Several years ago a customer in Australia sent me a pretty nice set of vintage Honda carburetors to rebuild. After he got them back, he complained they did not work correctly, so I paid for him to return them to me. Going over them carefully, I found nothing wrong with them. I then of course shipped them back to him—again on my dime. Long story short, after almost a year of trying to help him, including repeatedly taking time from other work to lead him through the diagnostic process, in the end, he finally admitted to me that each time when I brought up the subject of ignition timing—and I did mention it several times—he had not been truthful when he said he had checked the ignition timing. In the end he admitted he had no idea how to adjust or even check his ignition timing. Another mechanic on his end had finally made the bike run right by servicing and adjusting the ignition. Wow. Well, at least he told me. But that and the fact that the bike was finally right was the only satisfaction that came my way.

When I began doing "carbs in the mail" some of my coworkers at Kawasaki corporate thought it strange that someone would attempt to do this: "You're kidding. How's that going to work?" I understood. I had even more time in shops than they did, so I knew very well why they were incredulous—in any pro mechanic's mind doing carbs by mail is akin to doing gall bladder surgery over the phone. I get that. I just had decided it could work. And it does work, ninety-nine percent of the time. But if you want to know how intuitively and completely a professional mechanic feels the inherent problems in this; if you want insight into the ingrained professional’s understanding of how often—virtually always—an engine needs other things at the same time that it needs carb work, just imagine the look on these guys' faces. They looked at me as if I was a Martian. It was priceless! It spoke volumes. And I am reminded of it every so often.

I have had a few other incidents like the Australian one. Some of these customers failed to test their ignition coils and some ignored the condition of their fuel tanks, things I advised they check, and which they for whatever reasons did not, maybe could not. As with the Australian customer, I held their hands all through the aftermath. But it involved stresses on both me and the customer.

Vintage Hondas were made at a time when it was considered normal to be constantly maintaining them. That's how they're built. They are high-maintenance, very fiddly. Add to that the fact that the Japanese achieved the reputation and success that they have by figuring out how to make quality products reasonably priced not by using cheap labor or cheap parts, but by exercising superior engineering. But this engineering, as superior as it is, does not allow systems to work without occasional human intervention. I value these machines highly, love 'em in fact. But you have to understand what the term "high maintenance" means here. Consider that when I get one of these 50-year old machines into my shop I find so much needing to be done it invariably costs much more than the customer paid for the bike to make it right. Always. Even when in for only relatively minor things, on very low mile bikes that actually appear pristine. They always need a lot—it adds up. I'm not talking restoration. I'm talking about simply making up for what in light of these bikes' manufacturer-proposed maintenance schedule amounts to abuse and neglect. If for example one of these bikes has 10,000 miles on it, then in the course of that 10,000 miles that machine should have received complete, axle-to-axle maintenance services at least three times (not counting the set-up service). And of course it didn’t, often not even once. Because of this, each adjustment or procedure on these bikes always turns into ten. It’s inevitable. Am I complaining about that? No. I am just thinking about the phrase, “due diligence”. It means something.

And these same customers often say, “But that’s more than I paid for the bike!” This shows a fundamental misunderstanding about the vintage Japanese bike world. Unless your old Honda is a Turbo, a CBX1000, a sandcast 750, a Black Bomber 450, or other similarly historically or technically significant, even watershed model—and in many cases not even then—it is not an investment. You’re not going to come out ahead financially. Extremely few vintage Hondas are worth more than it takes to whip them into condition after decades of typical neglect, let alone to fully restore them. That by definition flies in the face of the idea of investment. Owners of vintage Hondas can be forgiven for not knowing this, but I’m not sure how they can be involved at a significant level and not.

Due diligence. It means the care you should be taking. If a lawyer hadn't come up with the term, a mechanic like myself would have. Maintenance is far more than having your carbs rebuilt. At the point of carburetor rebuilding you should already have planned or completed a score of other processes, most of which are not beyond the customer’s abilities but sadly seem to be beyond his motivation. Carburetor work comes after cylinder compression, valve adjustment, and ignition system service, not before. Most of the time these things can be more impactive than even the carburetors, often much more. And in all cases, if a customer doesn't make these things right, doesn't do the necessary due diligence, he won't be happy if Byron Hines rebuilds his carburetors.