestly good to have a CL90 back in the fold – if only for the memories.
Spying it in the garage made my pulse race a bit. So long had passed since those early times, beholding the bike made me wonder if I’d merely imagined all the discoveries, excitement, achievements and struggles the original had enabled. Hey, why not go reclaim those times? As the old quote goes, everything old is new again. So, the idea formed to find a great location, haul the Honda there and reconnect with my first bike. Soon I began mapping out a “reunion ride” of sorts, centered in the high desert, somewhere I’d never exactly visited aboard the original. Despite being America’s most populous state, much of California is deserted, its practically endless open spaces awaiting exploration. In my youth, lacking resources or a truck (or even a friend with a truck…) made this all but impossible. But I could do it now.
Ready, set, backtrack
For a 16-year-old back in the day, the Scrambler 90’s romping 8 horsepower – and its manual clutch and 4-speed gearbox, full suspension, cross-braced handlebar, high exhaust pipe, and skid plate – promised the world. The machine appeared ready to go anywhere its rider dared. And I did, covering 18,000 miles in the 18 months I owned it. But it was not to be in my life for long. On the road, the 89cc Honda struggled to keep up with Volkswagen Beetles, and that is saying something, while in the dirt, 2-strokes could eat it for lunch. Eventually, bigger, faster, longer roads and steeper trails called.
But you never forget your first love, or various miscues and lessons of the formative years. This probably explains why many people seek out and collect their “first bikes,” both to remember the positives, and perhaps make good on the misses. One miss for me was never riding the CL90 in California’s high country, the region of many old Westerns and TV shows. It would have been my fantasy as a youngster to take the Honda there.
Free to ride – but where?
Finding riding spots was easy in the 1950s through 1970s: Pull off the highway, park, unload your bike, and then go, following your nose on whichever trail appeared best. If this sounds a lot like the grocers’ snack-isle strategy, well, it was. Get far enough out of Dodge today, and you can duplicate this to some extent. Driving north through the low desert on a quiet Thursday in late Spring, gradually the altitude increased until the mesquite and creosote ceded to cottonwoods and sagebrush, and finally to a patchwork of dry terrain and evergreens. This looked great, especially when a friendly dual-track trail appeared, leading away from the highway.
Unloading the CL90 was easy, thanks to the bike’s 202 pound dry weight and narrow build. All that remained was to enjoy this special ride. Immediately upon starting though, the combination of skinny old tires and deep desert sand served notice that this would be more about persistence than performance. The tire sizes seem comical today – 2.50-18 front and 2.75-18 rear with a conservative universal pattern. And indeed, what had seemed fine in the neighborhood at home was not quite as elegant in the desert. Halfway worn and hardened after nearly six decades, even with pressures lowered for off-road use, the tires proved sketchy. Slipping the clutch in first gear and moving ahead, they burrowed into the earth instead of floating on top, refusing to take a bite either to propel or steer the machine and requiring all-around continuous rider intervention.
This quickly recalled a memory of my original CL90 and many other classic bikes: They need you to be a good rider, a much bigger part of the machine/rider equation than today’s excellent machines require. Motorcycling has always been a “participation sport,” and it clearly was more so when this Honda was new in ’68. As such, off-road work required matching the engine revs, clutch and gearbox perfectly, being ready to “walk” the bike along in loose terrain, and continuously scanning ahead for potholes, roots, rocks and of course, sand. Getting anywhere required excellence – or at least competence.
Admittedly, the OEM tires and the tallish street gearing were never Barstow-to-Vegas caliber, and a simple change of rubber and countershaft sprocket would meaningfully improve matters in these difficult conditions. Riding in the high desert thus brought back how such deficiencies had spurred me to upgrade my original CL90 with fatter trials-universal tires, a shock conversion, heavier-weight fork oil, revised gearing, cleated footpegs, a high-mount front fender, and a custom side-stand in place of the stock center stand, nearly useless on soft surfaces.
But the fact that the Scrambler could still get down the trail after so many years dormant is a testament to all that is good about Honda 90s. They’re not fancy; they’re not flashy; and they’re not powerful. But they flat work – they go and go and go and there’s no stopping them. Every time the Scrambler dug itself into the sand, it dug itself out again, and when it couldn’t do that, tugging the seat quickly lifted the back tire out of the ravine or hole to firmer ground. As it turns out, the adage “It’s never too late” applies to both bike and rider.
Simple is good… again
Riding this small, quiet machine after so many years recalled a lot of positives too, especially the simple joys that motorcycling affords – the satisfaction of balancing and steering, the never-ending puzzles of line selection and technique, optimizing control inputs, and taking in the scenery at an unhurried pace. In short, the joy of being in motion. Researching period Honda advertising revealed a CL90 ad promising “…the lightest, easiest-handling scrambling machine you can buy.” In truth, Hodaka’s Ace 90 held the high ground there, but Honda’s aim was still true.
This day in the desert also made me recall with some humility the exertion, frustration, and longing that my first CL90 inspired. Scarcely more powerful than a good lawnmower, it built strength and cardio riding in tough terrain. And even while succeeding at this, I knew that often I was “carrying” the machine as much as it was carrying me. And then, there was the envy factor. Literally, everybody else I rode with had more power. Even my friend’s compact Kawasaki 90 Bushmaster, a 2-stroke with rotary-valve induction, could leave the Honda in its blue exhaust cloud on the road, and when I began riding with others on larger bikes, the disparity grew even further. But the challenges of keeping up required me to learn and develop skills I might not have gained otherwise, so I see the little Honda’s mild performance – happily offset by over 100-mpg fuel economy – as a net positive.
A trailside trial
This time around, in the altitude and desert, and with so many years under its belt and ancient tires, the machine clearly wasn’t ideal. And yet, the Honda still putted along the trails, climbed hills, and did everything I asked of it in the friendliest manner. Plus, the lights worked, the horn honked and the engine started immediately and idled easily…at least until the motor began exhibiting fuel-starvation symptoms. Potentially damaging for a 2-stroke, on the Honda this just meant reduced power, stumbling and bogging, and ultimately stalling altogether. Several miles out, the CL90 lost drive and chuffed to a stop under the simmering midday sun. No amount of kickstarting would bring it back to life, and a quick check of the horn, headlight and spark plug showed plenty of juice flowing from the little 5.5-amp battery, replaced before the trip. “No wonder people ride modern bikes,” I muttered.
Fix it or forget it
Miles from the truck on a dry, dusty trail, I figured I’d best try finding the problem instead of hiking. The trailside diagnosis and repair began by removing the fuel line from the carburetor and turning the petcock from “On” to “Reserve,” only to find gas flowing perfectly in both positions. So far, so good. Next, I released the float bowl’s spring clip and detached the bowl; practically empty, it hung safely next to the bike on its overflow hose. Reattaching the fuel line, turning on the petcock, and gently swinging the float up and down resulted in zero fuel flow, indicating a stuck float valve needle. Bingo.
Fixing this issue required pulling the float pivot pin to remove the float and needle. I didn’t like the idea of doing this on the trail, as losing parts in the engine area or sand would be way too easy. To avoid this, I used a 10mm combination wrench to loosen the twin intake-manifold bolts. From here the manifold/carburetor assembly could be swung away from the engine and inverted. Spreading a towel below the assembly then gave me confidence to use needle-nose pliers to remove the float pin, float and – using as close to a surgeon’s touch as possible – the needle itself. The light pull required to do this showed the float needle had indeed frozen in its seat, preventing fuel from flowing to the bowl.
After coaxing the needle free, I cleaned it with a paper towel and inspected it. It looked pretty good, so perhaps some debris or corrosion remained inside the brass seat. Wary of damaging this precision part using the towel and a screwdriver, I found that an old T-shirt in my backpack offered a possible solution. Its nylon tag – the kind that always bugs the back of your neck – stuck out like a distress flag on a sinking boat. Reasoning that it would protect the brass during cleaning, I used diagonal cutters to clip off the tag. Wrapping this around the smallest screwdriver in my emergency kit, I inserted the padded tool gently into the needle seat and rotated it, hoping the technique would clean up corrosion or deposits inside. After several repeats, I reinstalled the needle, float and pin, righted the carburetor, turned on the petcock, and worked the float. This time it functioned perfectly. “I’m the guy you want when you’re stuck on a desert island,” I told my riding buddy. “Unfortunately, though, I’m probably also the guy who got you stuck there.”
Persistence pays off
From here on, the little Honda ran like new. Admittedly slow but highly affable and quietly competent for its size, it navigated all the trails, sand washes, and climbs modestly but without hesitation. In modern terms, the suspension was flaccid, the acceleration could be timed with an hourglass, and the off-road handling, thanks to street-oriented tires, was vague. But the CL90 still mastered everything, imparting a satisfying feeling of accomplishment despite the bike’s native limitations. People thrive on challenge, effort and reward, and piloting the Scrambler along difficult terrain required planning and adapting – and proved highly satisfying to get right.
For reasons I can’t quite explain (but maybe Motorcycle Classics readers can?  – Ed.), getting stranded and then diagnosing and overcoming the fuel-starvation issue made the day even better than it would have been otherwise. Clearly, this is a throwback to the problem-solving that was synonymous with motorcycling through the 1970s; being equal parts good rider and good mechanic was part of the attraction and journey.
It was midafternoon by this time, and after another hour of exploring, I pulled off the trail, parked with some difficulty using the iffy center stand (basically, it sinks into sand), dug a water bottle and granola bar out of my backpack, and sat on a berm to consider the day’s experiences. Reflecting on my long-ago life with a CL90, and then upon the present adventure, made me appreciate something the original bike taught me that has stayed with me through the years. Underpowered, analog bikes teach patience, tenacity and resourcefulness, three essential skills not just for riding, but for life.
Refreshed, the Scrambler 90 then kept right on scrambling, delivering more views, more little victories, and more fun, just as it was designed to do. Finally, as sunset approached, I looped back to the truck, feeling lucky to have learned long ago – and then dared to relearn now – that dances with small bikes are more than rewarding. They are great for the soul. MC
