Roots...

            はですることができます。 のは benly ですし、パートナー、1961 でまれたし、subsequently…wait、そうso  soddy… だった really, darn it, I gotta remember to speak English, sheesh, I mean, I do this all of the time. I grew up in California, you know, the good ol’ US of A, and you would think that I would forget my Japanese roots but Soichiro Honda made sure I was pretty well educated and knew that he was sending me to Los Angeles and wanted to make sure that I didn’t embarrass him too bad. Mr. Honda had already figured out that “revs are free”and that’s what he put into me ‘cause I can rev to 10,500 rpm without breakin’ a sweat or anything else. I’m just a 125cc twin, a bantamweight, but I’m sporting some huge brakes, a set of low handlebars, and the absolute kewlest red racing seat.

Hi’ my name is Benly.

  Dateline: March 1961. Landed – San Pedro Bay, 20 miles south of Los Angeles.

    Seasick – puked gasoline out of my carb…all over the place, bleh. Been on the water for 6 weeks. They’ve got me crammed in a wooden box so tight that I can’t turn around. Right before they put me in the box, they sprayed some sticky stuff all over me, cosmolit… no, cosmoni???I don’t know for sure but it keeps the salt water from getting to me but it feels horrible. Air gone outa my tires, no juice in the ol battery, if you know what I mean, and, and, did I mention 6 weeks of ocean –up and down-up and down-bbbbblugh, plus, I think I have scurvy.

  I sat in a dark warehouse for a while, but at least I’m not sick anymore. Rumor has it that some dude is waitin’ on me to get unloaded in Los Angeles, and then, I’m outa here. Finally I hear the big overhead doors going up and some people come in looking for me. I can’t understand what they’re saying but soon I’m riding in the back of a truck. I land at a little Honda dealership over on Pico Boulevard , and here we go. They rip the crate apart…  roll me out on my almost flat tires and push me into the shop. Pop me up on my center stand and just stand around looking at me. A white guy named Victor walks over to me and starts grinning. This guy rubs the kneepads of my gas tank and I’m thinking, “dude, back off “but he doesn’t go away. Pretty soon though, I’m sportin’ 32 psi of air in my tires, engine oil topped up, battery charged, and I’m sipping me some High-octane fuel so things are lookin’ up. Sure enough, this guy Victor comes over and starts to push my buttons and I admit, I coughed a few times but then fired right up.

   Vic gets on and we ride out the back door of the dealership, down the alley, onto Pico Boulevard and I’m instantly in some serious traffic. Vic must have ridden a time or two because he has no fear. He rolls the throttle to the stop and as we approach a double row of stopped traffic, HE GOES BETWEEN THE CARS! I MEAN, HE SPLITS THE LANES! I have a foot of clearance on either side of me and ” 喜ばせる, 楽しませる, 満足させる; 〈…の〉気に入る” we make it to the intersection just as the light turns green. He catches the front row of traffic asleep at the wheel, because we blow right past em’, catch a green at the next one then a left onto Figuero.  First in line at the next Red-light and we pull up next to a huge motorcycle, British if I’m guessing. He sits there all arumble and quiver and then he dumps a big puddle of oil out, right on the street, in front of everybody. “BAD DOG!”This bike looks over at me and sneers “hey punk”. Vic anticipates the light change and we quickly run off and hide from this jerk. A few side streets later and we pull into a small, neat garage with a couple of other guys already there. One was a silver Norton Manx, looking all brutish and…hey, what do we have here, a little two stroke Parilla 150 Sport, Red and Black, purebred Italiano. I think I’m gonna like this place. I really do…

next week, “the good, the bad, the ugly” Benly

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