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Take some old two stroke buckets of rust and add a group of guys with a little too much time and and an unhealthy thirst for cheap booze.  What happens is a little bit of frustration, a lot of bullshit, and a whole bunch of good times.  The boys didn’t really know what they were getting into.  They knew less than something about it and were willing to figure out the rest, but they knew that blood, sweat, and elbow grease burns brighter than gasoline.  The 1971 CT-1 and the ’78 DS 185 weren’t pretty by any standards.  They were old, greasy, and loud.  But the boys saw something under all that dirt and grime that those machines carried with such pride.  These bikes have soul.  These bikes have been around.  The work was dirty, cheap, and unskilled.  But somehow these bikes turned into rat bitch speed machines that boasted their crust like a cheap whore showing skin at a freeway rest stop.

If you’re anything like us with oil and gas running through your veins, I think you just might understand.