Antique & Classic Cars Blog

Canby, Minnesota, mechanic, fabricator, motorcyclist, pilot and former professional race-car driver, Mark Kallhoff, has set his sights on perhaps his most rewarding venture yet–a motorcycle-trike built for disabled men and women seeking the thrill and freedom of the open road. I did a Locals in Motion piece on him and his vehicle and we needed some photos. While Canby is a neat little town a stone’s throw from the South Dakota border, high resolution digital cameras are in short supply there.

With the deadline pending and nothing sharp enough to do his Liberator Trike justice, I hopped on the ever trusty–OK, mostly trusty–1975 Honda CB750 and pointed ‘er West. It’s 177 miles or so, if Mapquest is for real, and I reckoned I could make it there in under three hours.

This is why I’m not a mathematician. I always get the tip on dinner right, but estimating driving times and miles engages some more primitive, less accurate section of the brain. One seventy-seven in under three hours is not “about 50 miles per hour” as Neander-lobe had calculated, but 59 miles per hour. Try averaging that for the first 40 miles out of South Minneapolis and highway 212 with its traffic signals.

Still, Neander-lobe is all speed, power, go-go-go, and despite its math shortcomings, it knew that a lot of flat, open country lies between Minneapolis and South Dakota. Eventually the distance from the city would grow so great that even the most ambitious McMansion-ite would refuse to commute any further. Traffic would back off and the roads would become as they were of old–rural pathways infrequently traveled by farmers for an errand in town after a long day in the fields.

And so it was. Time squandered sweltering at stop lights returned in a rush of wind and blurry fields as the old CB stretched its legs as it has seldom done. Though she is 32 years old and a little out of tune, the old girl can still cross a country mile and we ate up scores of them. Any heat a temper can take on in heavy traffic blows right out your helmet at speed on a country road.

Without any compromising statements as to velocity, let us say my arrival estimate was not far off.

But this wasn’t about ordinary two-wheeled fun. The point of this journey was to photograph an important vehicle: a motorcycle for disabled riders. Builder Kallhoff, who knows plenty about mechanics and driving and motorcycles and fabrication, answered a friend’s dream of riding a motorcycle after a farm accident left him a paraplegic.

What could be more liberating to a person who typically travels by wheelchair than to settle in behind a set of handlebars, twist a throttle and blur the world in the open air? Kallhoff built his friend a low-slung trike with a car-derived drivetrain out back and motorcycle front end. The friend, Dudley, loves it, and Kallhoff realized he had only scratched the surface of a vast unmet need.

And so Liberator Trikes, LLC, was born.

I met Mark at his Canby shop, saw the trike and snapped enough high-res pics to annoy the most patient newspaper layout editor. He also fired it up and we took a ride–a removable passenger perch drops right in behind the driver’s seat.

The smallblock Chevy purrs and is dead smooth. He leaned over and gestured at the speedometer en route and we were doing 70–or the speed limit, whichever is lower. Felt like 45.

He bought me a burger for making the trek, then I pointed the CB back at the big city and we tore up rural landscape into Gainsborough confetti. Only the patter of little bug-splats tarnished the experience–so much so I had to wheel into an isolated gas station and squeegee the faceshield to keep the road in view. There were so many insect wings stuck to my jacket I probably could have flown if I stuck my arms out.

Anyway, the ride is done, the pics are clicked. Left at 2:30, rode 354 miles, got home at 10:15, and shot photos, had dinner and talked for a couple hours in between.

The open road is its own reward.

Show me a man, I’ll show you a person who thinks he can drive fast. It comes with the territory. “I’ve driven a long time”… “I’ve ridden a long time.”.. Therefore, when the mood strikes and the chance of arrest is small, I can cut this (motorcycle, car, truck, boat, ATV, snowmobile) loose for all it’s worth and have a great time.

Maybe. Maybe way not.

Truth is, controlling a vehicle at high speeds, regardless of wheel, prop or runner count, is a luxury most of us seldom experience. That diminishes our sense we can do it not one bit.

The day I bought my motorcycle, I found a stretch of Minnehaha Parkway that was curvy, tree-lined, and wide open. I cranked the throttle to the stop and the bike lurched forward like a race horse. I rocked back in the saddle where I couldn’t lean to control the turn and I almost went into the curb, which would have pushed my wheels out from under me and led to an embarrassing and painful tumble.

My friend Dave, contractor and all around good guy, has a fine case of road rash from a recent bike dump. Dave had a bike–a CB750, in fact–long ago and is, by some definition, an experienced rider. When a client came up short on a construction bill, he opened the garage and offered Dave his Kawasaki sport bike. Dave loved getting back on two wheels and was enjoying the 50 miles per gallon, too.

Then came the curving 35W on-ramp out of downtown Minneapolis on, I believe he said, 12th Street. There was a slow-moving four-donut ahead of him, so Dave veered into the motorcycle/commuter lane and cracked the throttle. He was not expecting the tighter turn from that ramp, a right-handed sweeper that was bending in more quickly than he could bring the bike around. He hit both brakes hard. The back tire locked up and skidded to the outside of the turn, so Dave instinctively let off the rear brake. Doing so let the tire spin again. The tread bit, ended the slide and the bike cut right hard—but Dave’s momentum was still toward the outside of the turn. It carried him over the far side of the bike into a rushing river of unforgiving asphalt.

He missed the guardrail and the bike managed not to cartwheel on top of him. Yet his right hand, right arm and right leg got beat up pretty good, and he skidded a little on his shoulder, too.

A few cars went by but no one stopped. After a moment, a woman’s voice called to him but he couldn’t see her. No angel story–this was a real woman standing in a parking lot a half-block away. She was wearing full Islamic dress and holding up a cell phone. She asked if he needed to call help. Dave could move, his bike was still running, so he decided not to call. He got on and rode to his mother’s house to have dinner with the family and try not to bleed on stuff.

The lesson here is that riding or driving fast is different from everyday transit. Things happen faster, more powerfully and abruptly, and often in a way that’s unexpected. I edited a book recently by a guy who tests motorcycles for a living. Despite that experience, he said he really didn’t learn how to ride until he took a high speed course at a race track taught by a professional. Only then did he come to understand what it takes to move fast, corner as needed and stop safely.

So ride. Ride far, ride alone, ride with friends. But ride within your limits and respect a powerful machine. Hey, we all have somewhere to go and we don’t need your tumbled, scraped-up self clogging a lane when we’re tryin’ to get home for dinner. Besides, who am I supposed to shoot the breeze with over morning coffee if guys like Dave are in a body cast at Hennepin County Medical Center? I can’t wait till visiting hours for a shot of caffeine….

A few weeks ago, a slowly decomposing fuse box on my Honda CB750 stranded me briefly due to an exposed wire. That’s fixed. A more recent symptom of the bike’s age and my inattentiveness arose in morning rush hour traffic on Kellogg in St. Paul last Wednesday. Pulled the clutch lever back for the umpteenth in a ceaseless string of shifts that morning and “POP”–there went that control.

So it’s 85 degrees, you’re in a black helmet and black leather jacket on a motorcycle that’s running like a top, it just won’t go into gear. Or if you force it, you’ll have to stall it to stop each time–and the bike now has to be kick-started because the battery’s old and I haven’t replaced it. Time to work up (more of) a sweat pushing 500 pounds of motorcycle around.

Fortunately the intersection where St. Paul Technical College sits wasn’t too far away and there’s plenty of sidewalk in front of it. I rolled the bike out of traffic, took off too-hot protective gear and sat on some wet grass wondering how I’d ticked off the cycling gods this week. Cycle neglect, you say?

Yeah, that’s probably right, but mere acknowledgement doesn’t fix your clutch. I needed a cable and Honda Town on Lake Street–usually can come up with a classic part–was a ten mile walk. I called them and they gave me the name of a motorcycle tow service. Called him and he referred me to another. Called tow-er two, left a message and got my backside wet for a while longer on the grass before realizing that he wasn’t going to call.

Luckily, the little lady (a term she likes less than I do) goes to work later in the morning. I rang her up and she was en route to the law office. “How about a detour to St. Paul?” She had a 10 a.m. meeting, which left just enough time for her to get on 94 East and rescue a husband who can’t keep up with maintenance, including frayed-cable checks.

The ‘94 Golf had a working clutch and it and I dropped off the little lady and picked up a clutch cable at Honda Town. Now I just needed to brush up on my old circus trick of driving a motorcycle and VW hatchback at the same time.

Luckily I realized that I never knew how to do that–though I do remember riding two bicycles at once as a kid. I’m not saying I did ride two bikes at once. I just remember doing it, which, as you age, you realize is not the same thing, especially when you gather with others to discuss the same event from your youth and find that all have a different account of the story.

Instead, I headed home to round up a couple more tools (beyond what’s in the bike toolkit) and ring my retired friend Wayne to see if he had any pressing errands in the St. Paul Technical College area. He didn’t, but still volunteered to give me a lift if I bought him a Fat Tire beer next time Adrian’s, the local burger joint, had it on hand.

No drama in the rebuild, except that John Law stopped by to have a kind word. He informed me that repairing a motorcycle on the sidewalk is not allowed, and that neither is parking one there. Yet when he heard my problem and learned that the repair was dry–no oil or brake or other fluids leaking on his turf–he wished me good luck and drove off. Treating a police officer like the King of the Realm, which they are, generally works in your favor.

Ten minutes later I was back on the road, the CB shifting better than ever, I guess because the way I set the adjustment screw when I put it back on was just, through pure luck, perfect. So all is again right with the two-wheeled world and my only remaining debt from the incident is a good one, having a beer with a fellow car enthusiast.

A friend of mine just got back from Australia. Well, I say he got back, but not back here. He lives in Singapore. Anyway, he and his son Hayden went Down Under and captured some cool car photos on their trip.

For anyone who hasn’t been where toilets flush backwards, there are interesting car species to be seen on the opposite side of the equator. The first blower Bentley produced is obviously not a street car, but most of them are.

An interesting blend of American model name and Aussie approach is the 6-cylinder Hemi Charger with 3 carbs. It’s badged Valiant, so maybe a hi-po southern hemi(sphere) version of our mild family grocery getter.

Some interesting wagons and a couple aquatic-toy carriers round out the mix. Enjoy.

If anyone wants to ID any of these creations, or share a story, you’re always welcome.

Ride a classic long enough, even a giant-killer like the Honda CB750, and sooner or later the sweet sound of combustion goes still. My ‘75 has spoiled me for years. I never think twice about pointing it any direction, any duration.

She was away from home over the weekend, swapped for my ‘69 MG, which resides at my friend Suzanne’s house. For the first time following the initial post-winter start-up, the CB didn’t fire on the first hit of the starter button…. but it’s a Honda, so I had no fear.

Removing the tank takes only a screwdriver. (I don’t always sit like that.)

I was bound for Diamond’s Coffee Shop on Central Ave. for a chai and some keyboard time. Whipping a U-turn, my burnt-orange chrome spoker died. A stall in a turn can dump you if you’re braking because the bike stops on a lean and kisses the pavement before you can protest. I wasn’t on the brake, luckily, so I rolled to the curb and did some quick checks.

Fuse box area doesn’t look too bad.

The neutral and oil lights were not coming on with the key in the start position. A few years ago, I put my taillight on its own wire and fuse straight off the positive terminal when it wouldn’t work through the fuse box. Connecting the wires lit up the red lens, so it had a little juice.

Breaking down stinks but breaking down at Diamond’s on a motorcycle is bad luck of the good variety. An acquaintance, Ross, and his friend Bill were having a java. These guys know Hondas like Jet Li knows wushu. We popped the side cover and the ignition switch fuse was fried. Stuck in a new one and it survived for a flicker of the neutral light before meltdown. A Weekend Garage column was due to the paper, so whatever it was would have to wait. Bill has a trailer and offered me a lift if the 750 Four stayed quiet.

Diamond’s owner and longtime biker Lucy gave me a hand streetside. I’m holding the fuse box, whikch had corrosion, melted plastic and a bare wire.

A few hours later, Diamond’s owner Lucy and I traced the fault to a skuzzed up fuse box. Amidst the corrosion was a wire with a bare spot in its insulation. One piece of carefully–if difficultly–placed electrical tape and the ‘75 was alive again. New fuse box now on order.

Experiences like this are what the hobby is all about. If the planet’s tumult jades your eye and gets you thinking that goodness is receding in the world, never you believe it. There are kind, helpful, knowledgeable people in every town on every street who will assist a person in need: all classics enthusiasts have among our backup plans the kindness of strangers and friends.

Happy Independence Day to all.