One of the best mechanic's in the business, Merlyn Plumlee doesn't hold it against the author for destroying one of "his" race bikes. image: thanks, honda

There are some things in life you just can't take back. No matter what you do or say to try and make it better, it's just not enough.

Twenty six years ago, I found myself on a cold winter day at Willow Springs throwing a leg over Freddie Spencer's Factory Honda Formula One machine, the RS1000. I was working for Motorcyclist magazine at the time, and Honda graciously extended an exclusive invitation to test the machine on which Spencer had won two races and finished third in the F-1 championship. The following year, the class structure would change. This machine would be relegated to museum status, and Spencer would be off to the European Grand Prix wars, where he would make history by beating the great Kenny Roberts to become the youngest rider in FIM history to win the 500cc Grand Prix championship, and the first rider to bring Honda the coveted 500cc title.

Merlyn forgave me a long time ago because that's how Merlyn is, but I never really did. In 15 years as a motorcycle journalist, I never wrecked a motorcycle that wasn't my own. Except for Merlyn's beautiful RS1000.

One of the things that made the RS1000 so special was its origin. At the time, the AMA had created a new class called Formula One that pitted aging Yamaha TZ750s against a new-tech wave of 500cc two-stroke GP machines and four-strokes of 1025cc displacement but otherwise practically unlimited. The rules made the RS1000 possible, but the hands that helped create it belonged to Honda team stalwart Merlyn Plumlee.

Merlyn is an appropriate name for a man who won seven Superbike championships, and who heavily influenced American roadracing as a member of the American Honda road racing dynasty on and off for more than 20 years. From 1982, when he worked on the RS1000 project until the end of the 2007 racing season, Merlyn made magic in the Honda shop.

A true gentleman, Plumlee never let the all-out war between Honda and Yamaha cloud his actions. Here he gives Tom Kipp's Yamaha a bump-start in 1996. image by dean adams

And not just with machines. The list of riders who were transformed from a stock of raw wide-eyed talent to calculating champion under Merlyn's mentorship is unrivaled in this sport. Steve Wise, Freddie Spencer, Fred Merkel, Wayne Rainey, Bubba Shobert, Ben and Eric Bostrom, Jake Zemke, Nicky Hayden—every one of these men climbed to the top of the podium on the steps of Merlyn's nurturing knowledge. Everyone fortunate enough to know Merlyn—even ham-fisted journalists—benefited from his quiet wisdom and gracious friendship.

Twenty six years ago, I fit squarely into the ham-fisted journalist category. A budding road racer with more desire than experience, I rode the RS1000 after testing Bruce Hammer's TZ750 and Wes Cooley's Yoshimura Suzuki for comparison. The RS1000 was fresh off a win at the Pocono National, last race of the season, with Spencer at the controls. Now it was my turn to try and gain insight into this magical machine, attended to this day by Mike Velasco and Dennis Zickrick, part of the Spencer team. Ten laps into my day, I lost the front end entering turn three at Willow and crashed heavily, breaking bones, grinding holes through elbows and hips and thrashing the bike.

The beautiful Plumlee-built RS1000 moments before the author pitched it to the clouds. image, thanks ken vreeke

Riding back to the pits in the ambulance, all I could think of was how many hours of Merlyn's life he must have dedicated to this machine, how many all-nighters he and his guys in the shop must have pulled to give Spencer every advantage they could. And how woefully inadequate any words of apology would be.

Merlyn forgave me a long time ago because that's how Merlyn is, but I never really did. In 15 years as a motorcycle journalist, I never wrecked a motorcycle that wasn't my own. Except for Merlyn's beautiful RS1000. And ever since then, whenever I run into Merlyn in the Honda race shop or at the track, I feel the need to apologize all over again.

In a world increasingly colored grey, motorcycle racing remains as close to black and white as you're likely to find in professional sports. The stopwatch doesn't lie, and the starter's flag waits for no one. Simple. Decisive. Brutally elegant.

Merlyn is a gentleman in a violent sport. He spent his career in a pursuit that rewards knowledge and commitment, and his love for racing is without peer. Despite intensive treatments for nearly two years, he didn't leave the Honda race shop until the cancer had wrapped around his spine and he could no longer walk.

When I heard the news of the new tumor yesterday, I called Merlyn at home, and we spoke of that day at Willow so long ago.

"That sure was a pretty bike," said Merlyn. I couldn't stop myself from apologizing again. "Oh, no need to apologize," he said. "It was a race bike and race bikes get crashed."

One RS1000 ready for the crusher. Vreeke and the bike bounce into the sand of Willow Springs. image, thanks ken vreeke

I'm sorry Merlyn. I truly am.

Ends

Ken Vreeke worked at Cycle, Cycle World and Motorcyclist magazines before starting his own advertising agency, Vreeke and Associates.