Alright so here’s what went down trying to find cheap parts for my beat-up old ’82 Yamaha. Knew it wouldn’t be easy, but dang, cheaper than a divorce lawyer, right?
Started off simple: looked under the couch cushions. Found dust bunnies and a 2002 nickel. Not helpful. Figured I needed a better plan.
Scrounging Like a Possum
Hit up those local car boot sales first thing Saturday morning. You know the ones – smells like damp hay and faint regret. Scoured every greasy table. Found:
- One cracked handlebar grip (wrong model)
- Three rusty bolts (possibly Yamaha?)
- Someone’s grandma selling embroidered tea cozies (bought one, looked cozy)
Struck out mostly. Time to get digital.
Spent two whole evenings glued to the big online auction place. You know the one. It was brutal. Searched every dumb phrase:
- “old yamaha junk”
- “bits for grandpa’s bike”
- “vintage motorbike paperweight”
Found some stuff! Then saw the shipping cost from Outer Mongolia. Nearly cried. Screamed into a pillow. Felt a bit better.
Decided to get nerdy. Planted my butt at the local library microfiche machine. Dug through actual 1980s newspapers! Found a tiny ad for a breaker’s yard that might still exist. Phoned them. Got a guy named Barry. Sounded like he smoked fifty a day. He growled, “Might have bits. Dump ’em years ago. Maybe some crates out back under the tarp.”
The Treasure (Sort Of)
Drove out to Barry’s yard. Place looked like bikes went to die. Smelled faintly of regret and old oil. Barry waved vaguely towards a mountain of junk under a sagging blue tarp. Dug around. Got spiderwebs in my hair. Nearly impaled myself on a rusty exhaust pipe.
Then? Jackpot. Kinda.
- Dented fuel tank (needs hammering)
- Scuffed side covers (perfect patina!)
- Mysterious carburetor piece (maybe Yamaha? maybe lawnmower? Taking it!)
Barry just shrugged. “Tenner for the lot, mate. Done.” Paid him fast before he changed his mind.
Got home, dumped the greasy haul on the garage floor. Looks like actual garbage. But it’s my garbage now! Some elbow grease, maybe some duct tape… the beast might just sputter back to life next weekend. Or catch fire. We’ll see!