I can't ride it, but then again, even when it was new I couldn't ride it. But it was a favorite then and remains so today, holding a special place of honor atop my PC, leaning against a bent XS850 exhaust valve, so that it can stand on it's wheels, as all proper motorcycles should. 

The bike in question is a Matchbox Honda CR450 race bike, bought for me by my mom when I was ten or so, perhaps, circa 1965 - in the days when matchbox models came in actual matchboxes, and Hotwheels were not quite yet an idea. The tiny plastic centerstand is long-lost, and the metallic sea-green paint is chipped and worn, though there remains a bit of flat black on the seat, from when I decided I would paint it to add a bit of liliaputian realism (I might have been 11 then). The remnants for the front fender can be seen where it was broken off, though I can't remember the circumstances of that breakage now, lost in the dim recesses of my memory. I'm sure it had to do with vigorous usage.

I can vividly recall a day spent alone at home, out sick from school, both mom and dad away at work, making jump ramps out of wooden blocks, sending the thing flying, wheelying thru streets I created, sliding around corners, in fact, commiting - in miniature - the very sorts of hooliganism that I embraced during my early motorcycling career. Were the seeds planted then?

This motorbike, though tiny, is the oldest motorcycle I own, and does exist as an actual antique, in the world of automotive miniatures. It's loss would be a tragedy, for me. This tiny CR450: the motorcycle of the boy, who was the father of the man, both enthusing about motorcycles.