Motorcycles have always fascinated me. I have fond childhood memories of my father pulling up to the house on his old Honda Nighthawk. After school, I would sit and wait on the front porch for hours, longing to hear the purr of his engine just before he came into sight. Upon entering the driveway, I'd bolt over to him, helmet in hand, hoping that he wasn't too tired and would pacify me with a ride around the hill before dinner. My father was a hard-as-iron diesel mechanic, and naturally, most evenings he was just too tired to take me for a spin. But, every once in a while, he'd give in and swing me on the back seat for a ride. He knew it was the only way he'd get any peace.
Those few short miles that we'd ride on the gravel road past our family home was the highlight of my day. It may have lasted only 15 minutes or so, but those few precious minutes filled my thoughts and dreams for days and weeks on end. I guess it's nothing of a surprise that motorcycles occupy most of my thoughts to this day.
What is surprising is that I didn't have my first motorcycle until I was 24. Both of my brothers had dirt bikes growing up, and both of them had street bikes in their late teens, but for one reason or another, my motorcycle fancy took a bit of a holiday.
Upon getting my first bike, a super sporty Suzuki SV650, I knew that it had filled a void in my life. The daily drive was less mundane. Carving a line through the beautiful mountain roads of West Virginia made all things seem right in the world. Life seemed to make sense, even if for just a few miles at a time. Speed was addictive, and naturally it wasn't long before I plowed it into the ground. But, even after taking a spill (and the crippling cost of repairing my bike) the only thought on my mind was when would it be fixed, and when was I going to ride it again.
As time progressed and I migrated back to civilization, I sold the SV650 (a decision I've always regretted) and was without motorized two-wheel transport for several years. However, with rising gas prices and soaring insurance rates, the thought of owning a motorcycle creeped once again into my thoughts, and it wasn't long afterwards that I indulged the desire, albeit on the other end of the motorcycle spectrum.
What was once fast and sporty was now a little slower and slightly laughable. I purchased a Yamaha Zuma, a terrific little 50cc neighborhood terrorist machine. Small, fast and extremely obnoxious. The pingity-ping growly-growl two-stroke engine was highly effective at pissing off some of the AARP members in my neighborhood, enough so to earn me frowns of distaste at my most recent attempt to save money.
The Zuma has been a terrific tool for commuting back and forth to work, and also for a spin in out to the family farm. However, due to its small size and 40 mph top end, my tastes for a new bike had only been whetted. Thankfully, my youthful lust for speed has diminished over the years, and now I long for those leisurely slow rides in the country like I used to go on with my father. Practicality also entered the picture, so I started sniffing around for something with two wheels that would be cheap on gas and insurance, and also be able to carry around some equipment since my camera never seems to leave my side. Little did I know that my thirst for two-wheel bliss would be quenched by three.
After some run-of-the-mill Internet research, sidecar bikes became a recurring theme. I'd never ridden a sidecar motorcycle, nor had I ever seen one up close. But the more I looked, the more I began to realize that a sidecar bike would make one hell of a daily workhorse, as well as a great weekend rider for those long country roads that West Virginia seems to have in excess.
Sadly, none of the big names in motorcycles (Honda, Kawasaki, Suzuki, Yamaha, HD, etc.) made a sidecar motorcycle. I found a couple of companies that manufactured aftermarket sidecar kits to install on modern bikes, but most seemed a bit complex and looked like a lot more work and expense than I wanted to get into. And, from what little I'd read on sidecar bikes up to this point, it seemed that most of the bikes that had aftermarket kits installed didn't perform as well as a bike specifically designed around a sidecar.
As my research progressed, I repeatedly came across a couple of Russian manufactures - Dnepr and Ural. Unfortunately, they seemed exceedingly hard to find and even harder to find parts for. Importation of the bikes is possible, but only through an absolute circus of red tape, fees, brokers, shippers, shady characters and an endless sea of faceless Internet dealers with questionable reputations. Horror stories abound on the net via message boards -- long-winded tales of woe regarding lost and/or damaged shipments, unexpected fees, junk bikes that won't run and worst of all, money spent on goods never delivered. It was at this point the weight of my wishes started to crash down upon me.
To say the least, my interests had boiled into a tempered fever, cooled slightly by the fact that I knew I was in way over my head. I was foaming at the mouth to see one, touch one, ride one, anything. Sadly, finding a local dealer (or any dealer for that matter) was damn near impossible. Big franchise dealers didn't want anything to do with what they referred to as 'cheap outdated junk.' The American motorcycle market wanted fast, shiny and loud. If it wasn't some mass-produced chrome-plated pile of noise, nobody in America wanted it.
My heart sank. Not only was I disappointed that I couldn't find a sidecar motorcycle, I was even more so let down that the American motorcycle market had strayed so far away from its roots and the rest of the world. No longer were motorcycles just that - motor and cycle. Everything was big, loud and obscenely expensive. Don't get me wrong. Shiny is nice to a point, speed is exhilarating and the healthy purr of any combustible engine is to be admired, but hardly anything seemed to be built towards a utilitarian purpose. Where had all of the practical bikes gone?
Finally I stumbled across a small local dealer that was a sidecar motorcycle enthusiast. His information was invaluable in navigating me through the sea of confusion that I was starting to drown in. Not only was I able to touch one, but I also had the opportunity to get hip on the history of the sidecar motorcycle and its evolution over the past 60 years. He also brought me up to speed on all of the ins and outs associated with purchasing, owning and operating something based on outdated technology, and introduced me to the latest rendition of something I thought time had consumed. Long story short, do your research and find a knowledgeable, respectable dealer that you can deal with face to face. It took a while to find one, but that has made all the difference for me.
Enter the Chang Jiang, or CJ 750 for short, a motorcycle sporting a sidecar and a beautifully industrial retro look. The CJ750 is based on the original 1938 BMW R71, a bike made famous by the Germans during WWII. It seems that just prior to the end of WWII, the Russians "obtained" (wink-wink) in a roundabout way the patents and toolings for the R71 and began making retro-engineered models. By the 1950s, the Soviet Union further shared the technology with their fellow communists in China. Bikes were then, and are still to this day, produced in Nanchang, home to a variety of PLA (Peoples Liberation Army) manufacturing facilities, as well as several other plants.
It seems that in recent years the PLA has moved on to more modern forms of transport, but several Chinese agencies, such as their police force and forest service, still use the bikes on a daily basis. All bikes that are imported into the United States must be "refurbished" from old PLA bikes that are at least 25 years old to legally be brought into the country. Modern CJ's do not meet US emission standards and will have a sad encounter with the customs crusher if they do happen to make to long voyage across the pacific.
Needless to say, the CJ 750 (or any other R71 offspring) are closer in relation to a piece of farm equipment than a motorcycle. These bikes were designed for the military in mind, so they're pig-iron heavy and brutally simple in their construction. They were made to go just fast enough to not get ran over by the tanks they were scouting for. Current CJs that are allowed to be imported into the United States have drum brakes and cable operated everything, so be mindful that you're not going to be able to stop on a dime; a small field is needed for turning them around and your never going to go anywhere fast. It's also good to have a general understanding of combustion engines, since there is no onboard computer to let you know if your oil is low or valves need to be adjusted.
As far as riding a CJ, let's just say that it's a step back in time. No other bike that I've ever ridden has felt so good. Smooth, it's not - at least not by modern-day standards - but the sound of its twin cylinders piffling down the road is enough to sweep you back to a place before satellites, cell phones and overpriced coffee. Wherever you go, people take notice. It's not every day that they see a piece of history rolling down the road.