THE SUPER MODEL
“Wow, look at that!” slipped from my lips when I saw her picture. The caption read, HONDA CB450. I’m a vintage Honda guy. How did I not know this one? She became my super model from the very first glance.
I began lusting for her. I searched the net for my new crush. She was a “game changer,” the articles claimed. Never a real threat to the Triumphs and Nortons that ruled the 60s, the CB450 announced to the world that Honda could compete. All the Brits could do when she debuted in ‘65 was curl their stiff upper lip and lilt, “Wow, look at that!”
The public just didn’t take to her, though. She was awkward looking – Honda’s ugly duckling. Over time though, the “Black Bomber,” as she would come to be known, would grow to be the swan, sought by collectors and swooned over by enthusiasts.
I had to have her. An eBay listing for one popped up with only 6400 miles, in good, original condition, complete, and affordable. Logic told me to hold off. Save money first. Think this through. Logic has no place in matters of the heart. I bid with school-boy eagerness. And won! Now what? I lived in New York. My new ’67 CB450-K0 was in Florida. The thing to do was obvious: I’d ship her to Kansas.
Kansas is home. And when post-rationalization kicked in I decided this bike was a perfect father-son project. What was I going to do with a fix-r-upper in NYC? With no garage? I had to put the Bomber away for a while. Out of site, out of mind, right? Far from it.
Our starting point. Complete, but needing plenty of work.
My net surfing efforts ramped up. Highly regarded, it seems she’s a pretty rare bird. The first of the CB450 line, she was only produced from ’65 to ’67, before the styling was altered to give her more mass appeal. Even the hump-backed, “toaster tank” was abandoned. What? That was her signature feature, her beautiful imperfection.
New Old Stock became my battle cry. I loved the buried treasure aspect of it. Armed with countless pics and an on-line parts fische I spent hours tracking stuff down. I “googled” and giggled for weeks. Love makes you do crazy things. Packages started to flow to my dad’s Wichita address.
Shipping companies all over the world got into the act. The Netherlands, Ohio, Japan, Texas, California, Canada, even my back yard of Kansas made good on a lead for an NOS seat-latch knob. I was in deep, and enjoying it. Any new relationship has that dizzying initial stage.
Day one of the actual restore wasn’t nearly so blissful.
“Dad. I say we put a blade in the Sawzall and hack it off.”
Having freed myself up to travel back to Kansas for the month of June, I’d set right to work in Dad’s shop. I was immediately overwhelmed. Literally cutting free a bent center-stand-pivot-post was what I called a bad start. As I stood in the 100 degree heat of the shop, finally gazing first hand upon my very own Black Bomber, my heart sank. I’ll never be able to do this.
Soon we had completely disassembled the bike; every nut, bolt, bracket and pipe joint flange carefully labeled and accounted for. My cherished classic example of 60’s design was now a collection of parts and zip-lock baggies scribbled with, Rear Wheel Assembly, and Foot Peg Bolts, or Front Fork Seals. Staring at the bare-naked frame and wiping the sweat from my brow I wondered, can we get it all back together? Parts went to the plate shop for shiny new chrome. The seat went to the upholsterer. The frame and body panels went off to get the full paint treatment. I went back to my list of contacts and web sites.
It became a three-ring circus of finding parts, refurbishing parts, and waiting for “must have” parts. Everything that came off the bike was either cleaned up, repaired, or replaced if we could get it. Each visit from the UPS guy became a Christmas morning event. “Ooh, look at the brand spankin’ new, 30- year-old oil pump filter screen!” I was enjoying it again, and the bonding time with Dad was priceless. Not since living under his roof nearly 20 years ago had we said, “good morning” and “see ya in the morning” every day for a month.
I became the workhorse, slaving away with the grinding/polishing wheel. He was the trouble-shooter, pouring over the shop manual and working through re-assembly. We became invaluable to each other. From the habitual, “Can you get a wrench on the back of this?” to, “Uh, it goes on the left?” to countless, “I’ll make the B.L.T.s today,” we were in this together.
We chose to not crack the engine. I was told it ran strong. What it did need was some real TLC. The salty Florida air had left the aluminum cases pretty chalky. Nothing countless hours of wet sanding, buffing and polish wouldn’t cure. When I finally had the cases back together, my grin in their reflection was ear to ear. Each new day seemed to return the pile of parts to a work of art. She started to look like a bike again. Even the troublesome horn, silent until a long soak in WD-40 cleared its throat, sounded its approval. Next came the wheels.
Lacing spokes onto new rims seemed like a Rubik’s cube with fatal repercussions. Everyone I reached out to shied away saying. “No one does that anymore...It’s a lost art...It’s not worth it.” I was daunted. Dad was more adventurous. Once we demystified the process, tricky quickly overtook inconceivable as the word to describe what we were attempting. Even true-ing each wheel became a fun challenge. With newly-spoked wheels now holding up the Black Bomber, the toughest job was surely behind us. It was time to fire her up.
Wheeling it out into the drive for its first kick-over in 15 plus years, I wasn’t so sure it would. But damn if it didn’t roar to life. Too much life it turned out. The throttle was wide open and unresponsive, and the carbs were all out of sorts. We shut her down immediately. We’d done it, though. She started!
Something to commemorate the build.
Four weeks had turned into five and a half, so getting the Bomber back to New York became the necessary next step. Parting with Dad was bitter sweet.
The Bomber was as much his project as mine now, and having to load it on a trailer without truly seeing her run was a bummer. I eased the disappointment a bit when I revealed a special side cover fastener I had fashioned. Along the edge of the chrome washer that sits under the main mounting bolt I had engraved, “Higgins and Son. June 2012” to commemorate our accomplishment. He’d still be with us back in NY.
Getting her actually running and dialed in was going to take some know-how. What I needed was a good partner in crime – one that would appreciate a vintage CB. When I shot a picture of the bike to a Brooklyn mechanic that came highly recommended he responded with, “Wow, look at that!” I had my guy.
The next couple of months I got to know mechanic Phil well, and the Bomber’s intricacies even better. She was a looker, sure, but finicky. Much of the technology on the K0 was first generation and breakthrough, but like any early adoption, it was glitchy. Once I was happily zipping down the road again, we’d updated her with some modern, more powerful electronics. “Wow, look at that,” was being joined by, “Whoa, listen to that!”
I was smitten. All the hours in the heat of Dad’s shop had produced a Black Bomber I could proudly call my own. And thanks to Phil, she wasn’t just arm candy, but had a spirited personality to match. We became inseparable, the late summer streets of New York the location for our budding romance. Every stoplight became a chance for another gushing accolade. “Nice bike! What a beauty,” was common.
One chance encounter even landed my better half in a photo shoot for French Vogue. Huh? They wanted a vintage bike as a prop. They loved the look. They wanted to book her for the day. Heck yeah! It was about time she started picking up a tab or two.
That made it official. The ‘67 Honda CB450 K0 was the super model. My Super Model. She’s gorgeous, she gets a lot of attention, and I love to be seen with her. But she’s a bit high maintenance, frustrates me constantly, and takes plenty of cash to keep happy.
All of it forgiven with just one quick glimpse, and the inescapable: “Wow, look a that!”
THE END