It all started on our 30th wedding anniversary Mexico trip at Bazaar De Mexico, main street Tijuana, when I drew near a red, white, and blue motorcycle parked indoors. I was baffled to find a single strand of yellow nylon rope safeguarding a bike to a desk. The Honda looked very much like an NC35, one of the rarely exported 400cc V-4 sport bikes unique to the Japanese home market. Peering further, my eyes rivet on the RC45 sticker visible on the seat cowl. Holy smokes, the odds of accidentally finding 1 of the 50 elusive, titanium rodded, V-4 rolling showcases retailing for a cool $27,500 leaves me dumbfounded. Bigger trauma yet was the 000002 VIN number. Of all the places on the face of the earth, how did serial number 2 RC45 end up here-in a Mexican Mall?
"What is this motorcycle doing here?" I asked the lady sitting at the desk.
"It's for sale," she answered.
"How much," I ask.
"$10,000 US dollars," she returned.
"Lady that can't be right,"
"I will call the owner on the phone," she offered... " He's not far."
"Thank you."
I'm sure she has made a mistake because Hondas most desirable 750 command dire price tags. Unless, of course, it's the hottest bike on the west coast. Before the owner, 35 year old business man Juan Ruiz, arrives I compare VIN sticker numbers to the stamped frame numbers. They indeed matched.
"Is that right," expecting Senor Ruiz to laugh, "you want $10 grand?"
"No. That's not right," he answered. "I want $9,000 US dollars."
The low numbers resonant in and out my crania cavities. I can feel the two sides of my brain collide, side "grab it." and side "hold on, it's too good to be true." I'm adamantly against having anything to do with hot bikes, and yet I can not stop picturing this exotic RC45 in my garage. I realize the hold back opposition is flying out the window.
"Do you have the key?" I asked. "may I see the paper work, please?"
The paper work trailed the bike's origin from Canada... Unbelievably, the buyer paid $29,000 Canadian dollars in 1995 and sold it to Juan Ruiz in 98 for $10,000 US.
"Why did the owner sell for only $10,000?" I asked.
"All I know," Juan explained, "the owner needed 10 grand immediately for he was in a rush for Cancun."
"May I start the bike?"
"Sure," he said without delay. "Here's the key."
With the key I open the gas cap, shimmering interior of the aluminum tank greet me. Working the ignition lock sparks the bike alive. First a bubbling, whooshing sound echoes inside the gas tank, followed by the starter grind, and ending up with a distinctive V-4 syncopated beat. Smoothly it idles with a noticeable cam gear whine. Blipping the throttle, shoppers pause, the low pitch drone exhaust note projects off the walls. How bazaare. Japans high-tech, prestige bike for collectors is unveiled inside a Mexican Mall.
I was a little short of cash, like, I didn't have access to 9 grand to fork over, but the Bank of Mary did.
"Excuse me Juan I'll be right back."
"We must buy that bike over there" I jabbered as Mary shopped... "he's only asking 9 grand for a RC45"
"Mary", I pleaded later in the day at a Tijuana bar as we enjoyed beer and chips, "we must buy Juan's bike, he doesn't know about RC45's, we can turn a nice profit on our investment."
"HA!" Mary laughed. "If I thought you could make money on this bike, I'd buy it."
The final turned down. Oh well, Mary is the Chief Financial Officer of the household funds. I might be able to rescue Mr. RC45 without funds if only I could think of a way.
"Juan," I said warmly. "it's hard to sell your bike in Tijuana. People are unprepared to buy motorcycles south of the border. My friend, Tom, can fly me down Monday in his private Stinson 108 airplane. I'll can ride your bike to my house in Sacramento and sell fast. How about it?"
Remarkably, Juan agrees. Still not happy, I depart, kissing one sweet deal good bye. If I cannot afford to buy, maybe my friends could?
"Jody," the bikeman. "I found an RC45 for $9,000, you interested?" Jody declined for lack of funds.
"Mike," owner of Chandelle Motorsports. "I found a RC45 for $9,000"
"No kidding?" Mike exclaimed. "but I've got to pass for lack of funds also"
Lack of funds seemed to be everyone's problem, most importantly mine. I wasn't happy and neither was Mary. For her, our anniversary trip was subverted into endless talk of RC45 buying. In my mind, pictures of a Honda dealer, Juan and bike together, tormented me.
At home we talked to Don, Carmichael Honda's manager. He confirmed only 50 RC45's were imported and they cost $27,500 a copy.
"We sold bike number 50," Don added. "Last one offered to the public."
Soon, knowing how much I wanted the deal, Mary acted. First she booked airline tickets to San Diego. Second she rented a U-haul truck. Third she cashed in her CD's. It was time to call Mexico.
"Is the bike still there?" my toes and fingers crossed. "good Juan, expect us tomorrow."
The next morning we walk into Mexico loaded with enough US green backs to be killed on the spot.
Returning to Bazaar De Mexico, after four stess filled days, it's love at first sight. My excitement, admiring RC45's racy lines, stops as I notice something I missed before. The VIN sticker appeared to be altered. Examinating the zeros and the number 2 up close they seem to hiding more numbers. It was obvious each number had been attached separately, not by machine, but with human hands. But still, the numbers were clearly sealed in the factory plastic lamination. Feeling like I'd experienced electro shock therapy. I cry out, "Oh No!"
We were puzzled. We go over the numbers a hundred times before Juan arrives. Clearly the stamped numbers in the aluminum frame showed no sign of tampering. We concluded Honda hand built 50 stickers for 50 limited North American RC45's. It was time to deal..
I was emotionally eclipsed, facing the bike of my dreams, it would pay for Mary to be chief deal maker. She bartered tirelessly the whole day with Juan. Final outcome, she grabbed balls 2 RC45 for $8,000 cash, Yesssssss!!! kissing Mary is not enough, I feel like kissing everything in sight!
Problem #1 the papers. Juan's dad, half owner, objected to his part of the bike crossing the border without legal signing of the Mexican title. Hours passed without dad producing any title papers.
"We planned this meeting," I said agitated. "Why aren't the papers ready ?"
"I'm sorry," Juan apologized. "many people have promised to buy my bike, but you are the first to return with the money."
"Listen Juan," I pleaded as the sun was setting. "Sometimes Dads are just not right Mary and I are leaving today. Sell us the bike now or we walk."
That was a bold faced lie in hopes of pressuring the seller.
"Yes, the bike is yours," Juan said. "What about the border?"
I suggest leaving the Mexican title and Mexican license plate behind. Mary would pocket the cash and ride with Juan. Together they would walk across the border. The three of us would meet on the other side. Mr. RC and I would run the border-plateless.
I was just giggling in my helmet sitting on that RC45. Only in dreams have I done this before. It was time to be serious before taking to the streets on a bike worth a small fortune. I prepare for the required tall first gear launch, it would prove to be more like third. Opening the fuel injection butterflies would redefine my word "instantaneous." The once sticky Dunlop tires were dehydrated having aged four years, I found their good grip missing.
I raise engine RPMs and feel the clutch strain. The mounting power, in a linear explosion, catapults me at an alarming rate. Shifting into second the speed intensifies. Evading the perverse Tijuana traffic the engine dies. Coming to tire hopping stop there is a microsecond to scrape my thoughts together before the on-rush of cars. "Heh heh heh, that's embarrassing, let me try that again." I start, slip, point and shoot the bike up to speed. Hordes of Tijuana Taxis pave my way. They are hell bent on passing the "Gringo" on the pretty bike. It's a race to keep Juan's bumper in sight. They assault the oily, bomb crater course regardless of the consequences. However, on two wheels, bucking and skidding, the result raises my hair under the helmet. Juan motions for me to pass and continue alone to the border. I kill the engine and coast between 50 cars backed up waiting to cross. Fresh air replaces the fallout of emissions, breathing freely again, I easily push the 450-pound bike.
I wait, drivers licensee in hand, for the US Customs Official to finish inspecting a lady on a 10 speed bike crossing the border.
Smiling and walking the unlicensed bike under the guards nose I beam, "US citizen."
"Halt" his voice made my knees go weak. "why are you pushing your bike?"
"Sir," confessing to the least of my infractions. "I didn't want to wait in that line of cars."
"Will your bike run," he asked.
"Yes sir," I affirmed pushing the starter button.
His hand waves me on. Without bothering to explain the missing license plate, I bolt. Freedom is a scant 200 feet away. I pull the trigger on the throttle and incinerate the clutch. The startling take-off progresses into dangerous "S" turns maneuvers. Pushing the bars I scuffle between concrete blocks devised to keep speed down. Rolling off the throttle a notch, KAPOW! The engine quits, locking the rear tire enough to pitch me forward against the tank. The ride was so brief I wait to look over my shoulder. Much to my relief, the guard did not noticed. I've escape!
With my NEW bike tied inside I dance around the U-Haul truck. As a result, surveillance cameras on the US Customs building swivel to record the action. I end the dance, not from camera shyness, but in fear of a strip search.
"I'm amazed," says Juan. "How easy you got through the border."
Problem #2 our money. Mary counted out 80 new 100 dollar bills on the front seat but Juan didn't touch the stuff. He thought we were passing out funny money.
"I'm very sorry," apologizes Juan. "I'm not familiar with your new bills."
Mary had to run the bills through the nearest Cambio verification machine to satisfy Juan.
"Now I can buy a big American Harley" declares Juan.
"I never felt comfortable riding the Honda," he admitted. "I rode it twice in a year."
Problem #3 registration. The local DMV failed to locate the bike's VIN number in their computer. Carmichael Honda also failed to trace the VIN number in the dealers network computer. Worst of all, law enforcement failed to find any record of the VIN number in their nation wide thief computer.
"That's strange," says the investigator. "we have every VIN number but yours in our computer."
"Is that bad?" I ask.
"I can't say," he went on. "it's just strange."
Invitations were out for friends to come over and comment on the strange VIN number. Their opinions range from, "it's hot." to "So what if it's hot." "Keep it." The capper was, "Damn Honda's don't hold their resale value."
Dan Kyle Racing, west coast RC45 specialist, spelled out, over the phone a characteristic style to Honda's stamped numbers. With his help, I believe the numbers are 100% genuine.
Problem #4 the bikes origin.
"Play it safe with the DMV and claim to have race the bike since 1994 without registering it," John, a bike collector, warns. "or suffer red tape overload."
Signing on the dotted line under "PENALTY of PERJURY was a scary proposition.
"I'll solve the DMV paper work problem," offers Mary. " Just truck the bike out front and let me do the talking."
"That's a pretty motorcycle," the lady DMV inspector says. "but isn't $8,000 high for a 94 Honda 750?"
Before I might justify my prize Mary gestured silence and I risked being kicked.
Sampling Mr. RC on the way home, I'm struck on the smooth, unhurried nature it propels me down the freeway. The stable handling has time to grow since my first hasty ride across the boarder 3 months ago. Ha, life is perfect, the bike is right and the title is in the mail.
Problem #5. "Titled denied" explained the DMV letter. "you must post a bond for 3 years equal to the cost of the bike"
"What in hell is the bond for?" frustrated, I question the bungling over the phone.
"It's a legal thing," the clerk confirmed. "The DMV doesn't want to be sued."
We ante up another $100 dollars and delay celebrating for two stress filled weeks. Ultimately the title to RC45 number 2 arrives by mail. Mary and I pop the cork. At last we can celebrate and enjoy the humor of the whole mess sipping champagne in the hot tub.
Problem #6 I can't sell.
"Did you place an add in Cycle News?" a voice over the phone asked.
"Yes sir I did," My speech is sluggish with sleep. "who is this?"
"My name is Daniel," proclaimed the voice. "Do you still have the bike?"
"Yes sir, I do" recalling the exciting ride the day before. "It was magic on my favorite twisty highway."
"I collect low number bikes" He went on. "Your asking price of $24,000 is fair enough, can I send you a check today?"
"Dan," I apologize. "I'm not hot to sell. It's winning me over."
"I can replace your number 2 with a new RC45 from a LA dealership," he pressured.
"That won't work," I said. "I would still owe the Bank of Mary."
Mr. RC had dealt a major change to my pick of motorcycles. My highly modified, locally famous, belt drive 500cc Interceptor, after 98,000 miles, pulls shed duty. Replaced by big brother V-4, it sits idle
and broken hearted, no more a part of my riding plans. Not long ago I 
could say" Big engine, big tire, big
deal, about 750cc motorcycles, lately, I'm mad about them.
"Keep the bike." Mary sighs. "We had nothing but trouble getting number 2. Besides, I knew all along you wouldn't sell."
"But," she added. "you owe me another trip to Tijuana; and don't even think about buying any motorcycle of your dreams."
Smiling I nod, lost in my favorite daydream, apexing Pacific Coast Highway 1 on Mr.RC.
