A Terrifying Test Ride of My Own Creation

Sitting in the eye of the hurricane that is my garage during the summer is my 1988 Honda XR600R. As I dance around tending to each project, it’s clear who is in charge, and it’s not me — it’s the 600R, the one spotless, perfect thing.

Regular readers of this column know I’ve been working on this bike for 18 months. If it seems strange that it is still sitting, I can give you a simple reason: I was scared to test ride it. Why? That answer is more complicated.

Part of my hesitation was the expense of the project. I’ve dumped pocketful after pocketful of cash into this bike, and the possibility that the results might not measure up to the investment was scary, especially because I’ve never ridden an XR600R. Going solely off friends, similar bikes I’ve owned, and the internet, I bought this big-bore thumper and then poured 18 months and thousands of dollars into making it perfect, all with the bold assumption I know what perfect is and how to get there. Am I really so cocky?

Of course not. I never set out to create a perfect XR600R. I set out to create this XR600R. What exactly that is remains to be seen. If I’m being honest, that is the source of my strange anxiety. The first ride is when this artfully constructed pile of parts becomes a functional object. The first test is also the transition between potential and reality. Navigating that transition is the most brutally honest phase of not only a DIY project but also of most things in life.

In my mind, there is a line that separates what I think this bike is and what it really is. I even built up the significance of the moment when I would cross it — a big reason why I hesitated. What I’m realizing is that it’s not a finish line, but a significant checkpoint that, if I’m not careful, I may mistake for a finish line.

If you think I’ve been dreaming about anything in the last four weeks but riding this bike, you would be so very wrong. My brain is stuck on the image of ruts made by a knobby 110/100 rear tire in the sandy local soil, the sound of churning the granules with each opening of the Keihin FCR41 carburetor slide plate, the feeling of the suspension acting as a magic carpet, smoothing the whoops of the Northern Michigan trails into small blips of chassis movement, while the wheels rise and fall furiously through their 12-plus-inches of travel.

It’s easy to daydream about what a project might be. It’s difficult to confront reality, to see if the bike I built in my head matches the one I built in my garage. If there’s a discrepancy — and there surely will be some — I then have to decide whether it’s one I can tolerate or if it needs to be dealt with … which means continuing the project. We all know the saying that “projects never end,” but the more complicated reality is that a project’s end is a decision, one that each of us makes for ourselves. If I decide the XR600 is done, then it’s done.

It only took three days for the Honda to become an anchor in my mind, weighing down everything else. I had to face it. After buckling my boots and dropping the bike from its stand, I carefully cycled the kickstarter through the XR-specific starting dance: Top dead-center compression stroke, then just past, reset the kickstarter, and hoof it like you mean it. The bike came to life with a thump and a shake. Each small twist of the throttle sucked in a gulp of air that I felt as much as heard. The clutch pulled easily and was followed by a snap as my left foot pushed the shifter into first. When I let out the clutch, the bike moved without drawing the engine from idle, a hint of the power I’ve managed to assemble.

After a couple laps of the neighborhood, I can say this project is close to done, but not there yet. I still have to finalize the wiring, and install items related to street legality and trail durability. The thumper thumps, though. While the slow jet is a little small and needs to be redone, the main circuits of the carburetor work well, feeding air and fuel into the aluminum cylinder head in a way that makes the bike’s response snappier than I could have dreamed. The 591cc single-cylinder will spin the rear tire at nearly any speed on pavement.

I’m not sure if the bike is everything I dreamed it would be, but we’re off to a good start. After all, I purchased this bike broken — and it was more broken than I thought. Selecting parts and pieces that worked well together involved a lot of trusting my gut. I can already tell that my decision to opt for a lower compression ratio—roughly 9:1 instead of 10.5:1—was very much the right choice. While the upgraded camshaft, carburetor, and exhaust all would have supported the bump in compression and therefore in power, it became clear after opening up the bike just a little that it doesn’t need more power. Less compression is easier to keep cool as well.

It’s hard to say if all the other changes worked as well. The suspension will need a fair bit of fine-tuning that I cannot do in a paved neighborhood. The rear brake is very sensitive, because I chose to modify a mechanical drum-brake lever to actuate a hydraulic disc master cylinder. The sensitivity could be chalked up to the character of the bike, though I suspect it’s possible to make this system function as good as a factory one with some adjustment.

What I do know is that I’ll be mired in the last 10% of this project for another week or two. When that’s done, it will be time for a real ride — and this time, I can’t wait.