Alas, Poor Buell Blast…

The bike that was my first real motorcycle has ceased production, I found out today. That's it, the little cube in the picture (well, not MY bike). Although it wasn't a classic and it was underpowered and guys with small weenies liked to make fun of it (mostly in the safety of print) and there weren't many of them out there, and it did get curious stares often, I did love it. Oh, yes, I loved my little Reflex too, but not quite in the same way. The scooter was sleek, refined, smooth and needed no additions; it was a complete blue work of art.

My little Blast was more wart-like. But simple, basic. It was a steal, used, and had a mysterious starting/back-firing issue at first that the illustrious HD/Buell mechanics failed to solve. Instead, a denizen of a terrific little online forum offered a simple solution that resulted in a bike that, while still a burbly, tater-tot-sounding single, an itty bitty Harley, ran like a top after that. It was a little, lightweight but bomber piece of naked goodness. Yes, I made my first offering to the bike-eating juniper with my little Blast. Discovered the true horror of freeway rain grooves. My first adventures in cosmetic mods and their addictive qualities, not to mention the meditative satisfaction of simply polishing, gazing and contemplating the possibilities, were had with my Blast. It was not fast, but could turn on a dime, if you would only do the balancing. It ate twisties for breakfast, if you were only brave enough to let it run wild.

If I had never had visions of freeway riding of any consequence, this is the bike I would still have. Self preservation at speed in crazyland called. The lure of the "road trip" and the call of the modern Huck Finn adventure called. Yes, the dumb but vast super slab was whispering my name. So much easier to hear when there are no doors and windows around you. Strange siren call. Still I took my first road trip with my Blast, even if it ended badly and solo with double luggage strapped and stacked onto every last millimeter of its little pillion space. It was my ride up a harrowing late-night, chilly, black twisting pass of sudden and fierce gusting winds, after a long, too hot day of sweat, and too many extra unplanned miles. Not to mention the crash. My first ride, nonetheless.

Apparently Buell feels that the Blast does not deliver the proper message or impression of the entire line that is its bread and butter: American Sports Bikes. Too bad. I thought it was a great intro bike myself. I didn't give Buell a second thought originally; they were ugly. Cruiser dreams only. Then, unexpectedly, the ugliness grew on me. Somehow the oddity began to appeal. I don't think I would have ever given Buell another thought if it were not for the Blast (the Lightnings are über ugly I still think).

So long, Buell Blast. You were my wee potato mobile for a formative riding year. My first moto-crack high. You taught me how to handle the basics and even appreciate that 360 lbs was lighter than I thought was possible, even as I had to huff you up out of the grips of the evil driveway shrubbery one day. Another first. Sweet dreams.