because of his age we can’t move him until he’s stable. Good job calling the ambulance. You saved your godfather’s life.”
“Oh, . . . thanks,” I said. The doctor got into his car and drove away. We all sat at the picnic table stuffing ourselves with hamburgers and hot dogs. Buck, Eddie, Bob and Cindy drank beer, and there was no more talk of Larry. My mind was still replaying the events of the day. When the doctor told me I saved Larry’s life by calling the ambulance, it made me feel proud. Still, a few haunting questions lingered in my thoughts. Would Larry have had a heart attack anyway if the music hadn’t been so loud? And did the shocking image of Darcy’s bare chest a few days earlier play any part in the way the day’s events unfolded?
Bob and Eddie split, and after shaking their hands, I sat at the picnic table with Buck and Cindy. At the far end of the table the percolator bubbled. Comforting fresh coffee aroma drifted toward me. Buck and Cindy smoked cigarettes and flirted while I watched the java perk. A few minutes later, it was ready. Buck and I drank ours black. Cindy put cream and sugar in hers. “Randy, you seem kind of bummed,” she said.
“Yeah, it’s just . . . everything today. I don’t know what I‘m tryin’ to say exactly. It’s nothing’,” I finally blurted.
Buck took a drag from his cigarette, squinted, and toyed with his long mustache. He seemed to be in deep thought and didn’t say anything for several seconds. “I’ve been feelin’ kind of weird about what happened today. Poor old people. Maybe I shouldn’t have played the music so loud,” Buck said. “You need a break from this place. Get away for a few days. I can finish the Norton. You’re only sixteen once.”
“I talked to Darcy’s sister, Nancy. She said you’re welcome to visit the farm anytime and stay as long as you want,” Cindy said. “Darcy asked about you again, and wanted to know if tomorrow night was OK.” As Cindy spoke, my dark mood vanished, and I felt my spirits soar. A tried to conceal my elation, but Cindy had me all figured out and I think she enjoyed pulling my strings.
“Yea, sure that sounds groovy,” I said. “I just…”
“Just what?” Cindy asked.
“Just have to run it by Mom first,” I said, feeling a little embarrassed for mentioning it.
“Don’t sweat it,” Buck said. “Brought the idea up to her a couple of days ago. She likes the fact that it’s a farm. I’ll talk to her again tonight, though. Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“So should I tell Darcy you’ll definitely be at the house for dinner tomorrow at sixish’?” Cindy asked.
“He’ll be there,” Buck said.
After Cindy split, Buck and I cleaned up the front yard. I remember it had started to rain and I hurried Buck’s stereo and record collection into the house. Butterflies churned inside my core. I felt the elation of nervous youthful energy as I pictured Darcy greeting me at the farm.
The next morning Buck woke me up and we rolled my Honda out of the garage. Glazed with a sheen of oil that rose up from the road, puddles from last night’s rain glistened like tiny rainbow colored pools in the magical splendor of the early morning sun.
Buck gave me one of his old half-helmets and a set of goggles. Worn leather ear flaps and scratched black paint gave the helmet character. It fit comfortably well.
Pushing the Honda to the end of the driveway, I waited as Buck hobbled in crutches toward me. He stood next to the bike, shifted most of his weight to his left foot, then lit a cigarette. Giving me a brief stern speech about safety, he said, “Fire it up, put it in gear, give it some gas and let out the clutch slowly.” The bike started on the first kick, and my heart beat faster as I revved the engine.
I hadn’t told Buck about my previous embarrassing incident in the registry parking lot, but I was determined not to repeat a similar blunder, so I let the clutch out nice and slow, a little too slow, in fact, because the engine continued to rev; then Buck yelled, “Let the damn clutch out!” The cigarette wobbled in his mouth. I let it out and the front wheel shot up off the driveway. The bike rocketed into the road much faster than I wanted it to and headed straight for a parked car. I eased up on the throttle. The front tire came down hard and after a quick change of direction, I traveled down the road in first gear. The engine howled.
The next few stops and starts went more smoothly, and after about an hour of riding, the old Honda started to feel like an extention of my body. Buck seemed pleased with my progress. I rolled the bike back into the garage and covered it with the tarp. “You’re ready to ride on your own, but take it slow. Don’t ride beyond your capabilities. Dig?”
“Dig,” I said just to put Buck at ease. Deep down I knew I wouldn’t be able to ride slow for very long. I wanted to feel the bike’s power, it’s acceleration. I wanted to feel the summer air hitting my face at one hundred miles per hour.
That afternoon, I got dressed, putting on worn ripped bell bottom jeans Buck bought for me at the second hand clothing store, and a tie-dyed tee shirt Cindy made for me. My new dark-blue denim jacket looked kind of weird in contrast with the faded jeans, but Mom had sewn a peace sign patch on the right sleeve and an STP oil logo on the left. Standing in front of the mirror in my mother’s bedroom, I tried to imagine the jacket faded and worn like my jeans and how cool it would look. Can’t wait, I thought.
Buck gave me both written and verbal directions to the farm, then tied my backpack to the Honda’s seat. He handed me four condoms. “I assume you know what these are for?” The sight of the shiny condom wrappers shocked me a little, and I tried to mask my embarrasment with some really bad humor.
“You fill um up with sour milk on April Fool’s Day and leave ‘um on the neighbors front steps,” I said, then laughed. Buck smiled.
“Yeah, well as long as you know what they’re for.”
My departure turned out to be not a minute too soon. Still on Pine Street, I spotted my mother’s 1968 light-blue Oldsmobile Delta 88 traveling toward me. Mom must have left work a little early, I thought. My heart felt like it was in my throat. I hated having to lie to her about the motorcycle, but Buck was right. She could never find out about the bike, and wouldn’t understand. After Dad’s death, Mom became overprotective of me and was a chronic worrier. She loved me very much, more than some mothers loved their children, I thought. At the time I knew keeping the secret was important, but my reasoning was sort of muddled. Looking back, not telling her about the motorcycle was more than just the right thing to do; it was an expression of my love for her.
Dad’s gambling, cheating and sudden shameful death had caused her great pain, and so harshly, so brutally stole her noble dreams of the near-perfect family. She had endured so much pain in the previous few years. Life had been unfair to her and the loss really took its toll, sapping her happiness. Good people often have bad painful lives, I thought. As I became more familiar with this disturbing concept, it both puzzled and angered me.
Wearing the helmet and goggles was probably enough to mask my identity and Mom definitely wasn’t expecting to see her son on a motorcycle, but mothers can be almost psychic when it comes to their children, with finely tuned eyes in the backs of their heads and almost superhuman intuition. They must have a sixth sense or something, I thought. As her car approached, I tilted my head toward the speedometer. Using my peripheral vision, I caught a quick glimpse of her bleached white nurse’s uniform. White contrasted with her dark brown hair pulled back and up into a bun. She may have turned her head and looked at me, but the image was so brief I can’t say for sure.
As I traveled down a side road, the Honda’s engine sounded wild and sweet. Shifting into fourth gear, I twisted the throttle and the bike rocketed ahead reaching sixty plus miles per hour. Zooming at three times the speed limit, my carefree euphoric state changed suddenly to one of fear. Like a menacing coiled snake waiting for a mouse, the first major twist in the road revealed itself to me. Panicked, I engaged the Honda’s drum brakes, then leaned into the sharp corner. Images of racing motorcycles from Buck’s magazines flashed inside my head and I shifted my weight trying to lean the bike closer to the road the way racers did, but the corner was too sharp.
Crossing the road’s centerline I saw the grill of a Ford Country Squire station wagon approaching rapidly. Oddly, time seemed to slow and I could see a family inside. The wagon had luggage and bicycles strapped to the roof. The driver blasted the horn but the Honda’s footpeg had already come in contact with the road, making it impossible for me to return to my side. Sparks flew up as asphalt continued to grind into the metal foot-peg.
Only ten feet from the wagon now, I could see a woman sitting in the passenger seat. She had a wide eyed panicked expression on her face. The man driving looked angry and continued to blast the horn, then swirved toward the ditch, missing me by inches. Dirt from the side of the road flew up around the wagon as it shuddered to a halt.
After stopping, I spun the bike around, rode toward the station wagon and parked behind it. Approaching the wagon, I saw the woman checking on her kids in the back seat. My palms started to sweat and a lump was forming in my throat. Buck’s safety speech suddenly had more meaning and his words about riding slow echoed inside my head. At that moment the driver sprang out of the vehicle and started toward me. Outweighing me by at least fifty pounds, he barreled closer, his face contorted with anger. “What the hell is wrong with you? You got brains up your ass! You almost killed us!! I’ve got kids in the car, Sonny!”
“I’m really sorry, Mister. I didn’t . . . ”
“You should be! Sonny boy, you took that corner way too fast. You’re lucky I don’t kick your butt! My daughter’s crying, and my wife is a nervous wreck.”
Seeing the man’s wife cradling the crying, frightened young girl made me feel more abashed than I ever had before. She couldn’t have been more than two, I thought. Wishing I could turn back time, and wishing I could start the day over, I lowered my head in shame. Buck’s safety speech echoed repeatedly inside my head, becoming louder and more meaningful with each repetition. Thoughts of cops revoking my permit, then talking to my mother about my reckless riding rapidly flashed inside my head. Maybe if I kept my mouth shut he wouldn’t call the cops, I thought. I imagined my mother finding out about the motorcycle and pictured her face as she looked at me with puzzled disappointment, knowing I lied to her. The little girl’s crying seemed to be getting louder as if her fear response was on some sort of time delay. She was so young, this was probably the most terrifying thing she had ever experienced, I thought. Suddenly I didn’t feel cool and grown up like Bob Dugan or Eddie Swartz. My stomach churned as if I’d just eaten three plates of tainted shellfish loaded with tarter sauce gone bad. “You’re going to apologize to my wife and kids right now. Understand?” he said.
“Yes sir,” I said. His stern words gave me hope. Maybe he was willing to let this go. It wouldn’t make sense for him to call the cops on me after I apologized to his family. Maybe I could actually get out of this with just a bruised ego, I thought. Then I remembered the Honda’s damaged footpeg. Buck would surely notice it. I walked around the car and stood near the passenger side door. The man’s wife glared at me scornfully, and the young girl stopped crying but clung tightly to her mother. “I’m very sorry about what happened. Is everyone OK?” I asked.
“Yes, thank God, but you be more careful and slow down! You keep riding like that, and you’ll wind up dead or in jail,” she said.
“Yes, Ma’m, I will, I promise you, and again very sorry for what happened. I just got my learner’s permit and this is my first day on the motorcycle,” I said. I could tell by the man’s firm look that he wanted me to apologize to his children as well. Bending down, I leaned on the car and looked at the little girl. She was wearing blue denim overalls and her light brown hair had been twisted tightly into pigtails. Her freckled, bright red cheeks stained with dried tears, she looked at me curiously. “Hi, I’m Randy what’s your name?” I asked. The little girl’s curiosity quickly turned to shyness and she buried her pudgy face into her mother’s chest.
“This is Anna, and that’s Jason in the back seat,” said the woman.
“Hi, I’m Jason,” said the boy. Jason didn’t seem to be upset at all and smiled as he spoke.
“Hi, Jason, I just want to say I’m very sorry for the way I was riding,” I said. Anna was looking at me again. “Anna, I’m very sorry,” I said. Anna didn’t say anything but continued to stare wide eyed at me.
“I like your motorcycle,” Jason said.
“Thanks,” I said.
I started walking around the car, looking for any damage. “Anything damaged?” I asked. The man didn’t answer. He inspected his entire car, paying special attention to the lower part of the door panels. Then he looked underneath and checked the exhaust.
“No, everything looks OK,” he said. How about your motorcycle, any damage?”
“Footpegs’ a little scraped up, but I’m sure my Uncle can fix it,” I said.
“Oh, so I assume you’d prefer it if we didn’t get our insurance companies involved?” he asked.
“Yes sir, I’d really appreciate it if we didn’t. Like I said, this is my first day ridin’ and I don’t want to lose my permit,” I said.
“I’m sure you don’t,” he said.
“So, you’re not gonna call the cops?” I asked.
“No, but let this be a lesson to ya’,” he said. “Next time you might not be so lucky.” I extended my hand as a sign of peace. The man looked at me sternly. A few seconds elapsed, but he finally shook my hand. “Jerry Hastings,” he said.
“Randy Andrews.”
“Randy, I’m headed for the Cape. Be safe, young man, and get a haircut, will ya? You look like one of those damn hippies. As the wagon moved out of the ditch and onto the road, Jason waved to me from the back seat. I waved back.
Riding toward the farm, I stayed under the speed limit still feeling strange about the near accident. I crossed the town line into Middleboro, Massachusetts, then turned left onto Sunnybrook Lane. I knew the farm wasn’t far. In meadows, I saw cows on both sides of the road grazing peacefully in the warmth of the sun. Thickly laced with the smell of manure, the hot summer air rushed into my face. The organic aroma seemed strong at first but not altogether unpleasant. I got used to it quickly. Rounding a sharp corner, I saw crows scatter and swerved to avoid a dead rabbit carcass in the road. It reminded me of my own mortality and my near accident. I started thinking about my father again and how he had used death as a selfish cop-out.
Several dogs spotted me and came charging out into the road. The dog in the lead, a snarling black and tan German Shepard, made a valiant effort to catch me. He followed me long after the other dogs, a Golden Retriever and two mutts, had given up the chase. I kept the motorcycle going just fast enough to stay ahead of him. Good thing I wasn’t on a bicycle, I thought.
Ahead, I saw a woman standing in front of a white farm house. She waived enthusiastically and smiled warmly. Must be Nancy, I thought. Pulling into the dirt driveway, I shut off the engine. “You must be Buck’s nephew, Randy. Welcome. We’ve all been looking forward to meeting you,” Nancy said, then threw her arms around me, and kissed me on the cheek. She had long chestnut brown hair and she wore a red bandana headband that had several different kinds of wild flowers in it. The cotton fabric of her long white sundress looked thin and I could see she wasn’t wearing a bra. “Where’s Darcy?” I asked.
“Out riding her horse in the pasture. She’s really looking forward to seeing you again. She should be back in a few minutes. Come’ on, I’ll introduce you to the others.”
“Cool,” I said.
“Park your motorcycle near the sheep pen. Nobody ‘ull bother it,” Nancy said. Riding the Honda closer to the sheep pen, I stopped on a bare patch of dirt. Buck had given me a small plywood square. Pulling it from my backpack, I got off the bike and slipped it under the kickstand. Several sheep peered curiously at me from inside their pen as if they somehow sensed my naiveté to all things rural, their white coats stained with dirt from the floor of the pen, especially the belly fur of lambs as they lay safe at their mother’s feet. While two young rams sparred playfully in the warmth of the summer sun, images of my near accident replayed inside my mind.
“Randy, come’ on. Everyone’s waiting,” she said. Nancy’s words pulled me away from the sheep and my disturbing thoughts. Smiling warmly, she stood at the side door of the house and motioned me toward her. Nancy wasn’t as shockingly beautiful as her sister Darcy, but her long sun-bronzed face and lightly freakled nose gave her a pretty earthy quality. When she smiled her whole face lit up, just like Darcy’s. Cindy didn’t mention Nancy’s age, but I knew she was a few years older than Darcy, and guessed her to be around twenty-nine.
Walking into the kitchen through the open door, I saw five people sitting at the kitchen table, three dudes and two girls. The doorway didn’t have a screen door, and the room smelled like marijuana and soiled cat litter. Flies feasted on small food scraps atop unwashed plates, and cats lounged like royalty on the kitchen counters, some licking themselves, others sleeping. A large green glass ashtray sat in the middle of the table full of beer tabs, orange peels, cigarette butts and roaches. Several small marijuana plants sat on a table near the window. One of the guys flashed me the peace sign and said. “Hey, you must be Randy. How’s it goin,’ man? I’m Dale.” I flashed back the peace sign and shook his hand.
“Goin’ good, man,” I said, not able to think of anything more creative. The atmosphere being such a contrast from my own house, I felt both nervous and incredibly welcome at the same time. Dale’s thick full beard had grown high on his cheeks. He wore dark sunglasses with fat black plastic frames. His long brown hair had been pulled back into a ponytail. Lighting a cigarette, he sat up in his chair, then introduced me to the others.
“This is Scooter on my right, Henry on my left, and those two glassy-eyed chicks are Cindy and Stacy.”
“Fuck you, Dale. You’re fuckin’ hiii’, dude. You ate more brownies than all of us put together,” Cindy said.
“Yeah Dale, take off those dark shades. Let’s see your eyes,” Stacy said. Dale laughed heartily.
Henry and Scooter both had goatees. Henry had long hair like Dale, but Scooter sported shorter hair. His goatee being somewhat scraggly and patchy, I figured him to be about nineteen. Scooter had on blue denim farmer’s overalls and wasn’t wearing a shirt. Cindy, a heavy set girl with a round heavily freckled face and curly red hair matching the colors of her tie-dyed tee shirt, started giggling for no apparent reason. She looked at Dale who kept a straight face, causing Cindy to laugh even harder. Stacy had short black hair, green eyes, and pale white skin. She wore several turquoise bracelets on each arm and a necklace of love beads hung around the neckline of her cotton sundress. She lifted a plate from the table with a single brownie on it and moved it toward me. “Hash brownie?” Stacy asked.
“Stacy, those are strong. Cut it in half,” Nancy said.
“I’ll eat the other half,” said Dale.
“Bogart,” Cindy said, then started laughing again. Everyone stared at me as I bit into the half-brownie.
“Tastes good,” I lied, then smiled.
“Makes doin’ farm chores a whole lot more interesting,” said Scooter.
“How would you know?” Cindy asked, then laughed.
“Speaking of farm chores, I don’t know if Cindy told you, but everyone is expected to pitch in while they’re staying here,” Nancy said.
“Yeah, I know. That’s cool. I want to help,” I said.
“Ok then, tomorrow we’re killing and plucking chickens. It’s not a pleasant thing and none of us enjoy it, but it has to be done. You won’t actually swing the ax. Dale can do that, but he needs someone to hold the chickens while they’re on the chopping block and everybody helps with plucking. You OK with that, Randy?” Nancy asked.
“Yeah, sure, whatever. Like I said, Cindy already told me about the chores and I’m cool with it,” I said.
“Groovy,” Nancy said.
“Gives you a deeper appreciation for the food, too,” said Henry.
“Speaking of Cindy. Where’s she been?” Stacy asked.
“Hangin’ out with Buck,” I said.
“They back together again?” Nancy asked, then looked at me.
“Well, ya, sort of. I’m not sure really. Nancy, you know how Buck is. You can never get a straight answer out of him about anything,” I said. Glancing around the messy kitchen, I saw beyond the dirty plates, flies and clutter. These people lived differently than anybody I’d ever met. They made me feel welcome, treated me like family and I really felt at ease.
“Come with me,” Nancy said, “I’ll show you to your bunk.” Nancy and I walked through the kitchen, then into a medium sized bedroom with four bunk beds. At the far end of the room a thin clothesline spanned the length of the space with several pair of socks, underwear, a couple of white tee shirts, and two blue cotton work shirts. At the end of one of the bunks sat an open canvas backpack overflowing with clothes. Several bottles of shampoo, a plastic soap dish, an army mess kit, some Zig Zag rolling papers and two cans of Bull Durum tobacco, sat on top of a small dresser.
“Officially, this place is a youth hostel, but I don’t charge friends, just ask um’ to help out with chores. You and Scooter will be rooming together. He’s the only other person staying in this room right now,” she said. At that moment I heard hoofs hitting the ground and felt a slight vibration coming through the floorboards. Nancy and I looked out the window to see Darcy riding her horse toward the house at full gallop. She rode the horse bareback and wore nothing but white cotton panties and a tee shirt. Transfixed and drunk with fascination, I watched as living, breathing art rushed toward me. A sudden strange energy surged through me, and butterflies darted inside my stomach. It seemed both fantastic and a little unsettling at the same time. I stood in the large curtain less window, mesmerized, watching her artfully shaped breasts bounce under her pale blue tee shirt with the motion of the horse. Her smooth suntanned golden skin was darker in tone and even more spectacular than I had remembered. She rode gracefully as if she and the horse became one creature. Like a free spirited angel who belonged to no one, she glowed and looked at me as the horse came to a stop.
Nancy and I walked back through the kitchen, then out the side door. Darcy stayed on her horse. The animal, a rippling mass of nervous sinew and energy, sensed my unease. He eyed me cautiously, rocked left to right, then let out a series of short whinnies and thunderous grumbles as I approached. “Easy Randy, nice and slow,” Nancy said. I slowed but continued moving toward the horse.
“Let him smell your hand first before you pet him,” Darcy said. His balmy moist breath warmed my hand. Nancy handed me a carrot, and I fed it to him, then stroked his long nose and reddish-brown fur until he settled down. I looked up at Darcy and she smiled. “Hey Randy,” she said.
“Hey. What’s his name?” I asked.
“Dylan. You know, like Bob Dylan?” Darcy said. I continued petting Dylan.
“He likes you. Ever been on a horse, Randy?” Nancy asked.
“Ya, sure, plenty a times,” I lied. It was only twice.
“Come’ on, get on, I’ll take you for a ride,” Darcy said.
Nancy placed a rusty metal folding chair next to Dylan and helped me climb on his back. Darcy’s golden hair brushed across my face. She smelled like a summer night after a rain. She clasped my right hand, then moved it onto her stomach. “Hold on Randy, it’s a long fall. I felt blood rush into my face as I moved my left hand across her smooth stomach and inched closer to her. “If you feel like you’re gonna fall, just squeeze your legs together a little,” Darcy said. The horse started to walk, and I saw Dale and Scooter coming out the side door of the house. “Oh, she’s in her underwear, she must really dig you, man,” Scooter said. I smiled.
Like a surreal dream too good to be true, my head floated from the brownie as the warm summer sun beat down upon us. One of life’s pristine moments never planned, eliciting desire, a shining twinkling speck of time, euphoric and blissful, three creatures casting thoughts, a small blinking triumph of rhythmic bliss, we traveled beyond the bubbling stream. Then Darcy stopped Dylan under the shade of an apple tree. We dismounted then placed our backs against the tree and sat close holding hands. The house in view, we hadn’t traveled far, maybe only a quarter-mile, but we had privacy.
I leaned toward her, pressed my lips upon the softness of her lips as my hand caressed her stomach. Then I moved it up under her shirt toward her breasts. We stayed locked in each other’s gaze, and kissed for several minutes before she spoke. “Randy, I’ve got something to tell you. I don’t know how to say this exactly, but well here goes. Maybe I should have told you this before. I’m kinda’ seeing somebody. We probably shouldn’t be doing this. I mean, I don’t want to hurt you. I didn’t really mean for this to happen.”
“No, we’re meant to be with each other. There’s something special between us. Something that only comes along once in a lifetime. Darcy, I’ve been wanting to tell you . . . I think I love you.”
“That’s sweet, but I think it would be better if we stayed just friends.” She smiled with light concern.
I buried my face in my hands. Darcy’s words hit hard and felt like a jagged hot knife plunging into me.
The next day Scooter woke me up at 6:00 am. The smell of cooking pork sausage permeated the house. After breakfast, I followed Dale and Scooter out to the barn. Dale picked up an ax, and Scooter and I carried several cages filled with chickens from the barn. Nancy, Darcy, Cindy and Stacy had set up chairs in a circle around a large metal vat of hot water. A somber mood hung in the air like a ghost, and no one spoke.
Scooter opened a cage and grabbed the first chicken, a white rooster. Holding it tightly, he turned it sideways and placed its head on a blood stained tree truck. Dale drove the ax down, lopping the bird’s head off. The chicken’s body convulsed and blood sprayed from its neck. “You gotta’ hold um’ tight, Randy, or they’ll run all over the place,” said Scooter.
Scooter left to feed the other animals, and I took over his job. The first chicken got away from me and ran headless toward the girls, freaking them out, but I soon got the hang of it. Nancy placed the plucked chickens on a canvas tarp spread over a picnic table. Dale and I got into a rhythm, and we had killed two dozen chickens before we finally spoke. “Dale, what do you like most about living here?” I asked.
“The freedom, man. We’re not slaves, dude, to the man, money or society, ya know?
I recently watched George Miller’s 1979 movie “Mad Max” again. Many of the motorcycles in the movie were furnished by Kawasaki. Most of the bikes were 1977 KZ 1000s, but there were a few KZ 900s, and I noticed one Honda CB 750. What I liked most about the bikes were the fairings. They were made by an Australian company called Replico. Replico still makes them.
The black bike in the photo is a Mad Max replica. It is a 1977 KZ 1000 and similar to the bike character Jim Goose rode in the film. Yes, the fairing would block a great deal of wind, making the bike much more comfortable and practical on long rides, but that’s not the reason I want a Mad Max replica. My primary motivation for building and owning a bike like this is the attention and adoration that I will get from Japanese tourists. Turns out that Mad Max was an even bigger hit in Japan than it was in the US. Does anybody know where I can get a 1977 KZ 1000 in mint condition?
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