Scrambler Summer: Riding Old Bikes Far

My good friend Ian and I had a loose goal of a couple thousand miles in the western half of the United States. The plan was to truck our bikes out west, hop on them somewhere, and just start riding. We had a few planned rides with some groups across Oregon and Colorado, so that meant a few specific dates to be specific places.

Ian would be riding his 1970s Triumph T140V. It’s a mix-match of years and far from stock. Chromed-out, high pipes, custom lighting and electronics. His 750 was much larger than my 250. Ian and I have a handful of these vintage bike trips together under our belts. We’re used to preparing and packing for the adventure.

My CL72 was a good runner, but it wasn’t showroom pretty. Looking it over, there were signs of love and use. A few scratches there, some missing parts, and a couple DIY fixes. It didn’t leak, it didn’t smoke. It started first kick and took me wherever I wanted to go. Bottom line: Many things had been done over the years to keep this bike running. Just ride it till something breaks, fix it, keep riding.

So really, how do you prepare for an adventure on an old bike? What do you do to the bike? Well, if it’s a Honda, not much. The CL72 had good compression. I added fresh oil, set the ignition timing, and I adjusted the valves. Cam-chain tension was checked, brakes were given attention, cables refreshed. I added a trip meter from an ’80s Honda XR so I could track mileage and make a reset after turns. Surprisingly, it was pretty accurate. I also added some real footrests, wide dirt-bike-style pegs for better grip and comfort when standing. I mounted a set of Heidenau trials tires, added my Giant Loop soft luggage, and the bike was ready.

Expect the unexpected

So, what do you pack? Well, everything you can fit. Like I said, my approach is to be prepared and expect the unexpected. I brought along a spare alternator stator as well as an entire pack of clutch friction discs. My rule of thumb is that if it breaks easy or is easy to fix, bring it.

Let’s start with tools. Really, there’s only a handful of tools necessary for most repairs, outside of a few specialties. The original tool rolls on these bikes had maybe 10 things in them. The idea was that general service could be done on the bike using these few tools. Chain adjustment, changing air cleaners, removing wheels, even adjusting valves, as feeler gauges are provided. So, aside from typical screwdrivers and wrenches, some tools I have on hand are listed in the sidebar.

I’ve seen folks carry butane soldering irons. Great for electrical repairs or even patching a plastic fuel tank. One time, a carb float separated from the hinge that attaches it. We soldered it right back together and continued on. Now I just carry spare floats and many other spares. It’s said that something going wrong is what makes it an adventure, or at least adds to it. Based on experience, I agree. So, in addition to tools, I bring everything in the list of spare parts, here. And somehow I make it all fit. In addition, there’s my camping gear, but that’s just a tent and sleeping bag.

Now, you could have all the tools and parts in the world, but do you have the knowledge to fix what’s broken? Well, that depends on what broke. Did you foul a plug? Fry one of your points? Or is it just a clogged carb? How about when your bike gets stuck in gear and physically can’t shift out of it? How do you troubleshoot? Embarking on an adventure like this takes a balance of confidence, objectivity, and a good understanding of your machine’s induction and electrical systems, the basics.

Of all the bikes I’ve toured on, this is probably the least comfortable — but definitely the coolest. Fair trade. Fully loaded, there’s little room for me to sit back and spread out. The rear luggage almost acted as a back rest. But doing 60mph on backroads at the top of the allowable revs still shook every atom in my body. Standing provided some relief, especially when riding off-road, but only for a limited time until you realized your knees were doing more than the bike’s suspension. Speaking of pain, I can’t forget the inflatable seat cushion and fur pad I use on my bikes for some comfort. Together they make the ride worlds better.

Essential tools and spares for the road

In addition to typical tools and the bike’s tool kit, I bring along:

• Feeler gauges
• Vice grips
• Seal puller
• Test light
• Safety wire
• Tire irons
• Compressed air

Typically, for the CL72, I pack these spares:

• Spark plugs (4)
• Clutch, throttle, brake cables
• Levers and perches
• Gear shift lever
• Multiple inner tubes
• Points, condenser, coils, alternator stator
• Carb rebuild kits, multiple jet sizes
• Air filters
• Clutch friction discs
• Gasket and seal kit
• Chain links, master links, clips
• Fuses, electrical wire, tape
• Random nuts, bolts, cotter pins, zip ties (metal and plastic)
• JB Weld Steel Stik
• Permatex Gasket Maker
• 2 gallons of fuel
• 1 quart of oil

The adventure begins

Our very first stop on this trip was to Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah. It was a surreal location and a perfect proving ground for the bikes. When I told folks we had stopped there, every single one remarked on making sure we got all the salt off the bikes. I do hope the washing I gave the bike later was enough.

The salt, sky, and sun were all blinding, so we kicked our scramblers alive and were off across the fabled Salt Flats. We could choose any direction — options out there were unlimited, it seemed. This was a great opportunity to really see what this bike was capable of, especially at full throttle in top gear. There’s an ad for this bike from 1964. Stock photo of the bike on white seamless paper, caption underneath reads, “Screamer.” I wish I had a working speedometer. I had no clue how fast I was going, but the bike sure was screaming. I was grinning from ear to ear, the air was salty, and I could feel my eyes and face tingling.

Speaking of going fast, if you’ve ever ridden the early CLs with the smaller brakes, you know how unsatisfactory they are.  When you pull the brake lever, or hit the brake pedal, it’s more of a suggestion, rather than telling the bike to brake. I had to keep this shortcoming and plenty of other things in mind.

A couple days later we were in Northern California looking for the ocean. We had 100 miles planned to get to the “Lost Coast.” Today was set to be more of a tour, continuing to test the bikes and their ability to ride all day. The roads we were on, though technically mapped roads, were barely maintained. It’s called the “Lost Coast” for a reason. It’s home to California’s first oil well and some of the highest seismic activity in the state. The roads here are full of potholes and shadows, and it’s hard to differentiate which is which.

The CL72 was screaming along just fine. We traversed coastal mountains right down along the beach and back up through enormous redwoods. We’d stop for photos, hop back on the bikes, stop for a hike, repeat. We’d take notes along the way citing things to check, things to tighten and adjust once we had more time and tools. Ian had some fuses to replace on his Triumph — he affixed a fancy Motogadet M-unit for his dash and lights. I had what seemed like a fuel flow issue, random cutting out and sputtering. Was the bike vapor locking? Apparently, that’s common on these old Hondas. I re-routed my fuel lines, cleaned the petcock, carbs, even the fuel cap vent; it was fixed.

A few days later and we were in Southern Oregon, about 100 miles south of Crater Lake National Park. Our goal was to make it to the lake and back, all via two-lane backroads. It would be a long day on the old bikes — over 200 miles total.

But before I could even take off for the day, I had some parking lot repairs to complete. Upon kicking my bike over that morning, the clutch push rod seal spat itself out, forming a pool of oil beneath my bike. I quickly shut it off and searched for the problem. It was coming from the right side of the motor. “Ah — I’ve had this happen before,” I thought to myself. My Honda 305 Dream used to spit out this seal on the output shaft occasionally. It’s an easy fix, but it still requires removing some things. I knew it would be a few minutes to take care of all of this, so the rest of the group continued on and headed to the lake. I told them they’d hear from me sooner or later.

First things first, I retrieved the spare push rod seal from my bag of parts, as I had an entire gasket kit and seals with me. With my bike propped on the center stand, I removed the rear brake pedal and loosened the bottom foot peg assembly to lower it slightly. With that, I could now remove the right side cover to get to the seal inside the center of the output shaft, which carries the front drive sprocket. The problem was obvious — the seal was halfway off the shaft, letting oil pour out. I cleaned things up a bit, swapped in a new seal, adding a touch of adhesive to convince it to stay.

While it may not seem like much to some, 200 miles on a 1964 CL72 is a lot. Riding most any 250 for hours on end at 5,000 to 7,000rpm is exhausting, especially when the bike is loaded with luggage, making the small bike even more cramped. The entirety of today’s ride was gaining altitude, too. I could feel the bike weakening and losing performance over time. Crater Lake sits at over 6,000 feet elevation — by far the highest point on the trip thus far. Did I mention during these miles I was alone on the road? After I fixed my bike, I hit the road, hoping to catch up to everyone. I called ahead, said I was heading out after the repair, and told them to wait for me at the lake. I eventually rejoined everyone, the seal I’d replaced still in place, the engine oil level at full. And that seal remained in place for the remainder of the trip, too.

Riding through repairs

The next leg of our trip was another few days stretching from Oregon to Colorado. It was me on the CL72, Ian on the Triumph 750, and now Mike joining on his Yamaha XT500. Our target was the northern route of the TransAmerica Trail (TAT), staying true to our goal of as much off-road riding as possible. Before we could get started, though, we had some last-minute field repairs. Part of Ian’s Triumph exhaust had fallen off the day before, requiring a quick clean-up cut and re-weld. With that, we were rolling.

We had high hopes for the TransAmerica Trail, expecting scenic views and favorable weather. What we got instead was fire. Nearly the entire route was ablaze, with forests closed and firefighters everywhere. Every so often, we’d hit a roadblock and had to reroute, which meant long, monotonous stretches of pavement connecting one tiny town to the next. One day, we covered a grueling 300 miles, though we did manage to sneak in a few fun dirt sections. The spare gas I packed came in handy when we had to double back on our route because of yet another closed forest road. It’s the unexpected — the moments like these that remind you why preparedness matters.

At around 1,500 miles into the trip, I woke up to quite a surprise — my bike had no compression. Attempting a typical kick-start, the engine offered no resistance. We tried bump-starting it, but the bike refused to fire. Our best guess? Tight valves. Sure enough, all four were stuck open just a bit and had lost their clearance. Adjusting valve clearance is routine maintenance every 1,500 miles, so hammering this bike these last few days had pushed it to its limit, and lead-free fuel probably made things worse. Fortunately, I had all the tools I needed stashed in my handlebar bag — feeler gauges, wrenches — along with some patience. With the seat off and tank lifted, the adjustment was straightforward. All four valves were set and the CL72 roared back to life on the first kick. Crisis averted. We eventually made our way to Colorado Springs.

Upon arrival, I immediately got to work on bike maintenance — an oil change, new air filters, carb cleaning, along with swapping to smaller jets for the altitude. I also performed an ignition timing and valve clearance check. With the CL72 prepped, I was ready for the next five days and 1,000 miles.

The Vintage 1000 was pure off-road adventure — navigating via roll charts, climbing to elevations over 12,000 feet, and pushing both rider and machine to their limits. Each day covers about 200 miles of rugged terrain. The CL72 was holding its own. The limited travel suspension wasn’t plush, but the hydraulic steering stabilizer helped keep the handlebars steady as I blasted through washboard trails and over loose rocks.

Our first night in Colorado was spent camping within sight of Great Sand Dunes National Park. Everyone was getting acclimated to the altitude, bikes included. Paul, a rider on a Suzuki PE175, dropped his bike, which led to a crack in his plastic fuel tank. That night at camp he performed plastic welding on his tank as all other riders gathered around to watch. He used zip ties for plastic seam filler and a torch for heat. Surprisingly, it did the trick and fixed the crack. A genius fix given the circumstances, yet common practice on the Vintage 1000.

Altitude, clutches, and mechanical mishaps

A couple days later, mile 2,000 of my trip rolled up as we entered Silverton, Colorado. We were at the base of the Alpine Loop and were headed for Cinnamon Pass at 12,640 feet. The thin air of the altitude was ringing out the little 250cc motor, and every steep incline felt like a battle. The views were unlike any other — it felt otherworldly up here, well above the tree line.

Our descent down Cinnamon Pass was even more exhilarating than the ride up. As I mentioned, my CL has the early-style small, single leading shoe brakes, and on this long downhill run, they were a mere suggestion.

After arriving at camp in Lake City, we had the option of continuing our ride to the top of Engineer Pass, another 12,000-foot summit. I decided to try, but my bike was suffering from the altitude. I got about 95% of the way before the last few steep switchbacks brought me to a stop. My bike needed more air it seemed, as it was stalling often. I tried building my revs and dumping the clutch. I tried keeping the revs high and riding the clutch. Nothing was working against the incline and altitude. I tried everything, so much so, that I started burning up my clutch! You know the smell….

I coasted down the mountain, which brought me most of the way back. But just as I arrived at camp, my clutch was fully burned up, providing no friction for forward motion. Luckily, I had an entire spare set of clutch disks packed with me. On an old bike on a trip like this, anything and everything can happen. I’ve learned from past trips that if it fits in with other gear, bring it. Better to be prepared and feel good about solving a problem. My clutch swap took less than an hour at camp and was completed just after sunset.

Today was our last day on the trip with under 200 miles to go. The weather was cloudy with a high chance of rain for most of the day, so we donned rain gear and hit the trails as early as we could.

Eighty miles from the finish, mechanical disaster struck again. My bike was stuck in first gear, and no amount of rocking or working the shift lever could free it or shift it into neutral. My first instinct was to pull the left side cover, where all the shifting mechanisms are, and begin searching for an answer. Barely visible behind the clutch pack, I could see two screws backed out slightly. They hold the collar that holds the gear shift drum in place. The two screws had backed out perfectly, locking the end of the shift drum in place. Without rotation, it couldn’t move the shift forks. The screw heads were stuck on the end of the selector, not allowing it to budge. To get to these screws, I’d have to remove the entire clutch basket. I was trailside, but still had the right tools, and the repair itself wasn’t difficult. Why did those screws back out? I’m not sure. During my service work, I had never touched them. But after cleaning things up and adding some Loctite to the threads, screwing them back in snug, the bike was ready to go once more, and ran all 80 miles to the finish without another issue.

Nearly a month and 2,500 miles later, our trip was complete. Taking an old bike on an adventure is good practice for a few things, mostly preparedness. Some would say we seem to enjoy breaking down in the middle of nowhere, and given the outcomes, I wouldn’t argue with them. It’s not an adventure until something unexpected happens, plus it makes for a good story, and more so, a good memory. The extra challenge while riding in the wild landscape, the adrenaline that comes with getting lost, running low on fuel, and having a mechanical problem to solve. It’s great camaraderie, too, as suggestions for the fix come from your friends, and it’s great practice getting to know your motorcycle. But between the mechanical challenges of an old bike, and sometimes difficult trails, maybe it’s not for the faint of heart. For me, it’s also about connecting to a past era, when this simpler type of machine was all they had — the basics, no creature comforts. But when I’m home, going over photos and recalling the ride, the people, and the territory we passed through, I always find myself asking, “How many days until the next one?” MC