What A Little CB160 Wrought

By John Sharp

My interest in Hondas, and later all Japanese bikes, began in the mid-1960's in ways that are probably typical of many of you club members.

I had first heard about Hondas in the Beach Boys' song and had seen pictures of them in Life magazine ads quite a while before actually seeing one for real in my town of Hampton, Virginia. Naturally, my 17-year-old brain drew a connection between Hondas, surfing, and the whole trendy sunny west coast lifestyle that I fantasized being part of. The fact that I was 3000 miles away and on the wrong coast didn't keep me from putting a surfboard on the roof rack of my 61 Corvair, and wearing sandals, cutoffs, and statement-making Hawaiian shirts.

I was still doing the surfer-out-of-water thing at the age of 20 in 1967, but with the addition of being married and about to start my 2 years of active duty in the Naval Reserve. One beautiful summer day an old school chum showed up at our apartment on his new black and silver Honda Super 90. My wife and I were admiring it in the driveway when he tossed me the key and told me to take it for a spin. Today, with 40 years of hindsight, I now see that he probably liked my wife and needed an excuse to get rid of me for awhile so he could talk to her. I didn't think of that then, and now I certainly don't mind because I don't have that wife anymore, but I do have one of the most wonderful memories of my life. I had never ridden a motorbike before and it was an absolute sensory overload of wide-openness and wind-in-the-face speed that I wanted never to end. I mean that literally. I didn't want to stop for anything or even go back home. The purr of the exhaust and even the new bike breaking-in smells were intoxicating. I was hooked for life. I kept thinking of more and more places I had to visit during my little spin, but after the better part of an hour I grudgingly rode back into my driveway to be met by four angry eyes - and it was worth it.

When my Navy active duty began I felt lucky to be assigned to a guided missile destroyer that had just entered dry-dock for a six-month refitting at the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard only 50 miles away. This would make it possible for me to commute home on evenings when I received liberty leave. The shipyard also allowed motorcycles to park inside the gates near our temporary barracks, but cars had to be parked outside in spaces on the city streets, often blocks away if you could find a space at all. Hmmm … a great excuse for that motorcycle I hadn't been able to get out of my mind since that ride a year ago.

Enter my dad (another part of the story that might be typical for many of you). He had been living in New York City since he and mom divorced ten years earlier, and except for the occasional money he sent in birthday cards, I had never put the touch on him for cash. I wrote him what I thought was a mature, convincing letter outlining all the logical reasons why I should have a little Honda to get to and from my ship safely and economically.

Weeks went by and I had completely forgotten about the letter appealing for financial assistance, when one August evening came a knock on my apartment door.

Dad used words sparingly, and after months of not seeing him, all he said was "Come and help me unload this thing." Now you the reader are probably way ahead of me, but I was unusually thickheaded at age 20 and truly was not thinking about the letter I had sent weeks before. The slow realization grew as I noticed a chrome rim and tire protruding horizontally from the trunk of Dad's red convertible Matador. As he was unlashing the rope holding the trunk lid to the car's bumper, I seemed to have Superman's x-ray vision and could almost see the little black and silver Super 90 through the trunk metal. Except that it wasn't black and silver, or even a Honda 90. My heart raced when I saw from the tank badge it was a CB 160 in the sportiest red and silver combination!

As soon as we gassed it up I rode away in a repeat of last year's transgression of leaving my wife with a man wondering when I would return. For the rest of that year and the following winter, that wonderful CB 160 carried me safely to my ship and back home through beautiful summer days and nights, or rain, ice, and snow. The bike was so good I took it for granted. You all know what I mean.

After my Navy hitch was up, my little friend and I did more fun-type things. At dusk, we would sneak onto the football practice field behind Kecoughtan High School and race around the paved asphalt track. I did my best Mike Hailwood tuck with my chin almost resting on the speedo housing and my long skinny legs on the rear passenger pegs. Yes, maybe I wasn't meant to be a surfer, because with this much talent I would surely be great at MotoGP.

John today, but still showing his rabbit chasing form

Now I've always been an animal lover and defender, but one evening after a bit of schoolyard Hailwooding I noticed a little rabbit grazing in the middle of the practice field and thought it wouldn't hurt to chase him around some. I did pretty well at first because I think initially the rabbit didn't know this was tag and he was it. I matched his zigs and zags for awhile, but when the rabbit realized this might be serious he really turned it on and suckered me into a turnback that I tried to duplicate. This was my first official hands-on lesson in dew-covered grass and motorcycle tires. It all seemed to happen in slo-mo as one moment I was riding and the next I was sliding along at 30 mph on my back (in my Hawaiian shirt). It was only then that I understood the depth of my fondness for the little Honda. All that I could think of while sliding along was what must be happening to the Honda that I had lost sight of. When I found it a few yards away, still running on its side, I felt sick looking at the standard damage of a bent handlebar and bent foot rest. Minimal, really, but it was a lot back then. Damn rabbit.

One of the other fun things we did together was jumping crudely-built plywood ramps in the field behind my house. This activity drew every 10 - 13 year old in the neighborhood to watch me and I got pretty decent air time on what had been designed as a road bike. Some kid took some Polaroid swinger pictures of me airborne that I still have and treasure to this day.

I had removed, but carefully saved the original mufflers and replaced them with those tiny chrome Volkswagon Beetle tailpipes because it made it sound so cool. The "old people," those 30 - 50 year olds in the neighborhood, must have hated me. One particular guy would shake his fist at me every time I rode by.

Around July of '69 when Neil and Buzz were doing more memorable things, a friend came to my house on a brand new red and white Honda CL 350. Funny how many of my life changes begin with a friend dropping by.

Oh my God, I had never seen anything so beautiful and macho. The perfect blend of Steve McQueen Scrambler, yet dripping with chrome and candy paint for the road. It looked so big compared to my 160 and those entwined and upswept chrome pipes ending in the black heatshield-covered box looked as good as they sounded. I was immediately smitten and all of a sudden my loyal little 160 seemed so inadequate and unimposing. I put the 160's original mufflers back on, lying to myself that it looked better, but subconsciously knowing I'd have a better chance to sell him that way. Today I would just keep the 160 and buy the 350 but back then I had to scrape every penny and save up for the $950 Scrambler. On what might have been my third visit to the Honda dealer just to drool over the CL 350's in the showroom, I overheard a guy only a couple of years my junior talking with a salesman. He just wanted transportation and couldn't find the right bike that offered what he had to spend versus engine size. I had enough integrity to wait until he was outside the dealership before I caught him and told him about my immaculate 160. He and his friend with a car followed me home just to look at my bike and after seeing that it was in fact immaculate, he bought it for $300 cash right then and there. Like Judas and his 30 gold pieces, I had sold out my friend for 300. That's inflation. I didn't even feel bad as he was ridden away. Only years later would I think that was a monumental mistake. Other bikes would come and go, but there's nothing like your first love, regardless of displacement.

I did enjoy the Scrambler and the most memorable time I had with it was breaking into the midway point of a gubernatorial candidate's auto parade through 8 city blocks of Newport News, Virginia in 1970. I rode along waving and grinning wearing my Captain America helmet until I saw a police car being sent to intercept me. Thank God for narrow alleyways. I got away to the cheers and laughter of the crowd!

The movie Easy Rider really impacted me. Today I regard the movie with humor, but back then I had come to terms with the fact that I wouldn't be the next GP champion, and weed-smoking hippie seemed within my capabilities. I immediately and passionately began converting the CL 350 scrambler into a Harley Davidson chopper. I myself turned 11'' fork extensions and cut and shortened the rear shock springs, installed CB-style exhaust headers and fabricated some pipes. I made a two-tier seat pan and sissy bar which my mom covered in foam and button-tuck black vinyl. A tiny chrome headlight completed the look. Whenever I was near the bike, I tried to speak only in grunts and use words of two syllables or less. Thank goodness this phase didn't last very long, and when my son was born in '71, I had to sell the scrambled-chopper to pay the $750 maternity bill.

My life continued on sans motorcycles for another 17 years when in 1988 I began to have dreams in my sleep of riding my little CB160. I assumed this must mean that I should get back into motorcycling. I scoured the classifieds and wound up buying an '84 Nighthawk 450. Sweet bike though it was, I soon found an '86 VFR 700 Interceptor and goodbye, Nighthawk. You will be surprised and proud to know that was the last bike I sold and I still have the VFR. But as mind-numbing as the VFR's performance was, when I slept I was still riding a little CB160.

OK, that was it! I had to find another CB160. I would restore it in honor of the friend I had betrayed and never ever sell him. Besides, the one I rescue might be some other guy's lost love and by doing this it might assure that MY little 160 would in turn be rescued and lovingly restored. Instant Karma.

I ran an ad in the local newspaper under "wanted CB160 any condition." When I came home from work that evening I had a phone message from a man visiting relatives in Hampton from upstate New York. His kids were looking at the classifieds and remembered they had a CB160 in the barn. He said his kids had used it as a dirt bike for a few years but "it was all there." We agreed on the modest price of $300 and he would bring it down on his next visit in a month. About a month later I was looking at the most beat up, rusty, nearly unrecognizable thing I had ever seen hanging on the back bumper of his beat-up van. I really felt screwed, but I had agreed to pay him to bring it to me and he had. Deal done.

At first I didn't even want to mess with it, but every journey of 1000 miles begins with a single step, so I thought maybe if I started taking it apart it wouldn't look so overwhelming. Having restored a '37 Plymouth coupe in '81 when I thought antique cars would bring me happiness, I knew to take lots of Polaroid pictures and put parts in labeled plastic baggies. I was astounded to find that in 1988 you could still get almost all its n.o.s. (New Old Stock) parts at your Honda dealer. It was a wondrous and satisfying three months of sandblasting, painting, lacing new spokes on new rims; thrilling openings of old Honda boxes with brand new seats or nearly 25-year-old chrome parts. While at my regular job during the day, all I could think of was all the things I would do on the Honda project in the evening.

I knew all the dealers' parts guys and mechanics by name. When I was done I had a showroom-looking and running spitting image of my lost friend. I was happy again.

But satisfying projects and endeavors can leave you sort of empty when they're finished. When I began looking for another Honda to restore to fill this emptiness I realized that it was too late for me; I was a resto junkie, and what followed from 1988 until my last acquisition in 2004 has been either restoring a bike or two every year, or chasing down an already nice example of ANY BRAND Nippon bike. I was overjoyed 5 years ago when I purchased a wonderful example of my CL350 that VJMC member Bob Ellis restored. I had to promise not to Harleyize this one! Which brings me to the fact that most of my local contemporaries think that MOTORCYCLE means Harley Davidson. They see me as a likeable quaint odd duck stuck in the '60's and '70's, but even though they don't understand my motivation, they respect my sincerity and commitment. You see, the way I look at it, Japanese bikes were there and affordable when I needed them. Harley Davidsons were not affordable for teenagers. Why should I change loyalties because my income level changes or something becomes trendy?

I've been a VJMC member at least 12 years. My wife Strother and I try to attend the Japanese show and swap meet at White Rose Motorcycle Club in Jefferson PA every year. She's been with me since I restored the second bike in 1989 and knows the names, cc sizes, and when and where we got each of our 35 bikes (almost half of which are scooters, minitrails, and minibikes). She always remembers the bikes I'm looking for and often found them at the swap meet before I ever noticed them. She even enjoyed selling our leftover parts the times we vended at White Rose. She's been tolerant of my sickness and when our attached garage filled with 21 bikes, the remaining 14 spilled into the house in hallways, guest rooms, bedrooms, the upstairs walkway, etc. There are just two bikes that I've always wanted but have never been able to find. One is a nice Kawasaki H1 500 and the other is the Honda CB 92 twin 125 cc that they made between 1959 - 1963.

This month I have realized a ten-year dream of completing a building on my property to house all the bikes together in one place. It is 16 X 40 frame construction with vinyl siding. The interior is drywalled and the floor is epoxy grey. My aim was to have it resemble a '60's - '70's Honda or other Japanese dealership, only on a smaller scale. It is decorated with many posters, ads, and photos of the period. It has a small parts storage room in the rear as well as attic storage, and even a loft bed with TV for day naps. It is fully insulated and a dehumidifier keeps the air moisture level at around 55%.

The most frequent comment from visitors is that "it's like a museum," and oddly to me, every single person seems most fascinated by the little Honda Motocompos displayed on shelves on the back wall. They also draw a crowd when I ride one around the White Rose swap meet.

I now have only 2 licensed/insured regular riders that I still keep in my house garage, along with a Motocompo and a 110 cc pocket bike. One is the '86 VFR Interceptor and a '73 CL 360 Honda. All of the bikes in the "museum" would run with the installation of a battery and fuel, but there are only about half a dozen that I plan to take for an occasional ride in the rural area where I now make my home. I am content knowing I rescued and restored many a guy's dilapidated first love, saving it from junkyard destruction. I wish I had a way of letting these people know their little machines are now in a safe loving home where at night, when no people are around, they enjoy companionship and share stories about their pasts. I do keep some night lights and a radio on for them.

I realize ownership of anything is only a temporary thing and I am just the bikes' current caretaker until some distant (I hope) day when they find themselves in other loving (I hope) hands.

My dad, if he were alive today, wouldn't believe what his gift of a little CB160 started.

I have never written a story before, and I hope you enjoyed this one.

Addendum Inventory - John Sharp Motorcycles

Back to Stories, News and Entertainment