How to refurbish an old Honda CA-95 motorcycle,
also known as a Baby Dream
There and Back Again, or How I Did It.
1. Selecting a Hulk
Start with an advertisement, preferably from a flaky, shaky sort of dude with glazed
eyes and bad breath. He knows the bike is
worth a lot more than $500, but like, hey dude,
he just likes giving the people a break, you
know? You should believe him, because he has
a lot of tattoos and several piercings which show
character.
Examine the bike carefully. It should have a lot
of rust, because it‟s old. If it sports much
chrome, make sure there are lots of blisters that
can‟t be buffed out. See if it turns over. Even if
it does, don‟t worry, it might be OK anyway. Make sure the handlebars are bent and
the tires cracked. Don‟t worry too much about the mileage, it‟s 50 years old after all.
Look in the gas tank. You‟re looking for strange orange deposits, which indicate that
the fuel was carefully allowed to evaporate over a long period,
creating lots of varnish that will clog the carb and fuel petcock.
Try to wheel it around a bit. If you‟re as lucky as I was it will
drag at least one wheel; if not, see if it makes any reassuring
grinding noises. Watch out for salvageable parts, which
require cleaning and delay the restoration process. Check out
the seat, which should be cracked and hard as a brick.
Finally, try to stay away from a clear title, it will just get in the way of the fun you can
have with DOT later.
If it meets these criteria, get a strong young man, preferably a relative with good
health insurance, to help you drag it up into the bed of your truck. Tie it down as
though it actually matters whether or not it comes loose, and you are off on an
adventure!
2. Ready, Steady, Go!
Once you have it safely at home, park it somewhere that shows its finer points and get
out the camera. Take a lot of photographs, more than you think you‟d ever want to
look at again even in your wildest dreams of delirium. Even then, you won‟t have
enough. Admire the Baby Dream, overlooking the paint
stains around the left cover from the time it was parked
under the house painting project. Enjoy the fine patina of
age that clouds every surface. Ignore the corrosion; you‟d be
corroded too if you‟d spent the last 40 years sitting outside
in the rain with the gerbils and other vermin. Take a deep
breath and smile, for this could be the last time you‟ll ever see it in this condition
(assembled) again.
And so it was that I wheeled my dull beauty into the garage and on to my trusty cycle
lift. I felt the winds of fate brush my cheek as I clamped the
front tire, but it was only some decades-old air escaping. That
tire had been new when computers still had gears. I looked at
the rims, which still had a few shreds of chrome peeping out here
and there, and smiled. I smiled because the seller had
generously included a spare set of wheels, and the chrome was
pretty good on them. It was a bit arrogant, that smile; part
confidence, part optimism unalloyed by experience; in short, a smile of stupidity.
I walked around the bike several times, sizing it up, 10mm wrench in hand. I
started by removing the seat, which I noted
weighed more than a leg of mutton. It‟s
condition was as noted above, but I wasn‟t
worried. A new seat would be easy to find.
The seat was quickly followed by the tank,
then the front nacelle, handlebars, wiring,
air cleaner, and various and sundry other
parts. I snapped pictures as I went,
thinking I was establishing a good
photographic record that I could refer to
later at assembly time. In this age of digital
photography, you‟d think I would have
snapped everything in sight; but in the
event, I took pictures sparingly, as if every shot cost $5. But I‟m getting ahead of
myself. With the help of my son, we removed everything, including the engine. All the
free space in the shop, every horizontal surface, held some
kind of motorcycle part. The little stuff was all in ziplocks,
duly labeled. My son thought I was a bit over the top with
that, but I have a lot of respect for my lack of memory,
and I suspected it might be some time before I opened
those bags again. The engine sat silently on the bench,
more or less intact, which is the way I wanted to keep it. I
had no intentions of opening up that bag of nettles unless
compelled to do so. Fateful thought. On the floor were all the black painted parts,
including the sheet metal frame, which weighed less than the seat. On the shelves
were the chrome and mechanical parts. In the hot tub were all my parts.
3. The Ebay Phase
It did not take long to ascertain that all the chrome was bad. Pitted, corroded, rusty,
ugly bad. The wire brush and buffing wheel made some of it look better, but then I
took off the safety glasses. Ugh. Pretty nearly everything, including shocks, mufflers,
header pipes, tank covers, handlebars, brake pedal, headlight trim, badges, and
assorted nuts and bolts, would have to be replaced or rechromed. It was then I
learned an inconvenient truth: chrome is expensive; old chrome is even more
expensive; and re-chrome is worse than either one.
Undaunted, I began a love-hate relationship with Ebay. There is a certain thrill of the
hunt involved with sourcing old parts, and especially with auctions. Turns out, for
better or worse, the CA95 is rare, and thus is a popular cycle to restore. That means
there is a lot of competition for scarce parts. Imagine my surprise to find that a
new/old stock ignition switch, if you can find one, can run over $300.
My wife is a lioness when it comes to running down parts. Clicking like crazy, she
soon had us watching 20 or 30 different auctions. I learned how to do it, sort of, and
would occasionally bid on something when she wasn‟t looking. The list of parts I
needed grew smaller rapidly, but not as rapidly as my bankbook. I continue to be
awestruck at how much old motorcycle parts bring on the open market.
4. Powder Visions
Knowing that my parts sourcing was in better hands than mine, I examined the
painted parts, trying to decide on a path forward. Some of them were actually pretty
straight, but the front fender had a crack that was beyond my meager abilities to
repair. I figured the easiest solution would be to take them to the local body shop and
have them painted. Wrong. In the first place, most body shops took one look at my
dingy, cracked
motorcycle fender and
laughed me out of their
fancy waiting rooms.
Finally, I found one that
would be willing to do
the painting for me. He
looked at the fender,
then at the pictures of
the rest, and opined that it would be $1200 to shoot the paint, not counting any
welding, smoothing or bodywork they might need. Oh yes, and I would need to take
the whole mess down to the local powder coater and have it sandblasted before they
would deign to even begin the job. My diaphragm contracted and I gasped for air,
staggered toward the car. I got the parts in and headed for Powder Visions. I was in a
daze. Obviously stuff, that is, painting stuff in general, cost a way lot more than I had
imagined in my darkest dreams. I got to Powder Visions in Preston WA and told JR
that I needed a station wagon full of black motorcycle parts sandblasted. Would he do
it?
He cradled his chin in one palm and looked at the fender, then at the pictures
of the other parts. “Sure,” he said slowly. “But why not powder coat them instead of
painting? Makes a nice finish, durable too.” He showed me some pictures of a
motorcycle he‟d done. They looked pretty good.
“How much?” I asked.
He considered. “$350,” he answered at last.
I nodded. It was a bit more than I wanted to hear for sandblasting, but after my
earlier shock, not unexpected. “And how much to powder coat them?” I asked.
JR looked at me and narrowed his brows. “That is to powder coat them,” he
replied laconically.
To this day, Powder Visions has my vote as the most cost effective way to coat
metal there is. Yes, I had to go back to a body shop to get the fender welded, but
those boys at Powder Visions know their stuff. I got the parts back within a week,
gleaming gloss black. They looked great, and powder coat is harder and tougher than
paint, and doesn‟t need to cure. Cool beans.
Rims and Spokes
It was time. I was tired of seeing those rusty rims and cracked tires lurking next to
the lift. Eagerly, I inspected the spare wheels I‟d received with the bike. The guy was
right, the chrome was still good on them. The only
problem they had, in fact, was that they were the
wrong size. Definitely the wrong size. There was
nothing else for it: I gave Karen the assignment of
finding some nice wheels, which is lot like turning a
hungry coyote loose in a chicken coop. For the
next three weeks a parade of rims and wheels rolled
by on the computer screen, but there was no joy.
You can‟t buy a bare chrome rim any more, and
plain steel or aluminum was costing $350. The
used ones on ebay were not much better than what I already had. To rechrome mine
would cost more than new, a lot more. I was almost ready to give up and just paint
them, when a set appeared on ebay, along with some other chrome parts, including
some shocks, and they looked good. Original equipment, lovingly stored in a barn
somewhere, that was the story. I won‟t tell you how much they cost, the memory is
too painful, but I won the auction with all the finesse of an elephant stepping on a
beetle. It just happened that no one was quite as obsessed as I was about those
wheels on that particular day. With that, it was on to tires. Not so easy. For some
weeks I scoured the web, looking for whitewalls. The only ones still available had been
discontinued a while back, because they were of such awful quality that no one would
risk themselves actually riding on them, and besides they were
one size over stock and I wasn‟t sanguine about that. I gave it
up for a while and worked on the engine instead, returning to the
search a few weeks later. No joy, nothing left on this planet in
3.00x16 but dirt bike tires. Finally, when I was just about ready
to put some really ugly knobbies on her, I found a pair of
blackwalls at Coker Tire.
Finally, I was ready to put the wheels on. It would look like a bike again! I started
with the steering head, which entailed cleaning 32 little ball bearings, then somehow
placing them on their races, with 16 of them upside down, then sliding the headstock
into place. Piece of cake if your arms end in cilia instead of fingers, but I was
handicapped by having only 10 digits with which to hold 32 roly-poly bearings in
place. Sure, I put them in grease, and yes, that helped, but it was still an interesting
exercise. It was, however, accomplished at last. There sat the frame, on its
centerstand, forks ready for the front wheel. Tempting as it was to mount the front
tire first, I started with the back so I could more easily tip the frame and roll it under.
I studied the pictures I‟d taken of the whole assembly, mounted the rear dampers and
sprocket, put all the spacers where I thought they should go, inserted the brake hub
assembly and admired my work. Yes, everything looked right. I rocked the frame
forward, rolled the rear wheel into place…and it was about
1/2 an inch too wide! Something was wrong. I pondered
this, then disassembled the wheel and examined
everything again. It was at this point that I began to discover that I had not taken
enough pictures. I didn‟t have a good one of the hub assembly. The manual did not
help, so I was left guessing what parts went where. Again and again I tried, again and
again it was just too wide. Did I have the wrong spacer? No way. It had to be right,
and yet it was just as obviously not right. This went on for a couple days. Each time I
came back to it, I was just as puzzled. I brought out the old wheel, tried the parts in
that one. Still too wide. It was just too much.
It was during one of my pensive periods, sitting in my lawn chair in the garage, just
looking at it, when I noticed a small but
potentially important detail: the spot on
the rear brake hub where the brake cable
attached was inclined, obviously it was
above the optimum position. What could
this mean? I pondered this some more,
turning it this way and that. I then
noticed another potentially important
detail: the rear brake did not use a cable,
it used an actuating rod. I blinked
slowly, the truth flitting around my head
like a butterfly, finally landing on my
nose. Once again, I took the wheel apart,
slowly, deliberately, and this time I reassembled it using the brake hub from the front
tire. Everything fit together as if it had been made that way, which it had. This proves
that contrary to what you might have been taught in school, apes are not particularly
intelligent, and are often downright stupid.
Painting
It‟s true that I put myself through college with a paintbrush, and yes, it‟s also true
that my nickname was „motorbrush‟. I admit this. Speed came in handy, unless I was
asked to paint anywhere near windows, doors, or other easily stained appurtenances.
I simply had no patience for that picky stuff, slap the paint on and move to the next
section was my simple philosophy. But that was then and I was sure I‟d moved
beyond that. Before me were various small parts, some wanting silver, some wanting
black, some wanting a clear coat. I did the research, decided on lacquer for the black
and clear parts, and enamel or some other metallic-looking stuff for the silver. Years
of painting steel boats had taught me one
lesson: preparation is all important. So
prepare I did, wire brushing with a wheel,
then wet sanding parts to be painted.
Other parts, that would display their skin
bare, got the wire wheel and various
buffing compounds. It took a long time,
hours and hours, to get them that way.
When I was finished I had quite a
selection on the bench, gleaming, ready
for that final coating that would render
them smooth and beautiful.
I started with the black lacquer, and the results overall were quite good. A rattle can
in the right hands can give excellent results; unfortunately, my hands were left hands,
which only give good results on alternate Saturdays during a gibbous moon. Had I
known this going in, I could have planned for it. As it was, when I shot the black
parts a nearly invisible gibbous moon was hanging in Saturday‟s noontime sky,
beaming its protective rays down upon my project, and all was well with the world.
Heartened, the next day I brought out the cases and some other silver parts, lovingly
prepared, ready to accept paint. The weather was fine, sunny and warm. I decided to
work outside. I brought out the can, sprayed on some primer. No problems, good
finish, fine coverage. All was well. When it had dried I started spraying the finish
coat, but the glare from the silver finish was so bright I could hardly see. I brought
the stuff into the garage, since enamel is not as noxious smelling as lacquer, and
continued. The paint went on smoothly, leaving a spotless finish. It looked terrific,
just like new. Oh joy. Leaving it to dry, protected from wind and the cloud of
cottonwood fluffballs currently being carried on the breeze, I retired for a bit of lunch.
Imagine my dismay when upon returning, I found that the whole thing had wrinkled
up. It looked like a relief map of the Himalayas. How could this be? It was a refrain
I‟d been uttering all too often, it seemed. The primer was right, matched to the paint.
To this day I don‟t know why those wrinkles appeared. Maybe coated too soon after
priming? Shaking my head, I began the distasteful chore of sanding. Naturally, the
soft paint resisted this, and getting the surface smooth again was no fun, and I shall
not dwell on it. I let everything harden a week this time, and sprayed it again. Again
it went on smooth, but this time it dried with a finish like orange peel. I looked at it in
total disgust, a defeated man. Gritting my teeth, I toted the whole armful down to
powder visions and had them blast and powder coat it all. One hundred bucks later I
was smiling at the results. Who says I don‟t know how to paint?
Installing the pistons, cylinder, and head
Book one of the trilogy, "The Forces of Chaos", starts in my stable on a cool summer
morning. It seemed normal, but wasn't: everywhere else in the region, processes of
order surged with new energy, cars that should have
crashed inexplicably missed each other, and retirees
hit it big at the local casinos; for the baleful eye of
Murphy, the Dark Lord of Chaos, was not watching
them: it was fixed on my garage. Friday was to be the
day, much anticipated, of engine assembly. I started
by mounting the pistons on the connecting rods, but
I couldn't get the wire circlip to fit. I tried and tried,
but there just didn't seem to be room for it between
the wrist pin and piston groove. The pin covered up half of the groove. Some might
have thought Murphy would be satisfied with the prank of making the right piston
wrist pin 1mm too long, but those who thought so
would be wrong. He extended his bony hand and lo,
the circlip with which I had been wrestling fell into the
crankcase. An hour of fishing had only one effect: it
ruined my favorite flashlight/magnet combo. That
which I had long dreaded had come to pass: the case
would have to be split.
Thus begins book two of the trilogy, "Dire Splits". I
got up, reluctantly, cranky and morose, and shuffled
toward the garage. An hour of reading about splitting motorcycle engine cases had me
very wary, but Murphy is a subtle bastard. The split went slowly, but well. Clutch
came off, oil pump came off, various pins and parts came off. With a tap here, a
bludgeon there, the cases came apart. A quick survey of the lower case revealed the
errant circlip. Oh well, at least I'd be able to replace all the seals, which I had cleverly
ordered from Ohio Cycle a couple weeks earlier. Shows what underestimating Murphy
will get you. A quick comparison showed all of them, all four, to be the wrong size.
I sighed, began the tedious process of getting the mating surfaces ready. After about
two hours of delicate scraping, I carefully applied a light coating of "Hondabond" to the
almost-clean mating surfaces. The case went back together. I tightened the 14 nuts
and bolts on the top, turned it over and tightened the 5 or so on the bottom, and the
thing was done. Time for the pistons. Using the belt sander, I shortened the wrist pin
about a millimeter and beveled the edge. It matched pretty well. Then another hour
fighting with circlips, wrist pins, etc. and the pistons were on. Again. Next, time for
the cylinder block. I fitted the gasket, then lowered the cylinder block on its 6 studs
toward the pistons. All was gleaming oil and honed surfaces. In accordance with the
shop manual, I had fitted wood blocks beneath the piston skirts to hold the pistons in
place. The cylinders had a nice little bevel at the bottom, making it easy to pinch the
rings shut and lower the cylinder onto them. I did so, pinching and wiggling the while.
All went well, until---it stopped. I peered underneath. The rings were gone, vanished
into the cylinders, so why did it stop? I tapped.
Clearly, the left piston was correctly installed, since it wiggled nicely, but the right one
appeared to be jammed. How this was possible I still don't know. It was about this
time that I noticed that the wood under the pistons had somehow torn the gasket.
Shouldn't have been possible since the wood was flat, but by this time I could feel the
palpable presence of Murphy so I wasn't surprised. It wasn't a complete tear, so I
continued wiggling and pushing, intending to install anyway.
No joy. The right side was stuck, no doubt about it, and if something was jammed
there was no future in forcing it. I pulled the cylinder block off, regretfully since it had
taken quite a bit of fussing to get those rings inside it. I examined the pistons, was
appalled to find the right oil scraper ring broken. About half a centimeter was
missing, but where was the broken shard? I spent the next hour searching for it. No
joy. There was only one other place it could be. By now it was after 4:00 and Karen
was home from her dogging adventure, all happy. I put a stop to that. Growling deep
in my throat I split the case again. This time the whole process took about 20
minutes, and during the course of it there was an audible "ping" as one of the wrist
pin circlips made a break for freedom. Hope it's happy in its new home because I
never found it. I finished opening the case up and examined everything, no joy. The
shard was not there. By this time I was getting pretty fatalistic about that sort of
thing. Possible the ring was broken before I started. I did not examine the pistons
very thoroughly when I got them back from I-90. The installation into the cylinders
would have been unlikely to break a ring, since they
were securely in the grooves already and not being
stressed in such a way as to break them, and there
had been no sound at all, as of a ring parting. I know
that sound, and never heard it. All in all, it doesn't
matter. I left the case halves on the bench, crankshaft
on the lift, and retired to the cottage for a glass of
whine. I sank into my chair to play some Peggle, and
of course failed to get all the red balls, breaking a
week-long, 14-level streak. Lost at poker too, never caught a card. Murphy doesn't
sleep.
Third book of the trilogy: "Crankshaft Rising"
Sunday morning I got up, kissed Karen goodbye, and found my way back to the garage
again. Again I cleaned the mating surfaces, again I applied a thin coat of sealer, again
I reassembled the case and clutch. There it
sat, in approximately the same condition it
was in before the trilogy started. Of course,
I was now shy one circlip, one piston ring,
and one gasket. Such are the joys of
restoring old motorcycles. Ebay provided a
new set of rings, I could reuse one of the old
circlips, and I could repair the gasket. This
time, I used a couple stainless hose clamps
to retain the rings, and instead of wood
under the piston skirts, (which I thought
might have caused trouble by freezing the
pistons in place), I used a piece of brass
between gears to hold the crank in place. My plans came to fruition as the cylinder
slid over the pistons with nary a hitch. On went the rest of the parts, I torqued the
head down and that was that. There was now officially no way anything else was
going to fall into that crankcase.
Mounting the engine
I have a bad back. Nothing unusual in that, so do many people, but it means I can‟t
just grab an 80 pound engine and lift it into place
any more; at least, not and stay ambulatory. I
looked around the garage, even under the bench,
but my son was nowhere to be seen. Very well, I
would use my head instead of my disks.
Fortunately, my tool roll-away was about the same
height as the bench, and with a little wriggling and
fiddling the engine was soon transferred to it, and
then to the lift. Now to raise it into place. This was
managed by
rocking the engine to and fro, and inserting small
pieces of wood under it. The last inch was the
hardest, and required the now-famous rope and
hope maneuver, but at last I was able to slip the
mounting bolts into place and there it was, safe in
the frame again.
I stood back and admired my handiwork, a small
smile of satisfaction twitching my lips. I should have known better than to let that
happen, but it all seemed so idyllic I was put right off my guard. I spent the next
couple hours happily attaching stuff: oil filter, right case, some gears, and the starting
motor. It all snicked right into place. I attached the starter chain with its cute little
master link, and it was time for the magneto. This posed a couple interesting
problems involving strong permanent magnets and polar attraction, but in the end I
figured out the right sequence and slipped the magneto onto the crankshaft and over
the woodruff key. I took the 80mm grade 8 bolt that retained it, threaded it into the
hole, and made to tighten it. Naturally, it just turned the engine over instead of
tightening, and unfortunately I had already put the right case on, so there was
nothing with which to stop it. It was
here that laziness overcame good sense.
Instead of taking the right case off and
stopping the engine rotation with a
block of some kind, I decided to use an
air impact wrench instead. After all, it
was a grade 8 bolt threading into a tool
steel crankshaft, and it was retaining a
five pound whirling magneto, so I
figured it would take some serious
torque. To my credit, I did consult the
factory manual, which actually
mentioned using an impact tool on this
very bolt (to remove it), but that same
manual was strangely silent on the torque specification for tightening. I set the impact
driver to its most gentle setting and pulled the trigger. There was a very satisfactory
progression as the bolt turned, drawing the magneto in nicely on its taper. I watched
carefully for any sign that it was getting tight, and I received that sign when there was
a distinct “spang!” and the bolt began to spin freely. I stared, my brain vainly
struggling to turn back time, somehow make it not happen. Maybe it was a dream? I
had to give that up when I pulled out the stub of a bolt and saw the jagged end. If it
had broken off cleanly, that would have been a dream. As it was, I didn‟t see how I‟d
ever get an easyout started on that. That one moment of impatience might have
ruined the engine. To say I was bummed out was to say the universe was big. I
continued to stand there, unmoving, just staring. The world was bleak. It was Friday
the 13th.
On my wife‟s advice, I did no more in the garage on that day of ill omen. Instead,
when I regained the use of my body I went into the house and turned on the internet.
Aside from endless treatises on how to use an easyout, I did find a process whereby a
large machine shop can use a device that generates a spark that will actually
disintegrate a bolt stuck in a hole. Of course, I would have to take the engine apart,
remove the pistons again, split the cases, remove the crank, find such a shop, and pay
them whatever they wanted, if indeed it would even work in this case. Although such
activities are certainly within the scope of a restoration, I had already had enough fun
with internal engine parts. Instead I decided on a trip to the local Mom & Pop
hardware store.
Let me digress for a moment on the subject of hardware stores. I am a hardware store
junkie. An aficionado. A true connoisseur. My favorite is Doc Freemans‟s in Seattle,
because the narrow isles and crowded shelves there hide a trove of brass and stainless
marine stuff. Wooden floors are a big plus, as are the proper smells, of lubricants,
pesticides, drawn steel, and other aromas less easily identified. But all that said, a
hardware store, first and foremost, should have what you want. Johnson‟s Home and
Garden (aka 4 Corners Hardware) in Maple Valley has been there, on that corner,
since the Russian‟s sold Alaska to Seward, and simply put, they have everything.
Their nails aren‟t in fancy little boxes, they are in great revolving containers. You are
free to bark your knuckles putting them in little paper sacks. Their fasteners are not
in little plastic boxes, they are in bins, hundreds of them. You can run your fingers
through them, feel the weight, try them with that nut you brought with you. On a
previous visit, not only did they have the chrome acorn nuts I needed, they had them
in metric. So I wasn‟t particularly surprised when they had a #2 easyout, although I
was impressed when they had the left-hand twist drill I needed.
The next day was Saturday the 14th. They say you can foretell the future by
examining the entrails of a sheep. A quick search did not reveal any sheep, and the
neighbor‟s cat ran from me when I approached it, so I settled for a weather report as
the only even semi-reliable auger of the future. It called for fair skies. To hedge my
bets, Karen, my wife, offered to attend. She‟s lucky, it‟s a proven fact, so I quickly
accepted. I sharpened a center punch to a fine point, and placed it, as best I could, on
the center of the crank. I tapped lightly, then again, then again. Much to my
surprise, and against the odds, it bit. A tiny dent was made on a slanting portion of
the bolt shank, off center because it was impossible to be accurate on a crazy surface
at the end of a small dark cave that was 3/4" deep. It was much too small a dimple to
start a drill, even a very small one. I found another center punch, sharpened this one
at a 45 degree bevel, tapped, then again, and again, harder. That enlarged the dimple
just enough for the 1/8 drill to bite. I used a left-hand drill in the hope it would back
the screw out itself without needing the easyout. No joy with that, but in a couple
minutes I had a hole about 1/4 inch deep. Felt weird to be drilling with the drill
running backwards. Karen was beside me, luck drifting out of her like pollen from a
flower. I tried the easyout, but the hole was too big for the #2 I'd purchased. The
dang 1/8 left-hand drill was 1/64th larger
than optimum. My #3 easyout was too big,
and the hole was too close to the edge to
drill it out larger. I rummaged through my
stuff, found another #3 easyout in the tray,
an old one, which tapered to a smaller
point. Karen said: "Try it!" It fit, barely. I
inserted it, tapped it lightly to seat it. With
almost no effort, the broken bolt turned
out. The crank was saved. There was
great rejoicing.
It should be noted that all my sources were out of that bolt, which Honda had not
made for 50 years. A generic M5, 75mm, 1.25 pitch, class 10.9 bolt was needed. Four
Corners Hardware provided. They really do have everything.
Carburetor and chain
It seems as we meander through life that the things that we remember, that
make an impression on us or make a good story, are the
tribulations and misfortunes. The things that go well tend to go
largely unremarked. So it is with motorcycle restorations. To
describe rebuilding the carburetor when nearly everything
inside it was in fine condition would not exactly have you
hanging on every word. True, the throttle slide was stuck in
place, and the usual penetrating oils had no effect, and there might have been some
drama as I fired up the torch and started heating the carb body; but in the event,
instead of melting the body, or even igniting any of the various volatile oils I‟d been
using on it, it just quietly freed up the slide. How boring is that? Similar story with
the chain. A chain just laying there soaking
in kerosene does not fire the imagination, nor
does an account of scrubbing it with a fine
wire brush until all those hundreds of links
are free. Sure was fun though.
Obviously, I needed something with
more pizzazz to relate. Another tale of angst
and woe. Something that would piss off a
saint. I had just the thing: aftermarket
headers and mufflers. I had ordered these
things early on in the process, when I was
much younger and full of youthful optimism.
Of course they would fit. Didn‟t it say “fits
CA95” right in the description? I will admit one thing: they sure are shiny. By the
time I got around to actually trying the headers on the bike I was much more worldly,
so it was without much surprise that I noted that the flanges were too large to fit into
the head. I smiled, for I had a belt grinder and I knew how to use it. I carefully
ground the edges of the flange until they fit the head, then I slid those really cool cast
iron ribbed header flange nut thingies up to the flanges and cinched her down. Wow,
it looked great, kind of like a motorcycle with very short pipes. I probably should have
left it that way, but no, I had to bring out the mufflers. They also were very shiny, and
had mounting brackets in approximately the right spots. It is, as I have often
remarked, a great pity that approximately only works well for horseshoes and hand
grenades. After about an hour of fiddling, trying to get the mufflers lined up with the
header pipes, I came to the reluctant conclusion that the header pipes, and especially
the right one, were the wrong shape. The only way to make it fit would be to bend the
thing. Right. Bend a hardened, chromed, flanged header pipe. I grabbed it, flexed
experimentally. Muscles, though admittedly wimpy ones, had no discernable effect.
There was nothing else for it, I would have to kludge up a jig from whatever I
could find around the shop, and apply some kind of mechanical advantage to the pipe
in question. I rooted around and found an old apple picker with a wooden handle that
fit into one end of the pipe quite nicely. It now only remains to build the jig and start
reefing on it. It needs to bend an honest inch and stay there. I can hardly wait!
First startup
In the event, the actual bending of the header went off pretty easily. The trick was
finding shafts of the perfect diameter to insert into either end. This accomplished, the
bending was done in tiny increments by simply reefing on both ends until you felt the
steel give ever-so-slightly. Then it was bend a couple millimeters, fit it, bend it, fit it,
over and over again until it went into place. Finally, there it was, shiny and mostly
together. There were still a few parts to install, some engine trim, brake parts, and the
tank itself, but this was fun work and went quickly. That‟s why it‟s fun. Stuff that
takes hours and costs you some skin is rarely fun.
So for the first time in about a year I hooked the air up to the cycle lift, lowered it to
the floor, and backed the little CA95 off. On its sidestand next to my big BMW it
looked like a child‟s toy.
The next morning, accompanied by my son, we backed her out of the garage. The
battery was charged, fuel was poured into the tank, and she was ready. I pushed the
starter button and it turned over perfectly! The starter worked! It is good that it did,
because that was the only joyful moment for the CA95 that day. Flipping the choke
lever up and down, we cranked it unsuccessfully. Nary a pop or snort did it make.
We resorted to the kick starter, with the same result. After a while I was forced to the
reluctant conclusion that it wasn‟t going to start. A quick inspection of the plugs
revealed dryness. No smell of fuel was present. Spark was regular and hearty, but
fuel was absent. Unfortunately, we had other chores to do that day, so the CA had to
wait.
The next morning, I pulled the carb off and opened the float chamber. The floats were
adjusted perfectly, 7-8 mm below the main jet when they just touched the valve. I put
the bowl back on, connected a tube to the fuel opening, and blew. I nearly blew my
eyeballs out. The fuel line was completely closed off. I removed the bowl again and
still blowing, moved the floats up and down. The valve worked fine, opening and
closing with the movement of the floats. I puzzled over this, but not for long. If the
factory adjustment was wrong, I would move on to the Phil adjustment strategy, which
called for changing the float settings until the damn engine worked! This I did, the
experiment calling for some creative bending of the float housing. When I was
finished, the floats allowed fuel in, which I felt was a distinct improvement. I put the
whole thing together again, which involves, by the way, a wrestling match with the
throttle slide spring and the use of all ten digits and my nose to get the slide cover into
place. After a while this was done and I was ready to try it. I thumbed the starter,
and lo! she popped! I thumbed it again and she started! Did she ever! Vrrrroooooom,
she screamed off at what seemed like full throttle. Startled, I groped for the key,
fumbling, and finally got it shut down. But it ran! With that few seconds of roaring
terror several possible bad things, (like valve timing), went away. But what was up
with the RPMs? I first tried the idle screw, turned it all the way in. No effect. I fussed
with the cable, tried to make sure the slide was bottoming. I couldn‟t tell for sure, but
I thought it was OK. Nothing else I tried seemed to work. I was now desperate enough
to study the carb schematic, which showed the tapered idle screw that I had taken for
a mixture adjustment instead to be a throttle slide stop. What the heck, nothing
ventured nothing gained. So I backed the idle screw all the way out. You guessed it,
that solved the problem. Soon the engine was ticking over in a very well-behaved
fashion. A good start, but lots still to do before I can actually ride it. Have to rebuild
the seat, find and fix an oil leak that appeared after that first startup, fix the exhaust
leaks, and adjust the rear brake so it engages.
The Oil Leak
I mentioned an oil leak? It was actually a gusher, and it appeared to be coming from
the head gasket. Numerous inspections confirmed this bad news. The engine would
have to come out. Again. It occurred to me that everything to do with this project had
to have been done at least twice.
I will not bore you with another account of pulling the engine. I had learned, and thus
it went quickly. Soon the engine was sitting on the lift, it‟s head ripped off.
The gasket appeared to be fine. I could not
understand why it had leaked. I checked the
machine surfaces on head and cylinder, both were
good. That left the oil channel in one of the
dowels, and its O-ring. I replaced the O-ring with
a genuine Honda part and reinstalled the head
with a new gasket. The new gasket had metal
around each bolt hole as well as the bore holes, I
liked that. I torqued it down carefully, slowly,
lovingly, and fit the timing chain, rotating the crankshaft to get things lined up. With
an audible “clunk” the engine stopped, hard, as if someone had thrown a wrench into
the gears. I was pretty sure it wasn‟t supposed to do that. I tried the other direction,
and it turned freely for a bit, then…clunk! Back and forth it would go, and I soon
realized it was stopping at top dead center every time. How could that be? I could
think of only one reason, and I didn‟t like it at all. I must have dropped something
into the bore during assembly and didn‟t notice it. I pondered for a while, trying to
put off the inevitable, but it had to be done so I did it. I took it apart again. To my
surprise, there was nothing in either bore but pistons. I inspected the gasket, and to
my surprise it was deformed, dented by the pistons.
It was, in short, the wrong gasket. It was very close, with the
same bolt pattern, but the bore holes were slightly smaller, just
enough that the pistons hit the metal edges. Obviously, it was
made to fit the 125cc engine. You get that at Ebay sometimes.
I inspected the old gasket. It was still in perfect condition, but
had leaked. Again I wondered why. A close inspection of the head showed a
mysterious bevel around the bolt hole that served as an oil channel; not a nice,
machined surface, but more something that looked like someone had, for reasons
arcane, used a countersink or drill bit on it while finishing off their third beer.
I visualized the O-ring trying to make a seal with this
surface, and suddenly realized why the thing had been
leaking. Not only that, but this head gasket did not have
metal around the bolt holes, while the bore holes did. This
would create a very slight difference in the width of the
mating surfaces, which could give the oil a path out. The
solution, however, was less simple. Should I goop it all up with high temp RTV?
Should I try and fabricate metal facings for the bolt holes? Should I try and source a
slightly larger O-ring? Would it rain tomorrow?
FINAL ASSEMBLY- Again
I found another head gasket, this time OEM. It was (thankfully) a bit different than
the one that had come with my gasket set; specifically, it had no metal grommets set
around the edge and bolt holes, and it was a bit thinner. The O-ring stood proud
above it when held up to the head. I took this as a good sign, but decided to use a dab
of high temp Hondabond as well, just around that crazy bevel. I will spare you the
details of the final final assembly, since they are remarkably similar to those of the
final assembly. Suffice it to say that all went well; at least, until I got to the headers
and mufflers, which perversely did not want to fit. I struggled, pushed, pulled, and
fussed, but in the end it was my creative and abundant supply of cuss words that
carried the day. At length, it was back together, and it was as I was preparing to
mount up that I noticed a minor detail: the seat was not yet covered. I had the new
cover and new foam, but I had been successfully putting off actually doing that
particular chore. I sighed. So be it, I would now become an upholsterer.
Word on the street was that foam was tough to work with, or at least, to cut and
mould. I didn‟t want to spring for a foam cutter for this one
job, but the wife came through again and found me an old
electric knife at the local Goodwill. It cut through that
foam like it wasn‟t even there. Wonderful tool, and handy
for turkeys too. For a base I had selected some pretty
dense 3/4” neoprene, a firm, closed-cell foam that I figured
would keep my backside supported. Over that I planned to
put a 1/4” layer of a nice soft open-cell foam to give it some
cush.
First task was to strip the old cover off and clean up the metal seat pan. Easy, yes?
Easy, no. Honda obviously meant that seat to
last for a while. Holding the cover in place were
about a gazillion sharp little pointy teeth, set all
around the inside of the pan, and each one had
a bite of that cover. Then there were metal
retainers with little rusted bolts and nuts, which
in the end had to be ground off with a die
grinder. At length that was done and there it
was, ready for its new parts. I cut out the new
foam using the old foam as a template, and
shaped it
with the
electric
knife. It really was amazingly like trimming the
breast meat from a roast turkey. I set the new
foam in place and began what turned out to be
an epic battle with the new cover. I yanked, I
pulled, I swore. Nothing availed but persistence,
which worked, as it will, after a time of pain. I
had to pull the edge of the cover down, will all my
might, and try and hook it on one of the sharp
little teeth. I had previously pried them all up
and sharpened them, but vinyl is tough stuff. Bit by bit, inch by inch, tooth by tooth,
it went together. I tapped the teeth down and behold! a new seat. Or kind of new. I
couldn‟t believe it…it actually looked pretty good! As mechanic‟s helpers go, luck has
a poor attendance record, but this time he showed up for work.
So with that, I rolled it out. It seemed very tiny. I pressed the starter. With little
fanfare, it caught and ran. It ran well…and it did not leak! Even with the temperature
hovering just above freezing, it idled smoothly. I swung a leg over, grinned at the wife,
who was taking a video. I pressed the shifter, it lurched a bit as it went into first.
Adjustment needed, but not just now. I rolled on some throttle, eased out the clutch,
and I was underway at last! Down the road we went. I barely noticed the cold. For
the first time in more than 30 years, the little CA95 was on the road! I didn‟t go far,
just down the hill, then turned around and headed back. A guy in a pickup truck
nearly broke his neck trying to get a better look at it. It had to work harder going
uphill, but it continued to run great. I put it away with a feeling of triumph. After a
year of tribulations (most of which were fun) it was over. It worked. There were still
things to do, of course, but the primary work was now over. This is what it looks like
now: