1968 Harley Rapido 125cc: My First Love
It was Christmas 1969 and I was 12 years old. The previous year had been full of worldwide turmoil, dread and death - the Tet Offensive, assassinations of Martin Luther King and then Bobby Kennedy, students and police clashing on university campuses and at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago. The "police action" in Vietnam had become a full blown war (although not officially) and was taking thousands of lives a year. This played out nightly in living rooms across the nation with Walter Cronkite, Chet Huntley or David Brinkley, and their news reports, helping us navigate our way through the day's uncertainty. With the closing of another year, there was hope 1969 would somehow be a better and in many ways it was. Young men and innocent civilians still died in the steamy jungles and tiny hamlets of Vietnam and Cambodia. Cruelty and starvation was abundant that year, as well as disasters, both natural and man-made, but during this last year of the 60's, mankind's creativity, resolve and determination offered a bit of hope for the future.
I was just learning to play guitar and bought my first vinyl records during the previous year. So, I consumed everything that came across the airwaves of WLCY-138, a small AM station in St. Petersburg, Florida. The upcoming months would premiere the stellar debut albums of some of the greatest bands and singers in music history: Led Zeppelin, Chicago, CSN, Joe Cocker, Neil Young and the Allman Brothers, to name a few. On the automotive front, faster and better-looking muscle cars were leaving Detroit's factories. The Mustang vs. Camaro war was gathering steam when Pontiac released the GTO Judge and new the Firebird Trans Am - pure dream candy for a preteen boy. Aviation was showing off a bit too with the first flights of the 747 Jumbo Jet and supersonic Concorde. And then there was the space race. I remember so vividly, the family huddled around our Zenith TV watching the moon landing. We stared silently at the screen, our faces bathed in a blue/white hue cast from the snowy, black and white images, as Neil Armstrong took that one giant leap for mankind off the ladder of the lunar module.
This year was a very interesting and exciting year, and as much as I was fascinated with rock music, muscle cars, aviation and space, nothing could begin to interest me as much as motorcycles, and the hope of someday owning one. It might have been the best year ever had I found a motorcycle or even a Rupp minibike under the Christmas tree. I wanted it more than anything on earth - more than a Gibson Les Pual, more than peace on earth -- even more than a first kiss. But it didn't happen. It was a pipe dream that was as unrealistic as my parents buying me a shotgun or letting me "date" a PlayBoy bunny - not in a million years!
I was just learning to play guitar and bought my first vinyl records during the previous year. So, I consumed everything that came across the airwaves of WLCY-138, a small AM station in St. Petersburg, Florida. The upcoming months would premiere the stellar debut albums of some of the greatest bands and singers in music history: Led Zeppelin, Chicago, CSN, Joe Cocker, Neil Young and the Allman Brothers, to name a few. On the automotive front, faster and better-looking muscle cars were leaving Detroit's factories. The Mustang vs. Camaro war was gathering steam when Pontiac released the GTO Judge and new the Firebird Trans Am - pure dream candy for a preteen boy. Aviation was showing off a bit too with the first flights of the 747 Jumbo Jet and supersonic Concorde. And then there was the space race. I remember so vividly, the family huddled around our Zenith TV watching the moon landing. We stared silently at the screen, our faces bathed in a blue/white hue cast from the snowy, black and white images, as Neil Armstrong took that one giant leap for mankind off the ladder of the lunar module.
This year was a very interesting and exciting year, and as much as I was fascinated with rock music, muscle cars, aviation and space, nothing could begin to interest me as much as motorcycles, and the hope of someday owning one. It might have been the best year ever had I found a motorcycle or even a Rupp minibike under the Christmas tree. I wanted it more than anything on earth - more than a Gibson Les Pual, more than peace on earth -- even more than a first kiss. But it didn't happen. It was a pipe dream that was as unrealistic as my parents buying me a shotgun or letting me "date" a PlayBoy bunny - not in a million years!
No doubt it was an ad like this that captured my imagination
I came by my love of motorcycles honestly. Dad had a hodgepodge of bikes sitting in our garage. At this time he had his new '68 Yamaha DT-1, 250 Enduro, a Sachs moped, a Yamaha YG5 80cc (Mom's bike), a Lambretta scooter and '25 Indian Chief basket case. He'd owned motorcycles for years and was an accomplished rider both on and off road. My mother, brother, sisters and I all learned to ride on the Sachs and the 80cc Yamaha. I quickly outgrew these little bikes, although they were plenty of fun. Dad wasn't quite ready to let me loose on his new DT-1, so there wasn't any bike that really suited my needs or desires. I frequently helped Dad with the maintenance of the bikes, but when I attempted to modify them in any way (like remove the fenders and lights), Dad became justifiably angry. I desperately wanted to build my own dirt bike but I didn't see it happening anytime soon.
My father's first motorcycle was somewhat of a legend in our family. By the time he was 13, he had removed the gas-engine (yep, not an electric motor) from his mother's Depression-era washing machine and installed it on his bicycle. Even though his father was a police sergeant, he was found speeding around town on this belt-driven, gas-powered bike. It was all fun and games until my grandmother attempted to use the washer. I don't know if she requested my grandfather arrest him for theft, but it wouldn't have surprised me a bit. I wanted to build my own legendary bike. Rather than creating a washing machine-engine-powered bicycle, I was hoping to fabricate a good looking, quick little dirt bike that my minibike-riding buddies would envy.
My father's first motorcycle was somewhat of a legend in our family. By the time he was 13, he had removed the gas-engine (yep, not an electric motor) from his mother's Depression-era washing machine and installed it on his bicycle. Even though his father was a police sergeant, he was found speeding around town on this belt-driven, gas-powered bike. It was all fun and games until my grandmother attempted to use the washer. I don't know if she requested my grandfather arrest him for theft, but it wouldn't have surprised me a bit. I wanted to build my own legendary bike. Rather than creating a washing machine-engine-powered bicycle, I was hoping to fabricate a good looking, quick little dirt bike that my minibike-riding buddies would envy.
The bike of my dreams- the 125 Rapido!
Once I realized my parents would never give me a motorcycle, I set my sights on getting them to let me buy one. The first step was to put away a little cash - it wasn't easy.
Back in the late 1960's, most kids in Florida earned somewhere between two to five dollars mowing and raking a lawn. I spent the spring and summer mowing, raking, sweeping, sweating and saving. I also painted our ancient two-story, wood house. I didn't really have a choice, but I remember my father paid me a little. He was notoriously cheap - so it couldn't have been much. It probably took me a year and a half to scrape together some savings. As my mother always said, money burned a hole in my pocket, so all my money I earned didn't necessarily get saved.
While the memory of the exact finances are fuzzy, I do remember bugging my father incessantly. I worked with him in the garage almost every weekend (forced labor). And I'm sure I didn't let one weekend go by without either asking him to stop by a local motorcycle shop or about the possibility of allowing me to buy my own motorcycle. It had been a year and a half since that disappointing Christmas when I first hoped for a motorcycle. I'd saved some money, but not enough to buy a bike. My dream was stagnant and I was beginning to lose hope. If there was to be any hope at all, it was based upon the knowledge that Dad was as crazy about motorcycles as I was.
One Saturday morning, before I had a chance to start yapping about all the bikes I'd seen in the latest copy of Cycle World, Dad said "Hop in the truck." Even though Dad probably spent more time being mad at me than not, I was always up for a father-son road trip. Dad was a man of constant motion and adventure. There was no telling where we might end up: a junkyard, the old hangars at the airport, a sporting goods store or maybe the auto parts place. The only downside was being forced to listen to real country music, blurting out thought the broken speaker in our truck. Even though I didn't care for it at the time, I knew every word of the biggest country hits of 1968. The Nashville hit machines of Tammy Wynette, Johnny Cash, Merle Haggard, Conway Twitty and Jeanie C. Riley planted lifelong ear-worms in my brain.
I had no idea where we were going that morning, but when we took a right onto Central Avenue from 31st street, I hoping we would at least drop by the Harley dealership a few blocks up the road. When dad turned into the parking lot of the dealership, I had no idea why he stopped here, but the last thing I expected was that we were there to get a bike.
Our local Harley shop carried parts for a variety of bikes and probably lawn mowers too. We'd been there many times to get parts for Dad's menagerie of bikes. As was my normal routine, while Dad made his way to the front entrance, I drifted over to the fenced-in lot on the side of the building where they stored wrecked motorcycles. I was looking at the bikes though the fence when I saw the owner and my father walking through the over-grown weeds springing up around the bikes. They stopped to look at a 1968 Rapido. It had been damaged in a wreck and previous owner wasn't kind to the bike. It was in pretty rough shape for a two-year old bike. But to me, it was the coolest motorcycle I could ever image owning. Dad looked over at me and said, "Richie, what do you think about this one?" I couldn't fathom why he would be asking my opinion about anything. Then the raw possibility of an unbelievable prospect hit me like a baseball between the eyes. Dad might be getting me a bike! I ran around back as fast as my feet would carry me. "Why?" I thought. I can't remember what we said, but I know I had to be purely excited. Probably as excited as I've ever been about any purchase since that time.
We looked the bike over and Dad pointed out the flaws. The headlight was smashed and dangling by a few wires and the front fender stuck up ninety degrees to the wheel. The front rim was bent and the tire flat. The tank had a few dents as did the chrome muffler. The seat had a tear. But to me, the bike was just perfect. I didn't even care that it didn't run. I'm sure I thought, I can make it run! Dad made it clear that I would have to pay for the bike and any parts it would need. I'm sure that when we got home, I gladly handed over every penny I'd saved. I do remember clearly that the owner wanted just $75 for that black beauty - amazingly affordable for a 14-year-old kid in 1971.
As Dad and I loaded the bike into our little red truck, I was so dumbfounded by my good fortune that I didn't even notice that all the bikes, even the ones in the salvage area were priced significantly higher than $75. I did however notice this a few weeks later when I stopped in to get a part. It also occurred to me that Dad seemed to know a lot about this little bike, even though we hadn't stopped by the Harley dealer in months. Some forty years later I asked him about this strange coincidence. He would neither confirm or deny my suspicions. But I'm pretty darned sure he gave the Harley dealer some extra money on my behalf.
Back in the late 1960's, most kids in Florida earned somewhere between two to five dollars mowing and raking a lawn. I spent the spring and summer mowing, raking, sweeping, sweating and saving. I also painted our ancient two-story, wood house. I didn't really have a choice, but I remember my father paid me a little. He was notoriously cheap - so it couldn't have been much. It probably took me a year and a half to scrape together some savings. As my mother always said, money burned a hole in my pocket, so all my money I earned didn't necessarily get saved.
While the memory of the exact finances are fuzzy, I do remember bugging my father incessantly. I worked with him in the garage almost every weekend (forced labor). And I'm sure I didn't let one weekend go by without either asking him to stop by a local motorcycle shop or about the possibility of allowing me to buy my own motorcycle. It had been a year and a half since that disappointing Christmas when I first hoped for a motorcycle. I'd saved some money, but not enough to buy a bike. My dream was stagnant and I was beginning to lose hope. If there was to be any hope at all, it was based upon the knowledge that Dad was as crazy about motorcycles as I was.
One Saturday morning, before I had a chance to start yapping about all the bikes I'd seen in the latest copy of Cycle World, Dad said "Hop in the truck." Even though Dad probably spent more time being mad at me than not, I was always up for a father-son road trip. Dad was a man of constant motion and adventure. There was no telling where we might end up: a junkyard, the old hangars at the airport, a sporting goods store or maybe the auto parts place. The only downside was being forced to listen to real country music, blurting out thought the broken speaker in our truck. Even though I didn't care for it at the time, I knew every word of the biggest country hits of 1968. The Nashville hit machines of Tammy Wynette, Johnny Cash, Merle Haggard, Conway Twitty and Jeanie C. Riley planted lifelong ear-worms in my brain.
I had no idea where we were going that morning, but when we took a right onto Central Avenue from 31st street, I hoping we would at least drop by the Harley dealership a few blocks up the road. When dad turned into the parking lot of the dealership, I had no idea why he stopped here, but the last thing I expected was that we were there to get a bike.
Our local Harley shop carried parts for a variety of bikes and probably lawn mowers too. We'd been there many times to get parts for Dad's menagerie of bikes. As was my normal routine, while Dad made his way to the front entrance, I drifted over to the fenced-in lot on the side of the building where they stored wrecked motorcycles. I was looking at the bikes though the fence when I saw the owner and my father walking through the over-grown weeds springing up around the bikes. They stopped to look at a 1968 Rapido. It had been damaged in a wreck and previous owner wasn't kind to the bike. It was in pretty rough shape for a two-year old bike. But to me, it was the coolest motorcycle I could ever image owning. Dad looked over at me and said, "Richie, what do you think about this one?" I couldn't fathom why he would be asking my opinion about anything. Then the raw possibility of an unbelievable prospect hit me like a baseball between the eyes. Dad might be getting me a bike! I ran around back as fast as my feet would carry me. "Why?" I thought. I can't remember what we said, but I know I had to be purely excited. Probably as excited as I've ever been about any purchase since that time.
We looked the bike over and Dad pointed out the flaws. The headlight was smashed and dangling by a few wires and the front fender stuck up ninety degrees to the wheel. The front rim was bent and the tire flat. The tank had a few dents as did the chrome muffler. The seat had a tear. But to me, the bike was just perfect. I didn't even care that it didn't run. I'm sure I thought, I can make it run! Dad made it clear that I would have to pay for the bike and any parts it would need. I'm sure that when we got home, I gladly handed over every penny I'd saved. I do remember clearly that the owner wanted just $75 for that black beauty - amazingly affordable for a 14-year-old kid in 1971.
As Dad and I loaded the bike into our little red truck, I was so dumbfounded by my good fortune that I didn't even notice that all the bikes, even the ones in the salvage area were priced significantly higher than $75. I did however notice this a few weeks later when I stopped in to get a part. It also occurred to me that Dad seemed to know a lot about this little bike, even though we hadn't stopped by the Harley dealer in months. Some forty years later I asked him about this strange coincidence. He would neither confirm or deny my suspicions. But I'm pretty darned sure he gave the Harley dealer some extra money on my behalf.
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After years of dreaming and waiting, I finally had my own motorcycle and it wasn't long before I started making modifications to the little, Italian-made 2-stroke. At the time, Dad was interested in flat track racing. He bought a GYT kit for his DT-1. This was a Yamaha factory, high performance, add on that included a really loud, expansion chamber (no baffle or spark arrestor) and a high compression piston. His bike had a dual-plug head so he installed a compression release. It was the hot ticket for privateer, two-stroke dirt track racers at the time. One weekend he removed the lights form the bike and mounted number plates. I knew we were going racing.
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Dad modified his stock '68 DT1 (almost exactly like this beautifully restored example) for use on a flat track and later as an competition enduro bike
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I remember the loud, stripped down, race machines being pushed and ridden around the pits. The pungent aroma of two-stroke engines, belching Castrol Oil from black expansion chambers, is a sensory memory I'll never forget. It was so cool being at the track. I really wanted to race motorcycles. I daydreamed about Dad and I going to the track and racing in a father-son event. I don't know if that had one, but that's what I wanted to do. Racing was all I talked about with my friends. I thought about it so much I had a hard time getting to sleep at night. My grades at school plummeted as did my riding privileges.
My Rapido as a flat track racer
Still, while I was restricted from riding, I could work on the bike. So I began to turn my little racing fantasy into reality. I was determined to convert my docile little Harley into my image of a flat track racer. I figured if Dad saw me working so hard to modify my bike, he'd take me to the track with him so I could race too. The sound logic of a young teen. Of course, I knew nothing about what a real race machine should look or run like, and Dad never did take me to race, but I did convert the little 125 into something that looked a bit like a flat track racer.
Being 14 and having no real income to speak of, it was a challenge coming up competition parts of any kind for the Harley. Some of my buddies had motorcycles and mini bikes. When their bikes quit, I would fix them or trade for their parts they might not need. I was also fortunate enough to stumble on some very primo parts on day in the old dump near my house.
Besides motorcycle shops, one of my very favorite places to explore was the old dump. For the most part, this dump was inaccessible unless you walked through the thick woods or had 4-wheel drive truck. Even then, there was a serious risk of getting stuck in the deep sugar sand surrounding the property. During the 1920's, the dump was used daily while a nearby subdivision was being built. From what was left there, it appeared to have abandoned sometime around 1925, after the Florida real estate market crashed for the first of many times. This was years before the Great Depression. Tall pine trees surrounded every side of dump- with no easy way to drive in. It was obvious these 40-year old trees grew sometime after people stopped driving and stomping over them.
Our old Florida home was built in 1915 and it too was surrounded by thick stands of old pine trees and saw palmetto. I had discovered a direct path from my house, though the pine forest to the dump. Even though abandoned and over grown, I always found interesting stuff there. I still have antique bottles and hand tools I found while rummaging though that pit nearly 50 years ago. At the bottom of the pit, you could see the rusted remains of an ancient, Model T truck as well as hoods and fenders from pre-World War II automobiles. The was also parts of an old steam shovel. Yes, a steam shovel.
One day while rummaging through the pit, I found someone had dumped a bunch of parts from a Kawasaki Bighorn 350. That was a new bike back then. I was dumbfounded by my luck, but I soon realized the parts were probably stolen and maybe the thieves were watching me. Too many Robin Hood movies. There wasn't much left of the bike. There was no engine or frame but there were some really cool parts lying there in the dirt. I probably should have reported it, but I justified not reporting it by convincing myself that without the engine and frame, they'd never be able to identify the owner. So I scarfed up the green, aluminum, off-road fenders, the shocks and handlebars. There was also a black, racing expansion chamber - not a nice factory pipe, but a handmade low pipe for flat-tracking. This part, in particular, had my name on it. For me, this was the equivalent of motorcycle manna from heaven. These parts would be perfect for modifying my little bike into a pure-bread racer. Not really, but I didn't know better.
Being 14 and having no real income to speak of, it was a challenge coming up competition parts of any kind for the Harley. Some of my buddies had motorcycles and mini bikes. When their bikes quit, I would fix them or trade for their parts they might not need. I was also fortunate enough to stumble on some very primo parts on day in the old dump near my house.
Besides motorcycle shops, one of my very favorite places to explore was the old dump. For the most part, this dump was inaccessible unless you walked through the thick woods or had 4-wheel drive truck. Even then, there was a serious risk of getting stuck in the deep sugar sand surrounding the property. During the 1920's, the dump was used daily while a nearby subdivision was being built. From what was left there, it appeared to have abandoned sometime around 1925, after the Florida real estate market crashed for the first of many times. This was years before the Great Depression. Tall pine trees surrounded every side of dump- with no easy way to drive in. It was obvious these 40-year old trees grew sometime after people stopped driving and stomping over them.
Our old Florida home was built in 1915 and it too was surrounded by thick stands of old pine trees and saw palmetto. I had discovered a direct path from my house, though the pine forest to the dump. Even though abandoned and over grown, I always found interesting stuff there. I still have antique bottles and hand tools I found while rummaging though that pit nearly 50 years ago. At the bottom of the pit, you could see the rusted remains of an ancient, Model T truck as well as hoods and fenders from pre-World War II automobiles. The was also parts of an old steam shovel. Yes, a steam shovel.
One day while rummaging through the pit, I found someone had dumped a bunch of parts from a Kawasaki Bighorn 350. That was a new bike back then. I was dumbfounded by my luck, but I soon realized the parts were probably stolen and maybe the thieves were watching me. Too many Robin Hood movies. There wasn't much left of the bike. There was no engine or frame but there were some really cool parts lying there in the dirt. I probably should have reported it, but I justified not reporting it by convincing myself that without the engine and frame, they'd never be able to identify the owner. So I scarfed up the green, aluminum, off-road fenders, the shocks and handlebars. There was also a black, racing expansion chamber - not a nice factory pipe, but a handmade low pipe for flat-tracking. This part, in particular, had my name on it. For me, this was the equivalent of motorcycle manna from heaven. These parts would be perfect for modifying my little bike into a pure-bread racer. Not really, but I didn't know better.
The last picture I found of the Rapido - in the process of becoming a cafe racer
Over the next several days I pulled the stock rear fender and lights off the Harley. I used the Kawasaki's wide, motocross-style bars and stiffer shocks. I cut the front header off the chamber and used hose clamps to secure it to the Rapido's header pipe. I then made some brackets out of scrap metal I found in our garage. I made a cardboard template and fabricated number plates out of sheet metal I "borrowed" from my father. I never raced the Rapido (officially), but once I put together, I spent every day for months buzzing that little Harley around the dirt oval parking lot of a nearby theater - taking on all challengers - usually my buddies on minibikes. I was getting pretty good at power sliding when one of the neighbors lost patience with us and threw several handfuls of nails in the parking lot. Several flat tires later I decided to turn the little Harley into an off-road, enduro/motocross machine.
To covert the Harley into a "true" dirt bike, I first bought some 3.25x17" knobby tires from JC Whitney. Knobby or not, I probably patched the tubes in those tires fifty times. I also mounted the higher aluminum fenders off the Bighorn. To put my own personal brand on the bike, I painted it the blue-green color seen in the picture above. Not that I particularly liked the color, but the paint was more or less free. Dad had some enamel left over in his gun from painting our truck, so I helped clean out the gun by using all the paint in the gun and the stuff left in the can as well. The paint didn't come out to bad and liked that I was able to customize something to my own taste, so began a lifetime of painting motorcycles.
I though that with these mods, my little Harley would make a decent motocross or enduro bike. It turns out I wasn't the only one with this idea. About the same time, the marketing department at Harley was working hard on a similar project. They called it a Baja 100 - which I thought was a very cool motorcycle for the day. I wish I had pictures of it like this, but I haven't been able to find any. I also don't have any pictures of this bike as a road/cafe racer. I was able to find one picture with Clubman-style handlebars (I made out of an old piece of pipe) but nothing with the bike completed. Once again, the fenders came off to give it a road racer look. I was researching how to build a fairing out of fiberglass (probably inspired by my shop teacher) when I had a chance to purchase a newer Rapido that needed the engine rebuilt. The engine soon left the '68 and was quickly placed in the 1970 frame. This was a scrambler model and a little better suited for off-road - but it had an ugly, angular gas tank and it was at least 50 pounds heavier than the 1968 model. That bike never felt as good as my first Harley and it wasn't long before I moved onto real dirt bikes - Yamaha DT's, a Honda Elsinore 125 and then Suzuki RM 250.
To covert the Harley into a "true" dirt bike, I first bought some 3.25x17" knobby tires from JC Whitney. Knobby or not, I probably patched the tubes in those tires fifty times. I also mounted the higher aluminum fenders off the Bighorn. To put my own personal brand on the bike, I painted it the blue-green color seen in the picture above. Not that I particularly liked the color, but the paint was more or less free. Dad had some enamel left over in his gun from painting our truck, so I helped clean out the gun by using all the paint in the gun and the stuff left in the can as well. The paint didn't come out to bad and liked that I was able to customize something to my own taste, so began a lifetime of painting motorcycles.
I though that with these mods, my little Harley would make a decent motocross or enduro bike. It turns out I wasn't the only one with this idea. About the same time, the marketing department at Harley was working hard on a similar project. They called it a Baja 100 - which I thought was a very cool motorcycle for the day. I wish I had pictures of it like this, but I haven't been able to find any. I also don't have any pictures of this bike as a road/cafe racer. I was able to find one picture with Clubman-style handlebars (I made out of an old piece of pipe) but nothing with the bike completed. Once again, the fenders came off to give it a road racer look. I was researching how to build a fairing out of fiberglass (probably inspired by my shop teacher) when I had a chance to purchase a newer Rapido that needed the engine rebuilt. The engine soon left the '68 and was quickly placed in the 1970 frame. This was a scrambler model and a little better suited for off-road - but it had an ugly, angular gas tank and it was at least 50 pounds heavier than the 1968 model. That bike never felt as good as my first Harley and it wasn't long before I moved onto real dirt bikes - Yamaha DT's, a Honda Elsinore 125 and then Suzuki RM 250.
As a kid, I constantly dissembled and reinvented the Rapido.
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On the way to becoming a cafe racer
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The first part I Rapido part I found was the familiar old set. It required welding to fix lots of cracks
When I was out of high school, I made a valiant attempt at running my own motorcycle shop. I rented some space in a building my father owned next to a salvage yard. I did this for about a year and a half before realizing I wanted a college degree. During that short time, I collected a bunch of bikes and parts. When I closed up shop, I left the parts in a big pile in the loft of the building. Buried at the bottom of the pile was the dissembled bones of the 1968 Rapido - my first love.
When I was nearing 50, my father was fighting a losing battle with dementia. A brilliant man, it was hard to see this happening to him. In the last decade of his life, Dad had become a serious hoarder. As long as I could remember, he always collected interesting, old stuff. By the time I was forty he had amassed two large warehouses full of stuff. After his death, I spent almost three years dumping, cleaning and selling stuff off. While digging though the junk, I'd occasionally find a gem.
One steamy, sub-tropical, Florida afternoon, my oldest son and I were up to our elbows in the darkest recesses of the warehouse. Only a few lights worked and windows were blacked out. We weren't really prepared to work in this section, so we hadn't set up our temporary lights. It was dark and I was picking though a pile of motorcycle parts that looked vaguely familiar. All the while, I was hoping a rat wouldn't jump out at me. I reached into the pile and felt something smooth and leathery. I pulled my hand back quickly and tried to focus in the black mound under a pile of frames and fenders. It didn't move when I touched it so I took a closer look. It was a filthy black motorcycle seat. I gave it a hard pull and extricated it from under an old Bultaco engine. The seat had a little hump on the back. I knew this seat. Under the seat was a little gas tank with with cutouts on the sides for knees. I couldn't believe it. I yelled out to my oldest boy who was helping me that day, "Hey, it's my Rapido!" He responded with, "What's a Rapido?" I can't remember what I said, but I the truth is, those parts were a direct link to one of the best memories of my childhood - and absolutely priceless to me. We grabbed some more lights, lit up the pile and I began searching in earnest for my lost childhood. We eventually pulled out the frame, wheels, motor and forks. Enough to put together a roller. But there were a lot of parts missing and many too damaged to use. I had abused this bike - relentlessly. It took all of about five minutes for me to decide to restore the bike. That night when I got home, I began searching eBay for any NOS or decent quality used parts I could find. The one part I couldn't locate after a year of searching was a good muffler. I had the original, but it was beat. A buddy of mine who imports wine from Italy (and who also loves old motorcycles) found an NOS Aermachi exhaust for me in Italy. This is also where I found the correct 17" factory rims. I also located a set of hard-to-find new, original, cream-colored hand grips. I was also able to locate a beautiful set of in-the-box, pressed-steel hand controls. It took eight years of work and countless phone calls and eBay bids, but the bike finally started coming back to life. The endless searching finally ended this morning when I found I finally found the correct front fender on eBay. It's not particularly easy to find parts for unpopular, cheap motorcycles from the 1960s.
When I was nearing 50, my father was fighting a losing battle with dementia. A brilliant man, it was hard to see this happening to him. In the last decade of his life, Dad had become a serious hoarder. As long as I could remember, he always collected interesting, old stuff. By the time I was forty he had amassed two large warehouses full of stuff. After his death, I spent almost three years dumping, cleaning and selling stuff off. While digging though the junk, I'd occasionally find a gem.
One steamy, sub-tropical, Florida afternoon, my oldest son and I were up to our elbows in the darkest recesses of the warehouse. Only a few lights worked and windows were blacked out. We weren't really prepared to work in this section, so we hadn't set up our temporary lights. It was dark and I was picking though a pile of motorcycle parts that looked vaguely familiar. All the while, I was hoping a rat wouldn't jump out at me. I reached into the pile and felt something smooth and leathery. I pulled my hand back quickly and tried to focus in the black mound under a pile of frames and fenders. It didn't move when I touched it so I took a closer look. It was a filthy black motorcycle seat. I gave it a hard pull and extricated it from under an old Bultaco engine. The seat had a little hump on the back. I knew this seat. Under the seat was a little gas tank with with cutouts on the sides for knees. I couldn't believe it. I yelled out to my oldest boy who was helping me that day, "Hey, it's my Rapido!" He responded with, "What's a Rapido?" I can't remember what I said, but I the truth is, those parts were a direct link to one of the best memories of my childhood - and absolutely priceless to me. We grabbed some more lights, lit up the pile and I began searching in earnest for my lost childhood. We eventually pulled out the frame, wheels, motor and forks. Enough to put together a roller. But there were a lot of parts missing and many too damaged to use. I had abused this bike - relentlessly. It took all of about five minutes for me to decide to restore the bike. That night when I got home, I began searching eBay for any NOS or decent quality used parts I could find. The one part I couldn't locate after a year of searching was a good muffler. I had the original, but it was beat. A buddy of mine who imports wine from Italy (and who also loves old motorcycles) found an NOS Aermachi exhaust for me in Italy. This is also where I found the correct 17" factory rims. I also located a set of hard-to-find new, original, cream-colored hand grips. I was also able to locate a beautiful set of in-the-box, pressed-steel hand controls. It took eight years of work and countless phone calls and eBay bids, but the bike finally started coming back to life. The endless searching finally ended this morning when I found I finally found the correct front fender on eBay. It's not particularly easy to find parts for unpopular, cheap motorcycles from the 1960s.
There were so many broken and damaged parts. I spent a lot of time repairing cracks on the frame. I rode this bike relentlessly.
So eight years later, the little Rapido is ready to run again, but I'm not sure if I'm going to start it. It's hard to describe why, but it might be compared to running into your first love 40 years after you last saw her. Yes, she's still special, still cute, but different. And that memory of the 16-year-old sweetheart would forever be washed away by the fresh memory of the aging woman. In the same way, I know, once I swing a leg over this bike, it'll lose some of the sparkle it once had. No doubt, even after a fresh rebuild, the little 125cc engine will strain in a much different way pulling 195 pounds of current me, rather than the 120 pounds of 15-year old me. And after 52 years of riding, I've been on some really great bikes. Not a fair comparison to the little Spaghetti Harley.
So maybe I'll put off finishing this one a little longer or maybe it will never be started again. It's been ready to ride for a bit and I haven't even thought about putting the first drop of gas in the tank. Honesty, I guess it really doesn't matter whether or not I ever start or ride this bike again, this little Rapido will remain the perfect symbol of all I once dreamed possible: a promise of freedom and adventure and a time when all it took to bring an ear-to-ear grin to my face was the ding-ding-ding sound of a little, Italian two-stroke.
So maybe I'll put off finishing this one a little longer or maybe it will never be started again. It's been ready to ride for a bit and I haven't even thought about putting the first drop of gas in the tank. Honesty, I guess it really doesn't matter whether or not I ever start or ride this bike again, this little Rapido will remain the perfect symbol of all I once dreamed possible: a promise of freedom and adventure and a time when all it took to bring an ear-to-ear grin to my face was the ding-ding-ding sound of a little, Italian two-stroke.
Sitting under a pile of parts, the tank suffered more than 50 dents
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Back in black! The racing stripe is supposed to be flat black, but I like the silver much better.
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The engine rebuilt and ready for installation
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The tank is complete with a NOS decal. The horn and handlebars are NOS as well. I also found an NOS coil (not pictured).
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The front fender wasn't correct. It was off a Benelli and close. I finally found a good used fender. I'll paint that and put up some pictures of the finished bike soon.
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