Yamaha Virago - Street Wise and Road Wide
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After 3 weeks of use, there's a good feeling about this machine. Now, after 7 great weeks, the confirmation gets cast in concrete. From busy intersections to two-lane blacktop hills sewn through the vineyards, then mudfesting at Truman State Univeristy, swinging into a real "Whole Hog" roast; the sexy Yamaha Virago neatly turns the corners down.
A man near my (middle) age bought this engineering marvel new as a year-end closeout from our local Yamaha Motorcycle dealer, and he rode 1599 miles. Receipts showed he had paid for every scheduled maintenance, a simple oil change. He never cleaned the bike, just dusted it off. He kept it inside his garage, covered with a doubled over bed sheet. With the long hours of work and family, he had cruised infrequently. So, when his Dentist buddy bought a Harley-Davidson 833, he decided to sell his sweet xv535. I spotted the ad in the Sunday news classifieds, and sped off immediately to see why anyone would be foolish to part with such a gem of a bike.
Whenever someone tells you there's not a scratch on it...it just turns your glance into suspicion. To my disbelief, there wasn't a scratch on her. There was just a thin black heel mark feathered across the exhaust pipe, a mark that would come out with chrome polish in 1 minute. And it sure did. The guy took a two-thousand dollar hit over two years storage to finally sell. You should of seen his wife happily counting the cash. She dashed into the house as if I might try and grab the wad of cash back. Neither one of them knew what I was thinking.
The XV535 boasts an air-cooled 75 degree V-twin counter-balanced package, with slightly extended rake-out on the forks, and a single speedo with lights for the rest. The handlebars come back and bend down comfortably. The riding position is upright, maybe exactly upright, as there's no slouching involved. The neighbors probably won't hear you drive their dreams away at 3:AM unless you decide they will.
So this Labor Day Weekend is the last three-day fest and folly chance of the hot Missouri summer, and here's my first gear. Great timing for a new ride and fine weather for flying. My young kids have been parked with the Uncle, the wife is off with her gabby gal-pals for a weekend retreat. Throttle down and exit stage left!
First stop is the gas station, where only the best quality petrol will work with this popper. A full tank takes you about 110 miles, which is about the thin side of okay, but the looks of the bike are the primary lead here. Half the capacity is under the seat, and a pump serves the fuel lines with pressure so the dual carbs will stay quenched. Starts on demand, and never a moment waiting for the starter to rev. The choke wasn't needed due to the heat we swim in. The reserve switch is right hand thumb handy, next to the starter button.
Nice balance in the low-speed leans, good recoil and recovery, charging up the interstate ramp. Coming over the top of the hill there's a cop hanging paper on a red Dodge Viper; he gives me a look. 75 miles an hour is easy to hit notching up to fifth gear, but the sweet spot is closer to 65. Most side wind or semi-trailer gusts don't quicken the pulse. Hard stops are straight on, feeling like 75 percent of the halt is up front with some reasonable dive down.
The stoplight before Wolfrum Road, a gaggle of High School Cheerleaders rushes out from the corner, dropping their car-wash signs in the grass. There's only room for one passenger, unfortunately, and without a helmet it seems. Ah well, the tailpipes sing the Pied Piper song and off we go with the results of natural selection. There's not much to seat a teen on, and there's an inclination to the guest seat as well. Just fine if you ask me, probably the result of some buyer survey in the late sixties. Nice footpeg position. Shifting gets drawn out a wink longer with the passenger, but the engine is up to the task and stays enthusiastic.
Forty fast miles East down I-94 into the Missouri Wine Country, through the lush floodplains, the rise and fall of left to right leans, wide corners and tight tucks, we stop at the Montelle Vineyard for a snack. Soon she's too weak to carry a thought past her glass, so there's no option to take her back home. She's got a calling card to solicit help. I deliver one more bottle to the table, and withdraw into the dusk.
A bee-line down the dry highway 30 miles along the river. Smooth sailing on new pavement, no dips, holes, or shoulders. I pass a yellow Moto Guzzi on the left, a flat fat back tire owned by some stranded racer wannabe. There's a reason to give a short wave to this guy as I glide by. It's the polite thing to do. Then shortly ahead walks a major betty. She must be going for help while he waits with his inheritance. There's a reason to keep your helmet with you, betty, and these footpegs are available.
Just my luck, she's going back to Truman State University. She's participating in the televised mud wrestling championship in the morning, with seven of her chums. Oh, what a nice clean college town, and with plenty of Yamahamers around to party with. Healthy attractions, and warm places to stay. I'm shocked mud play pays that well, but she says that's how she pays the bills. We thank each other for the lift, and agree on the value of a nice ride. Big smiles.
During the previous evening I bought a raffle ticket. "It's a Whole Hog Roast up in Hannibal, you must be present to win." It was a fifteen dollar ticket, and I have no recollection what the prize was that suckered me into spending my money. The ticket just states "4th Annual Whole Hog Roast 03541. All day and night."
Filler-up, and off spin the wheels to the Great River Road. Scenic vista heaven and Bald Eagle haven, dense woods and narrow roads. The grades can be a challenge if you're hung over, so be warned about remembering your limit. Should the bike be dropped, there's no repair possible to erase the pain and stain of knowing it happened. You may not see it, you probably will see it if you look close enough, but you'll always feel the blunt memory of it.
Still no sign of heat fatigue from the Virago, and we're on tarmac hot enough to keep the possums from playing dead. Just a spirited hummer swinging along. A blasted wasp hits the inside of my collar, and using my left hand to yank him out, the wind sends him down the middle of my back. I slam the front and rear brakes hard before I get my left hand back on the grip, which qualifies as a brain fart. This event put me across on the right hand side of the road. In my dreams I still try and figure out how I crossed and stopped on the gravel without falling. I threw my helmet off and pulled my shirt over my head, popping a few buttons. The wasp was no-where, and I looked for him for some minutes cussing loudly. I wanted to squish the bug beyond recognition, but stopping short of being completely undressed, the search was abandoned.
In Hannibal there were more Japanese motorcycles around then I'd previously seen. Kawasaki 1100's, Suzuki 850's, Honda 1000's, and Yamahamers far and wide. If I was willing to ride with saddle-bags, I'd be willing to take pictures, oh well. But the Roast was already underway. There was a crowded midway area on Front Street, some hot food vendors, and the usual novelties and mounted police.
At the marine hoist, strung upside down, was a hunk two-tone blue Harley-Davidson. By the time I toured the riverfront blocks and invented a parking spot, the Harley's logo was dented like a marimba. A guy with a wireless microphone was calling out the numbers on the raffle tickets, and if you were lucky, you swung a brand new specially chromed sledge hammer at the swinging beast. One person already made a trip to the hospital after doing a homerun swing to the rear tire. Happens every year they say, ...and what a happy crowd! All these non-H-D cycle owners smashing into cheers and applause. At 10:PM, the raffle winner will torch the Hog with a military surplus flame-thrower. Please let it be me!
People who love Harley Davidson Motorcycles in the USA just won't understand the depth of it. ‘Cause if they traded in their hog for a Yamaha Virago, which ain't gonna happen, they'd see there's more than leaking oil, tremendous noise and wide-legged blow-by. The Virago 535 holds an approachable blend of chrome curvature, intimate seating, and irresitable shaft-driven tonality.
It's a bad bike to park in the dark garage.
It's the right ride for a tricking holiday.
