Sometimes, growth looks like a half-disassembled motorcycle sitting in my garage. It’s scratched, dented, weathered, and imperfect, but so am I. And maybe that’s why I see so much of myself in this little 1986 Suzuki Savage, a single-cylinder street bike that’s smaller than what I’m used to but full of potential.
I didn’t buy this bike because I needed it. I bought it because I needed something. Something to teach me patience, intention, and the value of effort. Something to remind me that even when things feel like they’ve fallen apart, there’s still a way to put them back together, piece by piece.
I found the bike listed for only $100. It had clearly seen better days and it’s hard to believe it was new at one point, but something about it called to me.
With such a low asking price, the owner got dozens of offers. Many for more cash than he was even asking. So, I sent him a message saying I have cash and a trailer . . . and I want it! Just a few hours later, I set off on my lunch break with a truck and trailer to make this happen.
I got it back home in one piece after securing it with admittedly a few too many tie-downs and a solid ‘that’s not going anywhere’ slap. It was overkill, sure, especially for a bike this small. But where others saw junk, I saw something more of a reflection of myself in its pitted chrome, weathered yet full of potential.
The first step was straightforward, removing the seat and gas tank to expose the frame of the bike. From there, I stripped it down to nothing but the engine and wheels, transforming a fully assembled machine into a puzzle of parts, like a set of adult Legos waiting to be cleaned and reassembled. I never second-guessed myself. Every setback was just another challenge to solve, and I knew I’d figure it out.
This bike isn’t perfect. Its flaws are visible from every angle, etched into its body by years of use and neglect. But I don’t see its imperfections as flaws. I see them as the marks of its story, every dent and scratch a chapter that brought it to me. If it were flawless, it wouldn’t have traded hands to where it is now. It wouldn’t have this opportunity to become something more.
And I hope someday someone sees me the same way. I hope they look at my weathered edges, my messy past, and see the potential for growth and renewal. But for now, I’m not there yet. I’m still learning to see myself the way I see this bike: not as a sum of its broken parts but as a whole, with all the beauty that comes from wear and tear.
That’s why I decided to pull the engine. It was a big step, maybe even a risky one, but with the leaks and finish issues, I knew it was the only way to do the job right. I lifted it from the frame, stripped it down to bare metal, sanded away any rust and imperfections, then resealed, repainted, and reinstalled it, ensuring it was as strong and refined as it should be.
With the engine reinstalled, and a few preventative issues addressed (the top end is notorious for oil leaks), it was time to install the new carburetor and get everything back in place. And that’s where it sits now – rebuilt, refined, and ready for whatever comes next.
This bike is more than a project, it’s a mirror. It’s teaching me to trust myself, to embrace imperfection, and to take on challenges even when they scare me. And maybe, just maybe, when it’s finally rebuilt and shining in the sunlight, I’ll see a little bit of myself in it, a reminder of what’s possible when you stop playing it safe and decide to try.