Longtime VF Fan/New So Cal Member

Hi everyone, My first Interceptor was a 1984 VF500 way back in 1985. It was a basket case that I traded a 35mm camera for. The bike had thrown a valve and destroyed the top end. The owner at the time was a tweaker that had disassembled it because he thought he could fix it. I ended up dropping a new used motor into it and my love affair with the Interceptors began. My second Interceptor was an 86 VF500 that I also acquired in a trade. It had been repo'd and sold at auction and I traded cabinet work for it. Supposedly, it didn't run because of a bad oil leak, which turned out to be nothing more than oil that ran out of the breather from the bike laying on its side for a few days. A little degreaser, a new battery and viola, it ran like a top. I rode it for a few years and regrettably, ended up selling it. Fast forward to last weekend and I bought another 86 VF500 at an online auction. I don't have the bike yet but I'm already sourcing parts for it that I know it'll need. I'm looking forward to getting it restored and learning more about it and or sharing on this forum.

 

Cool... and good luck.

Think you need to update your pick to the old school HRC tho.... we are talking about VFs.

 

Oh... btw... my first street bike in 1985 was the 1984 VF500F with 1500 miles. After a spectacular mishap a couple summers later, I bought a 1986 VF500F right before college. Still have it. Gone on to own (currently) quite a few VF and VFR.

 

Good point, I've replaced the modern avatar with the old skool 80's version. Now if I can just find my old 8-track tapes! Your spectacular mishap sounds like a story in itself.

 

I'll try and set the scene as best I can.

Just a couple miles from my house, very near the High School, is (was) a weird intersection where 3 roads come together. One west from the High School, one north going by the Fire Station (pretty much right on this "intersection"). The fire station has a phone booth on the corner. More on that later. I'm traveling South and the main road I'm on turns SW and continues with no stop sign. The other roads have stop signs and there is this triangular "island" in the middle of all of where the roads converge. The island just had it's ditches all cleaned out with a backhoe and they are now perfect half pipes.

Following my friend (on his 84 500) doing 50 to 55 (in a 35). Just as we approach this bend (that we always sped thru) a truck passes on my left right before my front end washes out sending me sliding on my palm/knee/hip. I just go by his rear bumper. As I watch my bike sliding away from me, I'm thinking, "Shit. Gonna have some work to do after this" right before we both hit the half pipe. Smash cut to dirt and dust and the next thing I know, I'm rotating in the air watching my bike flip and smash down on the handlebars and fuel tank, pretty much upside down.

The very next thing I find my self running down the road by the fire station and phone booth... AS FAST AS I CAN. Like the kind of running where you are going down hill and are on the verge of falling on your face, swinging your arms for balance. I fucking landed on my feet running. Luckily I was in "my" lane, as a car was approaching from the opposite direction. We stopped next to each other. Judging from the looks on this family of four's faces, they watched me fly out from behind the "island" and land running, with my bike smashing off to the left, now dumping fuel on the road in a heap. They all looked at me like I was a ghost. I'm standing right next to the driver's door, hands on my knees, trying to breathe. The phone booth is on the other side of the car, a little closer to the intersection, in the fire station parking lot.

The dad slowly rolls down his window and asks, "Are you OK?"

I slowly turn in my Freddie Spencer Arai, "yeah"

"Are you sure, you might be in shock"

"I'm not in shock. I'm pissed!"

I walk back to my bike, right it with the help of my friend who has turned around and start pushing it to a better spot. It's fucked, but barely rolls. Just then a truck pulls up. "You wanna load that thing before the cops get here?"

"Yes please"

It was the truck that I nearly plowed into the front of. The three of us lifted it into the bed and he drove me home. Unloading it when my Mom came out. "You OK?"

"Yeah. I'm pissed." I then started crying. My beautiful bike. We both thanked the dude in the truck. It was the worst Summer ever, watching my friends ride their bikes around me while I drove. I wasn't hurt at all. Helmet was dusty. Had a strawberry thru my jeans, but they weren't torn. I was fucking wearing Sperry Top Sider boat shoes with no socks. (Yes, an idiot. That NEVER happened again). One rivet was ground half off right next to my ankle bone that didn't have scratch.

So YEARS later I'm at a friend's party telling this story, which to be honest sounds like bullshit. I finish telling it and the small crowd around are just kinda standing there, with that look on their face. "Yeah.... right"

Just then a voice from the other side of the pool table room says, "It happened exactly like he just said." Everybody's head spun around and we were all, "WHAT THE FUCK!!!???" "I was standing in the phone booth at the fire station and watched the whole thing."

He went to my high school, Freddie Guzman. I didn't even recognize him or know that he was there. That was fucking weird. And now another part of my crazy story.

 

Crazy stories and mishaps like that can only be from the 80's! I've got a few similar stories from Honda's three wheeled death machines but those are saved for another forum.