The first moped I owned was found in shed that housed two Honda Gyro’s. As he pulled the Motobecane 7 out so we could haggle over $20, I found I couldn’t keep my eyes off of them. I didn’t know what they were, or why they were, but I knew I needed them. They looked like secrets hidden away from modern man and lost to time. When I asked if those were for sale the man shut the door and firmly said no, not those. Those were his secrets and he was keeping them. I knew I had stumbled onto something rare, something that only a select group of people had experienced and they wanted to keep it that way.
A seed had been planted against my will. I hit the internet like a Hardy Boy and it grew. Sordid message board posts about a lost technology and legendary handling, all wasted on a kids scooter. Story after story about carving down windy roads on a maxed out scooter, knees out, apex after apex. Never giving up, never holding back. A bike that must be experienced to be believed, but couldn’t because it’s existence was cut short. Produced in its first form for only a year and a second form for merely two, and then never again. (in America, I am aware that Japan LOVES these things). An evolutionary dead end. But why? The mystery deepened.
And it stayed there. Rooted in my mind, but not sprouted fully. I bought hundreds of bikes, went to dozens of rallies, and never did I again cross paths with a Gyro. Years went by, I moved across the country, worked in a scooter shop, hung out in scooter, moped, and motorcycle crowds. Browsed craigslist every day. And never a Gyro. The secret was safe, the legends could never be challenged.
Time wore down the dream. It slipped further into the grey of the memory until it had almost washed out completely. Some people believe in fate and would have argued it was only a matter of time. I had recently bought another terrible Elite 80, because learning is hard, and was just riding around town to stuff. One of my stops was a friends scooter themed yard sale at which was a lot of vintage scooter guys and gals haggled over useful garbage. A friend who I had known from the scene for years at this point saw my terrible plastic decision and figures I’m good for another one. He saddles up and simply says, “You know, if you like that, I’ve got a Honda Gyro I’d sell you for $100 with title.” My god, that magnificent bastard had been hiding one from me for years. Never once did he mention it, he was another gatekeeper. A breaker of oaths as it were but there would be no Fight Club if everyone obeyed the rules.
Rarely does a man like me go to a sale for a bike without a wad of cash and a desire to shoot for the knees but I was in no mood for such tactics. For $100 with title I felt it would have been insulting otherwise. He was gifting me something and I knew not to bite the hand. His only parting words as I pushed it down the street to my friends house were, “Be careful, it doesn’t ride normal, you’re going to crash it the first time you ride it.”
Old man, does he think me a fool? I’ve read the posts, talked to the people, believed the hype. I thought he must not know how to wield such power. One man must have though. On each side of the fork legs a name was carved with an electric engraver. That man was Roy Fitch. I was going to fix this bike for Roy so that his spirit could ride forever. An hour of cleaning fiddly bits and a fresh battery and it fired up, ready to live again. This thing must be tested, it must be showcased and paraded like the showpony it is. I decided to take to the Mosquito Fleet rally that weekend.
For those not in the know, the Mosquito Fleet moped rally is an arduous task. Designed not for entertainment, or social gathering, but as an endurance event. Three days of 100 mile rides designed to test mechanics and grit. Surviving one intact is worthy of boasting, at least privately.
A full tank of gas and oil, full riding gear, and full tuck. That’s was my plan.
The hubris.
In a pack of 100 riders with all manner of machines and skill levels on open highway, it didn’t take long for the Gyro to spill it secrets to me. It showed me how steering it is more of a suggestion and not a rigid command. Corners became great challenges as I realized it preferred to hop sideways whole feet at a time mid corner because it was cranky about the road condition. It hopped, sideways, in corners, feet at a time, into oncoming traffic. A steel plate, a manhole cover, a discontinuity of pavement; tantrums. Huge, sideways, uncontrollable tantrums. The pack moved away from me. They didn’t trust me. Even in a straight line it couldn’t go straight. Honda didn’t design it to go straight, they only made it one wheel drive. In my helmet I was questioning everything. Were they all lies? For what reason? The engine struggled to go up hills despite its claim of 4.5bhp, a 2-speed automatic transmission, and the promise of being properly engineered. It shifted, sure, but before first gear made any power and into second way below it started making power. Stopping before a hill forced me to ride through sitting traffic to the front of the pack. So when the light changed I might not get left behind as everyone rode around my shame. At least the mopeds had pedals for such issues. I could do nothing but look each person in the eyes attempting to say I’m sorry as they tried to get around me before the first corner.
This one poor girl. I saw her. I saw her struggle. Her bike was slower than mine on flats but faster up a hill. I had to hit every hill as fast as possible so I would pass her on the flat but on the hills she would pass me again. If the hill had corners she would have to be brave and try to pass, knowing that if she let up she couldn’t pull the hill either. God forced her hand. We rode like that, passing back and forth for miles and miles. When we stopped at the halfway point gas station she wouldn’t even look me in the eye.
I wasn’t even sure if I wasn’t going to make the halfway point. Forty miles in the fuel gauge was reading empty. That can’t be right. I know I filled the tank before this started. Was it a lie? Or the gyro’s meanest joke? Why would a bike that barely pulls a hill run out of gas that fast? I confirmed at the gas station, completely empty. At least Honda calibrated the fuel gauge correctly. So I filled it back up. With 0.6 gallons of fuel. I stood there looking at the underside of the seat, at the full gas tank, and all the space between the tank and the side panels. Inches of empty, unused space that could have been extra fuel tank but wasn’t, mocking me. I felt insulted, betrayed by every person who had told me it was good. Maybe they didn’t actually ride one, or not seriously at least. Maybe they did know it was terrible but couldn’t admit it. Maybe time had softened their memories. Maybe I was the one pointing out the king had no clothes.
I finished that ride. I finished it hard. The Gyro was no prize and the legend of it died that day. I understood spiritually why that bike was only made for one year. That Honda didn’t get sued out of existence from that short production run is a testament to groupthink. I know that somewhere, one man had an idea of what the future of scootering was going to be and he dragged an entire engineering and manufacturing team through his fever dream with him. And someone higher up at Honda signed off on all of it. But to be fair, Honda was throwing everything against the wall in 1984 to see what stuck. They introduced four new plastic scooters on top of the two they already sold for a total of 6. Hell, the automotive side of Honda only sold three types of cars in the states in 1984, why did they OK 6 plastic scooters? And why was one of them this thing? Honestly I will never know. I’ll never know why people still love these things, or why they keep insisting that they handle great even after I’ve told them I’m in the club too. I guess maybe it’s an example of pride as the sin God intended it to be. The folly of man in the shape of a 3 wheeled scooter.