For the first time in years, the space where my Honda CB750 café racer lived is empty. No faint smell of petrol. No tools left out from a job that was “only going to take half an hour”. No bike sitting there inviting me to take the long way home.

The garage feels strangely quiet now.

I always knew this day would arrive eventually, but that didn’t make it feel any less strange.

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From Run-Down Import to Running Motorcycle

When the bike first arrived, it was far from the machine it eventually became. It was a unloved import that had been left alone for some time before it finally reached my garage. The paint was worn, the mechanicals needed attention, and it definitely wasn’t something most people would have chosen as a starting point. However, that was exactly why I wanted it.

I didn’t buy a finished bike. I bought a project. Something that needed time, patience, and more than a bit of stubbornness.

The early months were less about customisation and more about resurrection. Carbs off and cleaned. Wiring checked and rechecked. Fluids changed. Endless hours spent diagnosing small issues that felt enormous at the time. Plenty of evenings spent staring at it wondering why it still refused to behave properly.

Then came the first proper start and ride.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t smooth. But it ran, and that moment changed everything. The bike stopped being just a project and became something personal.

The Slow Shift Into Modification

Once a motorcycle runs well, ideas start to form.

Small changes came first. Adjusting the stance. Tweaking the seating position. Improving the riding feel. Each change led to another, and gradually the café racer vision began to take shape.

It wasn’t a dramatic overnight transformation. It happened over time, in small steps. Late evenings in the garage. Weekend tinkering sessions. Trial, error, learning, and the occasional step backwards.

The bike evolved slowly, and so did my confidence and skills.

Over time my CB750 became my escape machine. The bike I rode to clear my head, to explore, and to justify taking the scenic route whenever possible. It carried me through countless rides in good weather and the odd ride in questionable British conditions too, which is not ideal without a front mudguard.

It became part of my routine and part of my life.

The Question Everyone Asks

Why sell a bike you’ve invested so much time in?

It’s a fair question, and one I asked myself more than once.

Selling something you’ve built and shaped with your own hands feels odd. There’s time, effort, and a lot of memories tied up in it. But sometimes you simply know when it’s time for a new chapter.

Projects evolve. Priorities change. New ideas begin to take up space in your head and in the garage.

Keeping the bike forever would have been easy. But it also would have meant it slowly becoming something static rather than something used. Motorcycles are meant to be ridden, not stored away as finished objects.

Letting it go meant it could continue doing what it was built to do.

A New Owner and Familiar Roads

The part that made the decision easier was knowing who it was going to. The bike hasn’t gone to sit under a cover. It’s gone to someone who plans to ride it properly. That matters.

Even better, it’s heading to the Peak District.

That felt right straight away. Those roads suit the bike perfectly. Rolling hills, sweeping bends, ever-changing weather, and endless reasons to keep riding. Knowing it will continue its life on those roads brings a lot of comfort.

It isn’t the end of the bike’s story. It’s simply the end of my chapter with it.

The Empty Garage

Loading it onto the bike movers van was a strange moment. A mix of pride, nostalgia, and a quiet sense of closure.

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I’m proud of what the bike became. It’s not a concourse restoration but a shed/garage built modified classic with an honest patina and a great exhaust note. Proud of the journey from run-down import to a machine full of character. Proud that it will continue being used and enjoyed.

The garage feels empty for now, but empty space rarely stays empty for long.

If anything, it usually marks the beginning of the next idea.

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