Hey there junior badass, ever feel like there’s a caged animal trapped inside of you?
Only one cure for that: getting a fucking sick motorcycle. A 1971 Honda CB350. This golden lady will get you to work like a full-blown go hard, transport you and your shotgun through the zombie apocalypse, and give you a new platform for barreling down the boulevard with the wind tearing at your clothes screaming, “I AM ALIVE!” on the way to fucking bikram yoga.
Runs like corn through a goose. Engine rebuilt a year ago with ~400 miles on it since then.
I put new tires on the old girl, because you don’t deprive a classy lady of classy shoes. I gave her a new chain because she needed some fucking jewelry.
Electric start, kickstart, fucking push start, you name it.
Why am I selling it? Cos being alive rules, and I’m far too gnarly of a dude to have a motorcycle. I see a ramp, I’m gonna hit that motherfucker going 300 mph, backflip over the 405.
$2300 gets you the Golden Lady, two helmets, some fucking saddlebags, a shop manual, a quart of oil (plus all the oil that’s up in her right now), a full tank of PREMIUM MOTHERFUCKING GASOLINE (91 octaaaaaannneeee), some links to my favorite YouTube videos, a short story about robots, a cup of coffee with me, and whatever kind of donut you want.