Possessed

Finn came home for dinner on Sunday.

He had a new friend he thought we should meet.

As he was headed back to his car, he walked past the Blast, that I had parked out in the driveway.

“Goodbye, Satan!”

Finn’s friend said, “Oh, it can’t be that bad…”

“Oh, it can be. You have no idea….”

 

***

 

So yesterday

When it was warm and sunny

I took Satan for a little ride

Satan’s speedometer

stopped working

 

SATAN!

 

***

 

I will never be able to sell this motorcycle

and look myself in the eye in the mirror without knowing shame

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Donut

All I wanted was a donut.

Is that so wrong?

Judging from the universe’s reaction to this simple animal desire, apparently I should be eating more healthy.

 

***

 

I woke up Saturday morning, and the sun was out in force, my little electronic weather station showed rapidly rising temperatures in the high 30s, my roads were free of snow and ice, and Sweet Doris From Baltimore was in the kitchen starting to whip up a pot of hot coffee.

“You know what I’d really like?” she asked. “A danish.”

Me, of course, I wanted… well, you already know that.

My small town of Jefferson has only a few commercial establishments, but one of the better ones is the Jefferson Pastry Shop, which whips up fresh-baked goods in a tiny building that was the original home of our renowned butcher shop, Hemp’s Meats. Hemp’s, which operated in that roughly 20 by 25 foot building from 1849 until 1981, finally outgrew it and built a building that is roughly 10 times the size that sits at the back of the older building’s parking lot. The two businesses are now neighbors. The Pastry Shop celebrates that history by retaining the old butcher shop’s cast iron overhead hook-and-rail system that was originally used for processing, storage and display of…. the meats.

Hemp’s and the Pastry Shop are no more than 3/4 of a mile from my front door, so they’re a perfect destination — with occasional scenic detour — for a short motorcycle ride. The knife wielding pros at Hemp’s see me so often, that if they hear the sound of a BMW boxer in the parking lot, they know enough to head into the walk-in and grab a fresh sirloin before their front door even opens.

This, though, was a donut run. A donut run, I should point out, by a sleepy, hungry man who had not yet had a cup of coffee. The situation called for the smallest, simplest form of transport available, as I didn’t intend to tarry or to extend the ride.

I just wanted a donut.

So I grabbed the keys to the son Finn’s former Buell Blast, which was sitting closest to the garage door, and is the smallest, lightest motorcycle in the stable by nearly 100 pounds.

In retrospect, this might not have been among my better decisions.

 

***

 

Despite having been sitting for about eight ice storm, snow storm and otherwise shinkage-inducingly cold days, the Blast fired up on the second compression stroke, and came right up to a steady thump-thump-thump of an idle. I rolled it down the driveway and once rolling toed it into first gear.

Whereas I might normally troll around my neighborhood to get some heat in any motor before heading out to The Jefferson Pike, this morning I skipped it.

I just wanted a donut.

And although the throttle response was a little less than crisp, and the gearshifts were a tad high effort due to what was probably close to solid oil in the baby Harley’s primary case, the little motorcycle seemed glad to be alive, and made a happy braap as it pulled me up the Pike toward town.

After only half a minute on the roll, the Pastry Shop was in sight. I caught a break in what passes for traffic in Jefferson, pulled a big hairy U-turn across The Pike, and rolled the little Moto right up next to the curb directly in front of the shop. The shoulder there isn’t wide enough to park any car, but feels custom made for that small motorcycle.

I killswitched it, yanked my lid and went inside.

Clearly, I wasn’t the only one on the hunt for sinkers.

In the clusteraphobically small space the shop has left for customers, I was fourth in line. These tight confines enforce a certain intimacy with one’s neighbors and fellow donut enthusiasts. This intimacy meant that the gentleman in front of me couldn’t help but hear the small sighs of disappointment as his enthusiastic order cleared out several of the pastry varieties that were in my personal confection lust list.

Finally, my turn at the counter came up, and I put together a small bag of danish, donuts and a impulse purchase of some fresh coconut macaroons that looked too good to pass on.

I paid the nice lady, headed back outside, dropped my paper bag into the Blast’s soft saddlebag, and pulled my helmet and gloves back on.

I swung a leg over, flipped up the sidestand, pulled in the clutch and pressed the starter.

Instead of the instant thump-thump-thump I expected, on the second compression stroke I heard a distinct ‘FOOOP!’ of some sort of misfire under the tank, and the engine did not catch.

I hit the starter a second time, and the engine spun enthusiastically without even the hint of any action towards actually starting.

My uncaffinated and undonutted mind struggled for comprehension. This bike had been running less than 2 minutes before. What could have possibly happened? The accursed and suspect Blast ‘auto-choke’ no doubt had something to do with this.

I’ll admit that I was in a persistent state of reduced cognitive ability. Reduced Comprehension Greg settled on the idea that the misfire had fouled a spark plug. Wet plugs, of course, will not fire, and not firing clearly was at least one component of what I was experiencing.

In my rising state of frustration, on the road to panic, I opened the throttle slightly and pressed the starter again. For 10 full seconds the big single spun to no effect. Since it clearly wasn’t working, and I was out of ideas, I tried it one more time.

Coffee withdrawal is an ugly, ugly thing — rendering its victims clinically insane — and there I was, trying the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

My diagnosis was clear – total bikesanity.

Finally, after the better part of a minute of impotent ‘whoop-whooop-whoooop’ing, reality finally pierced through the fog.

This little bike had nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nada.

Donut.

Looked like I was going to need a plan B.

 

***

 

In retrospect, I probably just should have taken my helmet off and eaten a donut.

But I didn’t do that.

It’s an admitted character flaw that when something goes pearshaped, I go full-on monomaniacal until things are fixed.

It’s not like we’re talking about a long distance — I can just about see the street in front of my house from the back of the bakery’s parking lot.

In the scheme of things, The Blast is a relatively small motorcycle — running about 375 pounds with a half tank of fuel. Jefferson Pike, running back from town, is mostly downhill. Not entirely, but mostly.

“WTF,” I thought, I’ll just push and drift the bike back home. How hard could it be?”

The less detail I share about what a poor decision that was the better. Sufficient to say that with no fuel in my personal tank, my blood sugar, and with it, my access to muscular energy, went red zone about 3/4s of the way home.

While scouting a short cut across a back yard leading into the neighborhood, a dog that was tied out went into full freak-out mode. The backdoor of the house slid open, and Finn’s buddy Rachel appeared.

“Hi Rachel! Bike broke — mind if I cut across your yard?”

“Hey, knock yourself out. You need a little help?”

“Sure — front of your yard is a little soft. If you could just help me get back onto the cul-de-sac, that would be great.”

Rachel stepped right up, grabbed the right handlebar, and helped move my wheels back to the pavement. In this sad little tale, Rachel is our hero, earning herself her first example of biker beer debt.

A little more puffing and a fair amount of sweating later, I found myself at the bottom of my driveway, with just one uphill sprint to get back in the barn. I think that repeat of my cardiac stress test I’d been thinking about can probably wait another year.

Now it was past time for that cup of coffee. And maybe two donuts.

 

***

 

A day or two later, I found myself with a few minutes and yanked the Blast’s tank to that I could access the plug. With the Harley Davidson branded plug in my hand, it was instantly clear my low-sugar addled prior diagnostics had been dead wrong.

The plug was dry and looked like a textbook perfect spot-on tuning illustration from the bike’s shop manual. I hooked the plug wire back up, grounded the plug to the primary case, pressed the starter, and got a big fat, perfect spark.

Given the classic moto-diagnostic trinity of air, fuel and spark, spark was clearly not my problem. Air is all around us, so fuel was the likely culprit. I moved in close to the Blast’s cylinder head and carb, and then literally smacked myself in the face with the palm of my hand. The ‘FOOOOP!’ that I’d heard wasn’t a plug getting fouled, it was a misfire in the intake that had blown the carb clean off the engine. Had it not been bolted into the side of the airbox, I’d have likely found it on the other side of the Jefferson Pike.

Shouldn’t this…. be connected to THAT?

I’ll admit I spent a few minutes trying to route a manual choke cable, adapter and slide I’d had stashed on the workbench, but the Blast’s undertank packaging makes that very challenging — the area on the back side of the bike’s Keihin CV40 carb is the most crowded real-estate in the entire machine.

Once again frustrated in this, I reassembled the bike in the stock configuration — complete with accursed ‘auto-choke’ — and upon completion, it fired back up as if nothing had ever occurred.

Given that – in typical Maryland fashion – the string of freezing nights had segued into a freak warm snap, the just after sundown temperature of about 70 degrees was too much tempting to pass on — it was time to check my work.

Without turning the bike off, I went inside and grabbed my canvas field coat, my Bell 500 open face and my elkskin gauntlets. The first warm day was too soon for bugs, so a full face and its visor were optional.

Running down Horine Road on an inexplicably sensual tropical feeling February evening, the big single got a little heat in it, and really came alive. Despite the fact that I want so much to hate this motorcycle — given all the trouble it has caused me — I just can’t quite manage to get there.

Although I’m too young to remember a riding world dominated by BSA, Norton, Velocette and Matchless singles, the ghosts of those old 59 Club Rockers were riding alongside me this evening. As the Blast’s 500 single found its happy place well up in the rev band in third gear, the pulse of the machine spoke to me in my bones. Horine Road follows Catoctin Creek away from Jefferson heading down toward the Potomac, and the Blast danced through a series of increasingly tight and technical corners — turning in lightly on trailing throttle, exhaust burbling — taking throttle easily and using all of the engine’s torque on each corner’s exit.

The motorcycling world may have moved on and left this behind, but there is an undenyable charm to a 500 Single ridden well in its element, and that charm was fully evident this springlike evening.

I followed Maryland 464 across the back of town — shifting up to fourth gear and running between 50 and 60 mph and marvelling at the torque and acceleration it could muster with its revs up on the exits of 464’s sweeping corners. Lander Road’s roller coaster hills brought me back to town, and I found myself back in the driveway far sooner than I’d have preferred.

I’ll admit that after turning off the engine, I turned the key back on and restarted it, just to know.

Of course, with only a three step walk home, there was no drama this time.

I think though, that for breakfast I’ll stick to some fresh fruit and yogurt from now on.

Loud

Maryland doesn’t have winters.

Its a major reason why motorcycling me chose to settle here.

Oh, sure, it snows every once in while. And while every once in a great while you might even have to take a shovel in hand and do something about it, most Maryland snows can be waited out — ignore them for a few days and they go away.

If I, as a Marylander, were to attempt to convince someone from the Southern Tier of New York, or Wisconsin, or Vermont, or Montana, that I experienced actual Winters, I would not hear the end of their riotous laughter until we both were experiencing flowers blooming all up verifiable spring.

Which is why its a tad odd that we Marylanders just punched out of a 23 day period where we never saw any temperature above the freezing mark, with a full 10 day run of nights in the low single digits. We didn’t get any snow – we just froze our collective butts off. So instead of riding, we spent our time feeding the woodstove, nursing some Union Snow Pants Oatmeal Imperial Stouts and cursing under our breaths while we plotted our rider’s revenge against the cold.

All of these motorcycling hostile conditions meant that many things we would normally do remained frustratingly undone.

Then, in classic Maryland fashion, it went from a daytime high of 18 to a daytime high of 67 in a single day.

Unsurprisingly, I more or less sprinted straight to the garage, hopped on the LT, and turned the key. Older K bikes have a few signals they send using the ABS lights. Normal operation consists of both ABS lights blinking on and off together on power up. If the battery fails to meet the minimum ABS arming voltage, they will blink alternately — first one, then the other. This time, the ABS lights lit, then went out altogether, the system spontaneously reset, and then assumed the normal start sequence. I let the bike sit for about 20 seconds with the key on just to get some current flowing, then pressed the starter button.

If the LT has ever cranked slower than it did that day, I don’t remember it. On the first spin, it didn’t fire. On the second try, as I found myself considering the possibility it might not fire, it finally did, assuming its customary slightly diesely sounding cold idle. As the instruments all assumed normal operation, the bike’s thermometer displayed 13 degrees f, indicating just how cold things had gotten inside my closed garage. I rolled the bike down the driveway, toed it into gear, and said quiet thanks as the ABS trashcanned to life, indicating my battery was at least a little more healthy than I’d given it credit for.

15 miles or so of sunny Valley roads later, my motorcycling life had itself thawed out, and my attention returned to rides long delayed.

 

***

 

First on the list was to reclaim Finn’s Buell Blast, which had been sitting idle in his apartment’s parking garage in Greenbelt since before the holiday break and the subsequent deep freeze. The Blast needed to contribute it’s Battery Tender and harness, a modified version of the toolkit I’d assembled for it and its soft saddlebags to the new CB500F that would replace it for the soon coming semester. It also needed some minor service – most notably the installation of a new quiet core baffle for its Jardine exhaust.

A quick look at the weather report showed a Saturday with a daytime high in the high 50s or low 60s, and so the plan was outlined — load up a car with school supplies, computer gear and some groceries for pre-positioning for the start of classes, and head down to reclaim the little single. To those necessities I added my tire inflator and a battery charger/jumper — given the drama associated with waking up the LT post freeze, I wanted to be prepared for possible drama.

 

***

 

The drive down to Greenbelt was sunny, smooth and uneventful — which, given that we’re talking about Metro DC, is by itself noteworthy. Upon arrival at Finn’s place, we offloaded our cargo into his apartment, grabbed some hydration, made a comfort stop, and visited the property’s management office to register the CB in their parking records and take care of some other administrativia.

We headed back upstairs, and went back into the parking structure where I pulled on my gear. I grabbed my inflator and topped up the tires, which were just a bit below spec. I pulled on my helmet, strapped on my elkskin gauntlets, and swung a leg over the Blast’s low saddle. I opened up the fuel petcock, and turned on the ignition.

I’d been concerned about drama about starting a flash frozen bike.

I’d needn’t have been concerned. The Blast, like my Slash 5, has a Deka AGM battery, and these batteries hold a charge better when stored and deliver more cold cranking power than any other motorcycle batteries I’ve ever used.

The Blast spun up hard, and fired on the third compression stroke.

There was no question whatsoever that the 500 single was running.

Finn’s eyes narrowed to slits before he ducked and rolled away from the bike. Without the quiet core inside the Jardine muffler, and inside the concrete cave of the parking structure, the din was absolutely staggering. Out of reflex more than intention, I blipped the throttle.

That was a mistake.

With the butterflies open, what had been merely stupid loud changed to mind-erasing cacophony.

I leaned over toward Finn.

“I’m going to head up I-95 towards 32. Give me about a 10-15 minute head start, so If I run into any mechanical issues, at least you’ll be somewhere out behind me.”

Finn just looked confused and pointed both index fingers towards his ears and shrugged.

I grabbed his head with both gloved hands and pulled him into the eyeport of my Shoei. I rebroadcast the message — only louder this time.

This time I could see comprehension on Finn’s face. He responded with a simple thumbs up.

I gassed the Blast and headed toward the ramp out of the garage.

Given the Blast’s relatively narrow powerband, low power output and short throw throttle, my normal riding approach involves pretty aggressive application of throttle. As I rolled the throttle open to get the bike headed towards the first of the three ramps that would get me out of the garage and out to the street, it was clear the normal method would require some situational modification. Every time I even cracked the throttle inside the parking structure, the increase in sound volume was well nigh unbearable.

I basically coasted the Blast down the three ramps, though the automated security gate, and out into the street.

Once I was outside the parking structure, I figured it might be OK to finally open the throttle.

I was again wrong.

The street that leads away from the apartment runs between two apartment blocks — cracking the throttle in that masonry canyon had the net impact of delaying the echo of the noise coming back from the Blast’s motor for a few extra milliseconds, but was still nearly unbearably loud.

Finally, the street took me away from spaces defined by concrete and brick, and out into the open. The standard Buell design, with the exhaust exit located under the bike just in front of the rear tire, meant that the rider was mostly isolated from the sound, but anyone located in a roughly 160 degree section to the sides and rear of the motorcycle, was being exposed to sound that was more suitable to a racetrack or a combat theater than a public road.

At the end of Greenbelt Road I briefly turned on to Kenilworth Road and then opened the butterflies wide and accelerated up the ramp and onto the DC Beltway, surfing the pressure waves of this overwhelming sound. I had to admit, with the exhaust core removed, the Blast was making more power over a wider spread or RPMs. On the flip side, though, as I passed a car topping out 4th gear, I looked briefly to the side, and was greeted with the sight of all 4 of the car’s occupants gaping slackjawed and googly-eyed straight at me.

That told me pretty much what I needed to know.

It was going to be a long 50 miles back to Jefferson.

I don’t want you to think for a minute I’m some sort of internal combustion sound prude. I enjoy the sound of a well-tuned and appropriately muffled motorcycle as much as the next guy. But the sound coming out of the Blast was in no way anything like that.

I’ve spend my fair share of time enjoying the Barabara Fritchie Motorcycle Classic — America’s longest continually running Half Mile Flat Track Event. I have also been known to hang out at Airshows and Commemorative Air Force fly-ins, where old warbirds like the famous B-17 Memphis Belle are shown and flown.

Net/net is that with a open drag pipe and straight through resonator, the Harley Davidson based 500cc single was less MotoGuzzi LeMans (Bella!) and more flat-out XR750 or Wright Cyclone on take-off roll (plus or minus 8 to 35 cylinders). The sound is an all-out sonic assault — it hits you in the diaphragm — right in the solar plexus — it scrambles one’s brains and takes one’s breath clean away. The sound is a combination of intake growl and basso profundo roar — it makes no sense whatsoever that this tsunami of sound is coming from this diminutive motorcycle.

Fortunately, I’d planned my route so much of it was at less than Interstate warp speed — MD 32 is a secondary road where 50 to 60 miles an hour is the prevailing speed — so I could loaf down these roads in either the top of 4th gear or the bottom of 5th with minimal throttle openings.

After running across much of the state on MD32 I came back to Interstate 70. Once clear of Baltimore — especially headed west — drivers fly out here. There would be no loafing on the next stretch. I roared up the ramp and settled in at about 76 mph to be able to blend in to prevailing traffic.

After all of the grief it has caused me, and all of the shade Finn and I have thrown its way, I’ll admit I got a little thrill from having the loud little monster run this well — probably as well as it ever has. Sound pressure not withstanding, the bike was making better top gear power than it ever had — it was pulling 5th gear with authority from under 70 miles an hour, and 70 to 80 mph pulls felt pretty strong. Of course power on a single most times equates to vibration, and I was taking quite the beating at speed.

Just about New Market, with about 70 miles showing on the tripmeter, the Blast stumbled as it hit reserve. Unlike my customary practice, for some reason I didn’t mind the notion of a fuel stop.

I rolled into a High’s where the Buell took a whopping 1.1 gallons of fuel. I’d noticed some visual telltales that my blood sugar was headed dangerously low — in our excitement Finn and I had skipped lunch — so I grabbed some fruit juice for my own tank which instantly set things right.

I rode the roar back up through the gears – accelerating as hard as a Blast ever does – then cruised past Frederick, over the ridge into the Valley, and was shortly up the driveway and killswitching into blessed and welcome echoing silence.

Due to the gas stop, Finn had just beaten me home.

“Man, Pop, I heard you all the way down the ramps in the garage, all the way up Greenbelt Road, and accelerating up the ramp onto the Beltway. That bike is some kind of obnoxious.”

“Yup, it sure is. Let me take off my ‘Stich and as soon as The Blast cools off we’ll put in the new quiet core that’s sitting on the workbench. No way I’m running that bike again without the cork installed.”

I Surrender

I never thought it would come to this.

When I bought Finn his Buell Blast, my operative assumption had been that a piece of machinery that simple couldn’t really break in any meaningful way.

That assumption has proved so repeatedly wrong I find myself humbled in ways to which I am simply not accustomed.

I’m not merely wrong. I’m colossally, cosmically, monumentally, fundamentally and eternally totally wrong.

My shame in this knows no bounds.

 

***

 

I don’t know, but after I put the motor back in after it fell out, I had what I guess was a false sense of security.

The Blast seemed much more solid on the road, and on a warmer day — say 70 degrees — the carburation seemed spot on and it was making good power.

Bliss, they say, is fleeting.

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Another series of texts from Finn.

When these arrive out of the blue the import is seldom good.

“Stinking bike blew the quiet core out of the muffler.

You’d think I’d have noticed THAT when it happened. 😉

Checked back on the ground in the garage. It’s gone.”

How the asshole reduction baffle — Jardine calls it a ‘quiet core’ — intended to make their racetrack pipe almost socially acceptable — could have been shaken loose is beyond me. I’d used blue locktite on the baffle securing bolt and added a fillet of high temp copper silicone to secure the insert in the exhaust outlet. That insert should have been in there. Instead, it was outta here.

So now the Blast was blasting around sounding like an asshole’s motorcycle.

Then the temperature went under 40 degrees and the bike’s not exactly auto auto choke decides it doesn’t want to fully disengage. A good running motorcycle transforms into an unridable mess — backfires, momentary power loss.

If you are trying to run down Greenbelt Road or US1 in the left lane in morning rush, a big hairy backfire and three seconds of no power are enough to get one steamrolled. It ain’t fun, and it sure ain’t safe.

When this information was shared, Sweet Doris from Baltimore overrevved and threw a rod. “My baby boy is going to get run over by some Crazy PG County Driver on that ‘motorcycle’.”

No mas. Make it stop.

I really wanted to like the Blast. A small light simple single. Descendant of the Vincent Comet.

But it kept betraying me. Shaking parts off. Developing the same intake leaks, carb warmup and drivability problems.

It’s goddamn engine fell out, for Pete’s sakes.

I still want to like the Blast.

Maybe if throw out its fuel tank, carburetor and ignition and replace them with modern components I might yet.

But when I look at it now, all I see is a motorcycle that has been trying to encourage people to run over my son, and an undeniable evidence of my utter and indelible wrongness.

I did a quick review of the few motorcycles currently made that are even remotely related to what we used to call ‘a standard motorcycle’.

I didn’t really want to put Finn on a smaller motorcycle, given his maturing skills as a rider — so the new generation 300s and 400s were non-starters. Fully faired sportbikes, four cylinders, things called ‘Ninja’ and cruisers were out. What one had left were about 5 bikes with displacements between 500 and 800 ccs., and the Honda CB500F was the most versatile, most comfortable, and like a lot of past Hondas, had been so perfectly useful that nobody bought them.

Plus, It’s a Honda.

I probably neglected to mention it was also the least expensive.

If I lived in LA, where coolth apparently has more impact on what people buy to ride, I could buy a leftover 2015 model of these bikes for around $3,800 which is crazy short money for a two cylinder, double overhead cam, water cooled, fuel injected, highway capable modern motorcycle.

In less cool Jefferson, though, there are still leftovers that can be had, and the best such deal I was able to find was at Pete’s Cycle in Baltimore, which had been my dealer when I first started riding my first motorcycle, my CB750K1.

After a phone call or two, I put a deposit on the CB.

It’s a good-looking motorcycle — matt black paint with silver tank shrouds and tailsection. There’s a good looking set of twin silver stripes around the top of the tank, a nice racetrack spec fuel filler, and bright blue anodized fork caps with preload adjusters decorating the bike’s cockpit.

CB

A unsplatted Finn is worth immeasurably more than $4,699, plus freight, assembly, title, taxes and tags.

Finn’s 20th birthday is on Thanksgiving. Apparently he will be celebrating early, and for sometime thereafter.

 

***

 

Postscript:

Just got back from Baltimore with the bike – A lovely, cold, rainy 65 miles home.

Despite that, I don’t think Finn is going to stop grinning for some time.

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Great Grandson of the Black Bomber

 

 

Shaky

I spent today making another tool laden Blast reassembly run from Jefferson to College Park.

A few days ago, Finn calls me up on the phone and says “My Bike is Shaky.”

“It’s making a jingling sound, and seems to be vibrating a lot.”

Now for a Buell Blast operator to say the bike is vibrating a lot is not news, but if it is vibrating more than it normally does, this is a concern.

I tell Finn I’ll call him back.

I do a few web searches. I have come to love the members of the Buell Blast enthusiasts online community, who have already seen every possible failure this simple machine can have.

Some of them more than once.

I call Finn back and then tell him to send me pictures of “That Big Rubber donut underneath the steering head.” He sends me this.

Holes with Nothing In Them

 

Strangely, it’s the isolator — the rubber torus in the middle of the mount — that is known to fail — the rubber tears. This isolator, though, appears to be fine.

Notice on the near side, where there is a hole in which should be an isolator mount bolt. Note that there is not one.

Then please notice on the other side, where there should be another one. There is one there, but its orientation indicates it is no longer connected to that to which it should be connected.

Finn is on campus… he’s calling me from the Architecture Studio.

He’s been riding like that for 2 or 3 days.

I told him to ride it to his place – 3 miles – really gently, and text me when he got home.  He made it.

A few days later I made the run down to look at it first hand. Turned out the Blast had completely spat out its front motormount. There is very little reason why this motor did not fall out. It looked like the wishbone that the cylinder head mounts to got hung up on the horn arm mount bolt as it was headed downward and that snag was sufficient to keep the engine in the motorcycle. Curiouser, the ignition grounds through that unconnected motormount bolt so I don’t know why it was still running.

Getting on the phone looking for this obviously critically stressed hardware did not yield joy. HD parts support is starting to thin out for the Buells. I don’t know whether Harley’s commitment for Buell parts support has just ended, or will end soon, but increasingly the parts are held by a third party contractor, and not HD themselves. The cost has increased accordingly. Getting OEM hardware was challenging.

Challenging, but not impossible.

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5 Buell OEM Parts Bags – 40 Bucks

Today I loaded by my LT with a service stand, a floor jack, a tool box, a few ratchet strap sets, a hunka wood and a service light.

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Rolling Motorcycle Service Shop – Not easy to transport a swingarm stand

I rode back down to the Garage at Finn’s place. After wrapping a strap around the motor, and using that and the jack to cajole it back into position, we were able to get the front engine isolator mount set back right. A few dozen dollars, some new bolts, standoffs, nylock nuts and Blue Locktite got everything that needed to be attached to each other attached to each other.

All of a sudden that bike seems way more of a piece and is seems to be delivering way more power. When I was road testing it, it spun its back wheel in the fat part of second gear, coming out of a traffic circle. It’s never done that before.

Finn thinks the motormount had been failing for quite some time – that one bolt had been gone for a while. He said he kept hearing ‘a jingle’. We found the reinforcing plates and one of the nuts captured in the frame when we pulled the tank. The jingle is gone now.

My Brand New Uncle Joe is willing to trade me the Blast for a Pacific Coast he has and a few more dollars.

At the risk of screwing bikema completely, I suspect the Pacific Coast would not require multiple mechanical emergency rescue missions.  But if I can’t trade the Blast I really can’t afford another motorcycle. We’ll just have to see how Finn ends up feeling about that.

On my way out of his place, Finn lead me on his Blast through Greenbelt Park – It’s US Department of the Interior-managed park that’s about 2 miles away from his place, and in the middle of a very densely developed urban area about 10 miles from Capitol Hill.

One right turn off the highway and its like you’re in one of the Great Western National Parks – deep forest, log buildings, all the Civilian Conservation Corps-built log guardrails.

We ran into a small herd of very young deer coming out of the second corner.

Amazing.

Greenbelt Park has about 3-4 miles of winding park road that is just perfect if you have a fine running 500 single.

I tailed him around before heading back home.  He looked great out there.

Cutting good lines and having some fun. He’s got skills.

I had a lovely ride home, stretching the LT out coming back across Howard and Frederick counties in the late afternoon sunshine.

For a day that started with a broken bike and dirty hands, it was a very good day.

Finn and Greg Ride to Joe’s

I hate it when I run out of summer.

No matter how many times I try to avoid it, summer’s end sneaks up on me, leaving me feeling like there’s a million things I should have done, 100,000 motorcycle rides I should have taken, a thousand camping trips that got away, with another year’s worth of Hollywood Calendar leaves flying off the screen and into the irredeemable past.

Some things are too important to let go, though.

Finn and I have taken our share of little backroad scratches together — little 40 minute vacations of road schooling, of boy bonding time.

I kept talking to him about ‘a trip’.

It didn’t have to be a long trip.

It would of necessity at least be one with frequent breaks as Finn’s single gets about 60 miles per gallon and struggles to carry a gallon and a half of gas.

But to have a trip you have to have some semblance of a destination, or at least the willingness to head this way over here without one.

I looked at motorcycle races and vintage museums but nothing seemed to fit the bill.

Finn hadn’t done any extended riding on the Interstate, and I really wanted to try and avoid that when possible.

We’d spent a lot of time this summer wrenching on the little Buell, fixing our home’s deck and camping out, but one day a look at the calendar showed about three Saturdays left before Finn headed back to College Park.

It was go or don’t go, so I did something uncharacteristically bold.

 

***

 

I look at the Craigslist Motorcycle for Sale Ads the way some people probably look at porn.

I got started while I was looking for a bike for Finn.

But now I just can’t stop.

The listings are a mechanical menagerie of Thoroughbreds and Mongrels, a museum gallery split between some Constantin Brancusis and seeming random piles of welded rusted chainsaws and drive sprockets.

The constant laugh of surprise, the sigh of newly discovered Moto Lust is endlessly entertaining.

While lately engaged in my demented little hobby, a certain pattern revealed itself to me.

While skipping through the Western Maryland listings, I started to sense a thin veneer of discernment and taste starting to take shape on top of the endless piles of butchered Harleys, wadded dirt bikes, and Things-That-We-Found-In-There,  those Things-We-Are-Sure-That-Ran-When-We-Parked-Them.

In Seventy Eight, I think it was.

Anyway, in amongst the debris, there were jewels.

A perfect, low mileage MotoGuzzi Norge, in Of Course It’s Red It’s Italian.

A first year of production Triumph 900 Sprint. Again, perfect. In British Racing Green.

A matched pair of Suzuki VX800s. Perfectly maintained, intelligently modified good runners. Both of them.

An MZ Silver Star, with an OHC 4 Valve Rotax air cooled 500 Single.

A 400 cc Suzuki Bandit. Again, modded, maintained, running, perfect.

There was a Ducati or two, and some other stuff, who can remember?

Is it hot in here or is it just me?

The pictures, though, put it together for me. All the pictures…. deep green treed location, gravel driveway, pole ag-style building … these listings were all the same guy. The same guy was selling all of these cool bikes.

My dumb-butt mode slow thinking big amperage relay slowly bzzzzzted and slammed closed.

“If he’s selling all these bikes…..my God…. What….Is….He…..KEEEEEPING?”

 

***

 

Which brings me back to right where I was doing something uncharacteristically bold.

I responded to one of the ads.

Hi!

My name is Greg Shamieh, and I have incurable motorcycle illness.

I recognize you as a fellow sufferer. …”

I went on to tell the seller I thought he had great taste in bikes, and that but for Fair-haired Son In College Here, I would likely have already showed up at the bottom of his driveway with my Pickup Truck and A Peachbasket Full of Hundreds.

And I told him — at least I assumed it was a him — about Rolling Physics Problem, and Invited Myself Over.

And then sat by my computer and waited.

 

***

 

The answer didn’t take long.

When I was still in formal schooling, I had a writing teacher who was a retired bigtime Television executive.

Dr. B provided the following guidance, which was completely consistent with his prior employment.

“If you have a grabby opening, the rest will take care of itself. If you don’t have one, the rest doesn’t matter.”

Time and again, that has proved to be Wisdom.

An e-mail popped up in my inbox.

“Hi, my name is Joe, and I am a motorcycle addict. I never get to any of the other steps in the twelve step program, though.”

Looked like we had a classic meeting of the minds.

 

***

 

So Joe and I traded a few e-mails.

I told him straight up I was looking for a destination before Finn went back to school.

Joe seemed to know exactly when that was, which seemed significant, even if I didn’t exactly know why.

And as we talked back and forth, it began to seem like Joe and Finn had some shared tastes. Joe was a member in good standing of of the Four Stroke Singles National Owners Club — Finn was a Buell Blast rider.

Of course, Joe had come by his credentials honestly. He’d even organized a ride known as the Coast-to-Coast Tiddlers Tour (C2CTT) where he and his wife, Carol, had crossed the country and returned (Alive!) on a matched pair of Honda CBR 250s.

Finn, on the other hand, while having a built-in bias for singles — he’s started out wanting to find a nice used Enfield Bullet, or perhaps a Yamaha XT400 — had been signed up for Blast Love by an Old Man who had exhibited an uncharacteristic lack of concern for all of the things folks had told him which generally threw shade at the Harley Sportster-based single. Still, despite the fragility of tune the bike had demonstrated, Finn seemed to have bonded with it anyway.

Then, there was the small matter of stickers.

Joe shared a story with me about his R1100GS, and the minor disagreement it had had with a deer. The deer had demonstrated its displeasure by placing two or three substantial hoof dents in the R1100’s tank. Joe, being a man of practical and somewhat situational frugal bent, decided that form did not affect function, so strategically put some stickers over the worst damage.

The stickers, to Joe’s eye, looked lonesome. So he put a few more on to keep the first ones company. And, like a lot of folks I know, once he got into the habit he just couldn’t help himself.

There is a little of the stock red paint showing on that tank, but one needs to work a little to find some.

And it would be one thing if Joe had stopped when he ran out of R1100 tank. But that was just the jumping off point.

Joe, as you recall, had A LOT of motorcycles. Most, but not all, of them were also festooned with stickers from fantail to bowsprit, windshields, top cases and panniers to boot. I’d even find out that it didn’t stop there, but let me try and move the narrative along here.

Finn, too, had developed a singular need to sticker something — in this case, the carrying case for his Epiphone Firebird Electric Bass. The Firebird is the longest scale electric bass ever mass-produced, and as a result has the longest case of any electric instrument. We’re talking billboard sized, Twin-Towers Drive-In Movie Screen size ridiculous.

If you are going to try and cover such a thing with stickers, Bud, you are really going to have to work at it.

Of course I’d been willing to help out wherever I could. “Shoei”, “Aerostich”, “Vintage Iron Motorcycle Club”, “Ace Cafe” — I was on the hunt for Finn stickers whenever I was on motorcycle walkabout.

What’s the likelihood you know two different guys with the same adhesive obsession?

Not much, I’d wager.

After the exchange of numerous e-mails, we settled on a particular time, and then addressed our kind entreaties to the Gods of Weather that we’d get a nice riding day.

 

***

 

The Gods delivered bigtime for us that Saturday morning.

As Finn and I grabbed coffee and breakfast, we had a clear, crisp spring morning that was wandering around lost in the beginning of August. It was about 67 degrees and sunny in Jefferson, and we’d lose a few degrees as we climbed in altitude while motoring westward.

After finishing my coffee, we geared up and headed for the garage.

Joe’s place is in Little Orleans, Maryland, about 75 miles or so west of Jefferson. Given the rivers and mountains in the way, there are about a million different ways up there and none of them straight. If you think to yourself that this makes it a perfect place to which to ride a motorcycle, you’d be spot on. I’d had more than a few meandering routes up there that quickly expired in the face of Finn’s lack of urgency in getting himself up and ready to go in the morning. Hey, anything that has Finn fully operational before noon probably is urgency, but never mind that.

In the face of our lack of alacrity, I made a necessary adjustment. Whereas Buell Blast Touring is probably best experienced off the Interstate, we’d need to make up for lost time by using Interstate 70 to make quicker work of Frederick and Washington Counties, and then jumping off onto Scenic US Route 40 as we climbed up the ridgelines that separate central and western Maryland.

In about 18 months of street riding, Finn hadn’t had the opportunity for much Interstate Highway point-to-point travel, but there’s a time and place for everything, and this was the time. As I had tried to do with every step in his riding education, I’d try to provide information, guidance and room to learn.

We shared a gas pump and took on a few gallons of high test – Finn his maximum load of about a gallon and a half, and my R90S about five and half, and then diced up Holter Road towards I-70 and the mountains of Western Maryland.

 

***

 

Holter Road is near the top of my list of favorite roads. Holter slices through the Middletown Valley — the land rises on either side of the road as it snakes through the Valley’s center — and with long sightlines and sweeping corners, it’s a wonderful place to warm the sides of one’s tires and see if your ‘A Game’ is going to make an appearance this riding day.

As my R90 and Finn’s Blast made our way north towards the distant ridge, and our route west, it was made apparent to me that my choice of ventilated gear — a set of mesh armored overpants and my Vanson Supermoto jacket, might have been a tad excessively hopeful. Some of the shaded spots along the road were downright chilly — downright weird for Maryland in mid-August. We’d be climbing about 2500 feet in elevation as we worked our way west, which meant I was dressed right for conditions at about 3 pm. Shame it was closer to 10. I’m personally well insulated — I’d tough it out.

Still, between the bright sunshine, the crisp breeze, and overall spookily cool temperatures, its hard to imagine a better start to a riding day. With my son Finn carving crisply on the other end of the string out on the road behind me — the exhaust bark of his big single distinctly audible in the sonic seams of the old boxer’s basso drone — it was hard to think anything other than right now, all was right with the world.

We beat our way from corner to corner up the length of The Valley, first into Middletown, and then following Maryland 17 up to Myersville. 17 has some great corners — a massive colonial property line 90/90 of the largest radius I can recall — where the road goes around a prosperous, modern farm — and lots of tighter more technical stuff as the road runs the ridgeline up the grade towards the Interstate. These old technology motors — big, aircooled cylinders, two valve pushrod overhead valve setups — really love the cool air, and one can tell. One gets denser intake charge, and running cool they rev better. On corner exits both bikes take well to big throttle, booming out, front wheels lightened, making some joyful noise.

As we make the left onto I-70 I indicate a stop. The ramp there is a major entrance, with a wide apron to allow tractor trailers to stop and set a spell. I leave room for Finn to pull to a stop inside me.

“Ok, Dude. I’m going to let you lead. Find whatever speed works for you and The Blast, and I’ll adjust. We’ll be doing this for a little while so you should do what’s comfortable. We ride in a stagger on the Interstate — tighter than on backroads, but still a sensible distance apart. I’ll demonstrate. I’ll run tail gunner and try and keep the Vehicular Aggression Society off your 6.

We’ll take 70 up to Hancock, where we’ll exit onto I-68. As soon as we get up there we’ll exit onto Scenic US 40, which is a total peach of a mountain road.

You good?”

I got a steely nod, and a visor slapping shut.

After a look over his shoulder, Finn klocked The Blast into gear, and rolled up the ramp, leaving everything behind bathed in sound.

I followed behind, as we rolled though the gears, winding every one out, as we made our way up the giant grade that is 70 West coming out of Myersville.

 

***

 

Working one’s way west in Maryland is an adventure in successive mountain grades. Crossing Frederick, Washington, Allegheny and finally Garrett Counties, one hits ridgeline after ridgeline, climbing continuously as one works one’s way west.

Now I’ll take a brief pause here, to allow my friends who live in the American West to catch their breaths and stop laughing, slain at the thoughts of our 3500 foot ‘mountains’, but if it has switchbacks, and big grades I must climb, it sure seems like mountains to me, OK?

The first one is South Mountain, and it’s what we’re climbing the back of as we work our way up to speed. After a mile or two of steep climb — semis falling back sharply in their climbing lane — Finn and I hit the top and break back into bright, bright sunshine and a breathtaking view down the steep long descent down the other side dropping into Washington County. He adopts about a 67 mile an hour cruise, which is below the power in the bike’s top gear. It’s as unstressed and quiet as the now hot-rodded single can manage. If every bike has a sweet spot where it channels its inner touring bike, this, apparently, is the Blast’s.

We adopt an easy, easy cruise across the county, through Hagerstown, and onto the long shallow 25 mile climb towards Allegheny County and the next set of mountains. Finn quickly demonstrates he’s comfortable out here in slabland, just as he has with every new motorcycle experience we’ve thrown at him.

Or at least as comfortable as the Blast’s rudimental saddle will permit.

It’s a good thing this initial snack size motorcycle trip isn’t some sort of big mile monster. Don’t want too much, too soon — these things take time.

And before I can overthink it, we’re rolling into Hancock, and the I-68 cut off. Just west of town I-68 takes off towards the sky again, as we hit our next Mountain, which is inexplicably called Sideling Hill.

Hill nomenclature notwithstanding, Sideling Hill is a mountain, and a pretty spectacular one at that. Highway engineers, when the Interstate went in, looked at the route they’d have to work with if they wanted to take a big road over it, and came up with an alpine route that covered somewhere between twelve and eighteen miles. So after a thoughtful scratching of the head, they blew the top clean off the mountain, and cut it down to four of the steepest runaway truck ramp filled miles I’ve ever seen on the interstate.

It turned out the inside of the mountain that they removed was some of the prettiest geology you will ever see, which makes losing the mountain almost worth it. The rock cut revealed a massive syncline of mixed sandstones and shales, which looks like a picture of an upside down mountain hidden within the mountain. Its a spectacular, jaw dropping place in and of itself, but that’s not the only reason it speaks to me.

I used to have a riding bud named Paul. Paul, who is riding better roads now, was a rider’s rider, a gentleman’s gentleman, and one of the inexplicably humble men I have ever known. Paul was prone to things like calling out at work because he’d decided to ride to Montana for lunch. Paul’s last motorcycle had a BMW 1,000,000 mile badge, and he lived and rode like that until the week he quit our roads for smoother ones.

Paul, while prone to spontaneity, was also a creature of habit. Whenever he set off on a really big ride, he had a favorite place to start it, and that was to greet the dawn from Sideling Hill. There is a parking lot in the center of the cut, that allows you to see the mountain within the mountain as well as the rising sun. Such a view from such a place places one in the mind of just how small one really is, and gives one a reminder of who’s really running the show.

Its is good to be fully cognizant of one’s insignificance in the universe before the prideful act of vaporizing continents from the saddle of a motorcycle. I have to think of Paul being up there just to make sure his head and his heart were fully in the game.

So I never approach this mountain without a sense of wonder, and of revery, and a sense of being in the presence of the big spirit of my friend.

 

***

 

Interstate 68 was intended to replace US 40 – the Old National Pike – through the Maryland Mountains. The Pike was too steep, and too twisty to enable modern commerce, so the big slab went in to modernize and streamline the route. Just like Route 66 runs in the shadow of Interstate 40, so runs Scenic 40 eclipsed by Interstate 68.

Of course, being Bikers, the very reasons that US 40 was replaced are the very reasons we’d most want to ride it, so at the very first chance to leave the slab Finn and I promptly bailed.

Immediately upon leaving I-68 the whole world slowed. The surface of 40 was deliberately abraded — they get a fair amount of snow up here and traction seemed to be the goal. We were beating our way up the mountain old school, the hard way, with seemingly endless strings of short straights and switchbacks. Except for minding some loose macadam in the bellies of the switchbacks it was a 10/10s rider’s blast.

As we neared the cut at the mountain’s peak, there is really only one way over, so 40 dumped us back on the Interstate, and then took us off again in a mile and a bit on the other side. As Finn and I carved down the back side of Sideling Hill, we had clearly made the leap into Western Maryland — trees were greener, larger and more plentiful, buildings were older, and one could plainly see just looking that the pace of life had slowed down two gears.

The more 40 we did the more that we liked it. It was getting to the point where getting to Joes was almost unwanted.

I’d memorized Joe’s street name and the road that ran to it before we’d left Jefferson. I knew basically where I was going even if I was a little weak on the details. When Orleans Road came up, I took it, and having a choice between a right and a left, predictably, I blew it.

Finn and I found ourselves running a nicely groomed pea-gravel road, running the ridgeline through beautiful, fertile green working farms. When five or six miles up the road I came to a ‘Welcome to Pennsylvania’ sign, my loss in the 50-50 was apparent, so I signaled a stop with my elkskin gloved hand.

“Sorry about that, Snorky. We had a choice between a right and a left, and I shoulda made the left.”

“No problem, Pop. With roads like this and views like this, you can make all the wrong turns you want.”

I love that boy.

 

***

 

As we backtracked in the right direction, Finn indicated he was out of gas. An Exxon station miraculously appeared, and we went big, buying about 4 bucks worth.

Rolling again we came pretty much immediately to Joe’s road. I immediately felt that weird familiarity, realizing I’d been down this road before when my family and friends had camped in an isolated unimproved campground down at the end overlooking a spectacular bend in the river.

We felt our way slowly along the road, until I saw the ‘Gilmore’ on the mailbox. Finn and I turned in, slid up the gravel drive, and killswitched and side standed the bikes in front of the large Pole Building at the end of the drive.

Welcome to Joe’s.

***

 

The first time laid eyes on him, I knew I was going to like Joe.

It was kind of like looking in a mirror with dirty glasses — there might be persistent evidence of a few more good porters enjoyed, and a little more beard, heck a little more hair, generally, but it was kind of like encountering a brother you didn’t know you had.

If this was a beauty contest, though, let’s be frank — there’d be no winners. Best either one of us could hope for was Miss Congeniality.

“I’d just about given up on you guys, it’s nearly time to go for a ride…..”

“Sorry Joe. Between being lazy, slow and lost, it just took a lot more time than I’d anticipated.

Can we get the tour of the garage?”

So we stepped inside.

 

***

 

Joe’s Garage is a steel skinned pole constructed building — common enough hereabouts in farm country. But where most pole buildings aspire to be some form of Tractor’s Nirvana, Joe’s was clearly designed with something else in mind. Wrapped with workbenches, equipped with an industrial hydraulic vehicle lift, and back in the dim recesses, a loft — filled with moto luggage, leathers and boxes of spares — that sat just high enough to allow motorcycles to fit underneath.

There were motorcycles everywhere.

When it comes to collecting, some people are specialists.

Joe appeared to have no easily discernible biases or brand loyalties. Joe just liked what Joe liked, and didn’t much care if anybody could hang or not.

For what its worth, what Joe liked tended to be pretty righteous, but let me not get ahead of myself.

As we walked though the door into the shop, the Triumph Sprint I’d seen advertised was sitting immediately inside. This big triple looked to be a fairly early example of the first Hinckley Triumphs — their premanufacturing design consultations with Kawasaki clearly visible — the power unit in this motorcycle was simple, robust, brutal in its appearance. There was no question who they were hoping would buy this motorcycle. It was painted British Racing Green — its cockpit fairing finished off with an endurance racing style twin round headlamp setup — and the ‘Triumph’ script was florid, dangerously close to exaggerated — just a tiniest bit too large. With the exception of some performance exhaust canisters, the bike looked as clean and tidy as the day it rolled off the line.

Snap the bike’s hard cases on, fill up the tank and make that big triple howl until you arrived in, say, Brazil.

I could easily see how, with the proper resources, I’d buy that bike if the opportunity presented itself.

Which, of course is how Joe got all of them, and why this garage was such a supremely dangerous place.

On the other side of the Sprint was a BMW F650 — one of the earliest Rotax-engined examples. Bike with stories to tell and many miles under their wheels have a well used look about them, and this bike had clearly been some places. And maybe a few more places. Dirt, insect bits and road mung spoke of tens of thousands of tough miles.

Indicating in that direction, Joe said, “That one’s Carol’s” referring to his wife and occasional partner in moto-foolery.

“That one does have patina. It took a few shots on a trip Carol and I took out to Montana. I looked out behind me on one corner exit and she wasn’t there anymore.

I turned around and went back and found her where she’d run off, and she’d gone down an embankment. She was a little beat up, but nobody was riding this bike back to Maryland. I made sure she was ok, got her settled and then I just went and rented a truck. Got this bike loaded and figured I might as well load mine too … there was no reason for one of us to drive the truck and the other ride.

Do you know there are three ways you can drop a motorcycle trying to load it into a truck?”

I am not Einstein but I do understand the Universe when it sends me the signs of a story that is just about to turn south and gas it.

“First way is to push it up, run out of momentum and drop it off the ramp on yourself. Second way is to ride it up the ramp, run out of momentum and drop the bike and yourself off the ramp too. Third way is to ride it up the ramp, not run out of momentum, and plant it in the front of the truck.

That’s the way I picked that day.

Somebody that rented the truck before us had been carrying grain, and the entire floor of the truck was covered with dust.. I hit the brakes…. nothing… it made quite the dent.

The Indigenous Nation Constable that took our Police Report clearly had an opinion about the two roadrashed and beat looking visitors to The Nation, but he worked hard to keep it to himself.

It was a very quiet ride back from Montana.”

 

***

 

Working our way deeper into the shop we came upon a brand new, matching pair of Suzuki VanVans. Matching, of course, being one for Joe and another one for Carol. If you have never seen a VanVan, its difficult to know how to describe it to you. Best I can manage is that its sort of the mini-dirtbike equivalent of one of those balloon tired, beach cruiser bicycles. It has a 200 cc four-stroke single motor, hugely oversize balloon tires, the squishyiest, most comfortable-appearing saddle you’ve ever seen off a GoldWing, all wrapped around a half size classic dirtbike chassis.

If there was ever an unthreatening, all round fun playbike — equally comfortable on the beach or in the woods — the VanVan would have to be it.

“I sold a pair of Honda Trail 90s this morning, before you showed up. In the Green Ridge ORV areas, they were fun, but just not enough. These, though, should be fine. haven’t taken ’em out yet, though.”

Joe looked pensive.

“I have sold 10 motorcycles in the last 90 days and I still have toooo many motorcycles.”

On a service lift in front of us, sat a disassembled MZ Silver Star. Something utterly terrible had clearly befallen its final drive — bits of rubber cush drive, a drive sprocket, and aluminium fragments that had formerly been the drive hub were dispersed across a wide area. Clearly when this had gone ‘boom’ it had gone ‘boom’ in a big way.

The Silver Star had an earlier version of the Rotax single than was in the BMW — this was a belt driven overhead cam air-cooled four valver. I’d actually considered this bike for Finn, until I discovered that despite its technological sophistication, a longevity-enhancing detuning had limited this motor to exactly the same 34 horsepower made by the stone axe-vintage motor in the Blast. 34 horsepower is 34 horsepower no matter how you slice it, and if you need to fix your bike, do you want to try and find a Harley Davidson dealer, or an MZ Dealer?

Yeah. Thought so.

Joe and Carol’s matching CBR 250s were next — these were the bikes they’d taken to the West Coast and back on the C2CTT. Both bikes looked well enough prepped to clear racetrack Tech Inspection — spotless with not a drop of anything out of place.

In the back corner of the shop was Joe’s UR-R1100GS, The Deerslayer, alternately known as the Mother Of All Stickers (MOAS). It looked a lot like my R75 — seeps of motor oil and gear oil mixed with rock dust and mud. This was no pretty little girl bike, this was a bike that got used, and got used hard.

I didn’t have the heart to tell Joe about my Internet BMW Riders friend, Brian Curry, who had ridden his K75RT, two-up, through a pair of deer, killing them both and leaving both himself and his passenger uninjured. For this, the imposing 5 foot tall hunnert pounds with his Aerostich on figure of Brian became The Deerslayer.

Since we’re not out of deer yet, I suppose there is room in this universe for two of them.

On another service lift was on of my personal favorites, a Honda Pacific Coast. On first blush the Pacific Coast looks like a K1200LT that someone left in the clothes dryer too long, inducing shrinkage. The basic elements of the motorcycle — the curved front fairing and windshield, the bodywork integrated crash bars, the integrated, aerodynamic side and top cases – all look like they came from the same pen.

What’s under the Honda’s plastic, though, is typical oddball Honda-think.

Underneath the plastic was the first generation water-cooled Honda V-twin — an engine architecture it shared with the Shadow cruisers, the Ascot tracker, and the TransAlp and AfricaTwin dual sports. These engines were offset crankpin twins, that looked like Vs but fired like an 270 degree engine – with dual plugs, three valves per cylinder, and hydraulically adjusted valves. All these engines needed to keep them running was clean oil and gas. In the Pacific Coast, one couldn’t even see the engine. It was a recipe for minimized drama and high levels of reliability.

The single most abused, highest mileage running example of any motorcycle of I am aware of is a Pacific Coast. Its owner, an AdventureRiders board inmate known as Vermin, had taken two-up tour of a lifetime from Detroit to San Diego, with a bike whose running condition looked so marginal at the time that the betting line was running heavily against the bike, known as Cack, even making it to California.

Once there, Vermin flew home, and stored the bike at his in-laws’.

Through machinations lost in the mists of Internet forum time, somehow Vermin ended up lending Cack to another AdventureRider, for another inadvisable and Quixotic journey.

Once home, that Rider then passed the bike and its key to another fresh pilot.

And so the bike ended up being essentially passed from hand to hand, where it became the linked ingredient of multiple long, arduous continent-swallowing rides.

I seem to even remember someone taking the Cack up the Haul Road.

The bike that looked like it would never survive even one adventure, somehow survived them all.

A tupperware wrapped, hatchback clamshell trunk like a Civic, overgrown scooter appearing endurance monster of a motorcycle.

A Honda Pacific Coast.

So yeah, anyone that chooses to have one of these has likely done so because they’re in on the secret. And any time I lay eyes on one it plays all those stories back.

Joe peered into the PC’s plastic innards, and at the mylar and foam wrapped motor that one so rarely even saw.

“I’ve got a carburetor rebuild kit for this — jets, seals and floats — should be great when I’m done. It’s next in line. It’s always something, you know?

It’s why I’m selling bikes. Simplify”

Behind the PC was a flash of red.

It was the MotoGuzzi Norge I’d become so irrationally attracted to.

If an R12RT was sexy, it would be a Norge. Where the RT is hard edged, the Norge is sensually curved. In the middle of it all, there’s that big 90 degree Guzzi twin, wrapped in fairings that let the cylinder heads protrude though. In keeping with the modern Italian habit of big port engine turning, the Norge has exhaust headers the size of your leg, the curvature of which is enough to make one swoon.

Well, it makes me swoon anyway.

If I owned such a bike, with a well-appointed, high-speed capable cockpit, I should likely head straight away to Montana, and therein, according to Joe, lies precisely the problem.

“If you breakdown with this in Missoula, the nearest MotoGuzzi dealer is a looooooooooong way away…”

And like the Beauty Queen who shattered one’s illusions the minute she began to speak, all of a sudden that Guzzi didn’t seem quite so attractive as it had just seconds before.

 

***

 

As we strolled out of the shop back out towards the light, my eye was drawn to what was apparently Joe’s shop beer fridge. Like many objects Joe, this one was enthusiastically stickered. Stickered, in fact almost excessively, even by Joe standards.

As I tried to drink it all in, Joe slid a binder filled with his sticker collection over to Finn and encouraged him to help himself to anything that struck his fancy. Lots did.

“It’s a 1930’s Philco. Found it sitting in an old farmhouse. It was the first ‘fridges sold in America that didn’t have the condenser coils sitting in the big cylinder up on top of the fridge — they’d figured out you could move the condenser to the lower section. This one had an envelope on the back with the bill of sale from the original store that sold it in Hagerstown, delivering it to the family we bought it from via the US Postal Service!

We bought it for nearly nothing, trucked it back here, plugged it in…” said Joe as he opened the door and reached in for a cold one and to offer me one, “…keeps the beer cold. Works good, it was just a little rusty, so stickers.”

One had to admit, stickers.

And the more one looked at the fridge, the more there was to look at. Racy ’40s Pin Up Girls. Politically incorrect sentiments. Motorcycle and motorcycle racing promos from every era and every country. Pictures of a younger Joe, lapping a racetrack at speed. It was like the legendary Chinese porcelline… it just pulled one in with endless unknown and unknowable mysteries.

But any fridge that has a Hunter S. Thompson magnet, containing his wisdom, “I’d hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they’ve always worked for me.”, is certainly an OK fridge by me.

 

***

 

As we walked back out into the sunshine, Joe turned to the right, and approached a third garage door that had initially escaped my attention. This door lead into an Amish-built garage — also common hereabouts. There garages are built on a series of 4 x 4 timbers, and are typically installed on a leveled gravel pad by simply sliding them — via the beveled 4 x 4 skids that they sit on — off the back of a flatbed truck trailer right into the position where they will be used. I have a garden shed that is built like this, and I know of at least one independent motorcycle mechanic that has his shop in a larger one.

Joe, apparently, had run out of space in his substantial pole barn, and had had to improvise.

Inside, there was a car — however nice it may have been, we’re not here to talk about cars — and another half-dozen or so motorcycles. As always, Joe’s discernment and good moto-taste were on full display. First, there was a matched pair of Yamaha SRX 600 Super Singles. The matched pair thing, if you havn’t picked up on it by now, is the ultimate Joe Moto-endorsement — bikes that Joe likes, he buys one of, bikes that Joe really likes are bikes that Carol should have one of as well, so Joe buys two. Like any of Joe’s matched pairs, both bikes were in perfect mechanical and cosmetic condition, and looked like the day they rolled off the line.

The Super Single was pretty much the ultimate development of the air-cooled single-powered sport bike. An Overhead cam, 4 valve head with two barrel carburetor driving a narrow steel perimeter frame stopped by triple disk brakes. The SRX was clearly aimed at serious, quirky enthusiasts, because there were very few street motorcycles sold in 1986 that were kickstart only. These bikes were nimble backroad weapons — looking at Joe’s pair it seemed like the typical Yamaha flat-topped racing style tank was no more than 8 inches wide. From the rider’s perspective these machines were almost more like bicycles than the motorcycles I know well — but for going around corners its hard to imagine anything better.

Also in the barn was a pair of Honda NX650 Dominators. Like many things Honda, the NX650 was a true dual sport motorcycle from a period in time — 1988 – 2000 — before most people knew what dual sports were. Made 10 years later, these would have been sales leaders, but in one of those repeating Honda stories, they were so far ahead of their time, that consumers were perplexed instead of amazed.

Joe’s NXs were beaters — clearly used offroad and appropriately dumped in the dirt from time to time. They were mechanically sound but far from pretty.

Joe, Finn and myself made our way back into the driveway and grabbed a set of folding lawn chairs.

As we sat down, Joe grinned and handed me a business card. From Frostburg State University – part of the University Of Maryland System.

Well, that explained why Joe — or perhaps more correctly Dr. Gilmore — knew exactly when Finn’s classes started. Professor Joe knew when classes started because that was exactly how long he had left to ride before he had to go back to work.

I asked Joe how he’d become a College Professor.

And he told me a story about an Administrator from Frostburg calling him to ask if he could cover for a Business Accounting course for which the University had unexpectedly found itself without a professor. Joe had been working as a CPA at the time, but graciously agreed, just to help them out.

Well, to cut to that chase Joe discovered he enjoyed teaching, he liked working with young people, and The Young People and The University seemed to like him, too.

So it just sorta stuck.

“And of course, the ten or eleven weeks to ride every summer isn’t bad either.

This year coming up is my last year. Then it will all be riding time.”

Joe let on that he wasn’t always an academic type. He’d originally been trained as an industrial mechanic — working on heavy equipment like trucks, tractor trailers, forklifts and construction equipment.

Joe had been working for a municipal government down in Texas, and explained a ratings and compensation system that incentivized the drivers of The City’s Garbage Trucks to load their trucks as full as was mechanically possible before they came off their routes to go to the landfill.

Even if that ‘as full as mechanically possible’ was a weight well over the rated capacity of the truck.

If you are the mechanic that gets the call when an axle or suspension of one of those trucks lets go, This Is Not A Good Thing.

Especially since a truck that has had such a failure will not be coming back to the shop under its own power to effect such a repair.

So a younger man who would eventually become Dr. Gilmore found himself, on 100 degree Texas day, underneath a garbage truck with a broken axle, with the lovely and indescribable fluid which emerges from all garbage trucks slowly leaking down around him as he worked. And Potential Dr. Joe, at that juncture, had that most rational and understandable of thoughts.

“There has got to be a better way to make a living than this.”

And there sure as heck was. Joe went back to college, struck a whole bunch of letters behind the name on his business card, and, I surmise, ended up making a materially comfortable living somewhere out there in the Big Friendly World of Corporate Finance.

In my job I work occasionally with emissaries from that Big Friendly World, and I suspect that to this Joe it probably felt a lot like wearing a shirt and tie whose neck was 3/4 of an inch too small.

Then Academia had called, all was right with the world, and Joe ended up exactly where Joe was supposed to be all along.

It really is the Best of All Possible Worlds.

Joe was married to his high school sweetheart, who both shared and tolerated his enthusiasm for any form of moto-adventure.

Joe and Carol had a nearly contractually detailed agreement about Joe’s little enthusiasm and his tendency to invest in it. This agreement, which was of an adult nature and was neither G nor PG Rated is one I shall decline to detail, as this is A Family Show.

One can assume, however, from the nature of that Agreement that Joe never felt in any way constrained from buying any particular motorcycle or a whole buncha motorcycles.

And those motorcycles had taken the two of them from coast to coast, and helped to introduce them to many friend, including me and my son Finn.

Joe spent some time deep in conversation with Finn. Finn, it should be noted, is not the world’s most prolix conversational communicator, but the two of them were humming right along.

Professor Joe wanted to know about Finn’s Architecture Program, and his experience on the campus at College Park.

Just watching the two of them it was clear that Joe was genuinely interested, genuinely empathetic, and an obvious Natural at The Professoring Biz.

 

***

 

I don’t like to sit, generally.

I make a strategic exception for the saddle of my motorcycle, but otherwise, I don’ t like to sit.

So after a few minutes in the lawn chair I got antsy, and started to walk around.

In between the doors to the pole building, was a vintage gasoline pump.

“Roar With Gilmore — Blu-Green Gasoline!”

“Ethel — contains Tetraethyl Lead”

I was also admiring a perfect Honda 650 Hawk GT that sat right in front of it.

“So you like the pump, eh?,” asked Joe. “A friend found that for me. I think they went out of business in the 40s. I had stickers made up, though.”

And so he had — both Hawks — another perfect matched set — had ‘Roar with Gilmore’ decorating their tails.

“These Hawks are perfect, Joe. I test rode one during a special program Honda ran when they were new — its was a little razor — it went wherever you thought it should.”

“We do like ’em. We’re taking ’em for a ride later, after you guys head home.”

“Well I don’t want to hold you up any longer, man. It is way too nice a day to burn talking to me when you should be ridin’. I sure had fun, though.”

Finn and I shook hands with Joe, geared back up, waved and slid back down the gravel drive. It was a perfect day for a ride and we were really in no hurry to get back home.

 

***

 

US Scenic 40 East heads towards home, so we took US Scenic 40 West.

The pines of this forest were larger here, and the road, as it wound its way toward Town Hill, grew more shaded and cooler are we worked our way higher. The road was the treat of a road that I remembered from my first big ride to New Mexico — with switchback after switchback and huge grades and sweepers. With one eye on my rearviews it was fun to watch Finn attacking these corners.

I was definitely not the only one that was having fun.

After running about a dozen miles west, we took a loop of side roads that brought us back out on Scenic 40, where we reluctantly turned our wheels east.

The road over Town Hill was just as much fun going east as it had been going west, so it was all good.

Finn and I worked out way back down one mountain, and then up and down the other, grabbing a much needed sandwich when we worked our way back to Hancock.

 

***

 

Coming back out of Hancock one gets dumped onto I-70 for two exits, before Scenic 40 splits off again. Finn and I left the highway there, never to return.

The rest of the ride home was a string of little Western Maryland towns, strung along the Old National Road as they were. We were never over 60 for very long, and then would gently troll into another little town — gas station, library, market, cafe, Post Office — and then back onto the open road between them again.

Too soon, came South Mountain, Middletown, and a view of the ride towards home. Finn and I took a slight scenic detour, cutting back across the Valley on Picnic Woods and then Gapland Roads — trying to stretch this ride out for a few more perfect corners, tires biting, front wheels lightening up on corner exits. Try as we did to avoid it, too soon we were home, listening to the overwhelming sound of no motorcycle engines, pantomiming being stiff as we dismounted and placed our bikes on the stands.

There’s a world of future where there will be other rides, other bike and other trips.

But today with a new fellow traveller, a son I love and of whom I’m proud, and a most beautiful riding day, this ride to Joe’s was a little jewel that I knew I would always hold.

On The Pipe

A single cylinder motorcycle seems to be the just about the simplest thing in world.

I mean, look at it.

One piston and cylinder. A couple of valves. One spark plug. One carb or one throttle body and one singular pipe.

My Briggs and Stratton lawn mower engine is fundamentally the same thing.

How the hell hard could it possibly be to get and keep this maddenly simple mechanism running at its best?

 

***

 

Apparently, pretty hard.

Look, when one spends $900 to acquire a 2002 model year motorcycle, and that motorcycle has less than 1800 miles on it, it’s not a surprise that one will be spinning some wrenches.

But for the simplest thing in the world, keeping The Blast on its game has proved to be a moving target, an endlessly shifting game of ‘what’s-not-right-now’?

When it was time for Finn to come home from the University of Maryland for the summer, I headed down there to bring the bike back home while Finn transported a car full of architectural models and computer gear. He’d mentioned that the bike had been stumbling off of idle, and he could ‘smell something oily’ on shut down.

For some reason, my unconscious mind instantly formed a clear mental picture of some form of big hairy exhaust leak.

I got down on one knee in front of the Buell, and pulled my cel phone from the pocket of my cargos. I flipped the flashlight app on — which just turns on the phone’s LED flash unit — and looked onto the cylinder head’s exhaust port.

Clear as day, I could see a pretty substantial crack that ran almost halfway around the circumference of the headpipe. At the worst part of the fracture, a bit of pipe about half the size of my pinky fingernail was missing in action.

Why can’t my clear mental pictures be of perfectly functioning motorcycles?

After starting the bike, I stood about two feet in front of it with my hand held in front of me, and could feel the exhaust pulses as clearly as if I was standing by the exhaust exit.

After getting the bike back to the shop, I figured I’d pull the entire exhaust system, take a good hard look at it to see if it was serviceable, and then make the fix or replace call.

 

***

 

I’ll state for the record that Buell’s design choice to place their exhaust systems under the engine makes perfect sense from a mass distribution and roll moment perspective.

Where it doesn’t make sense is if you’re the poor suffering bastard that has to work on one of them if you don’t own a motorcycle service lift.

If Finn — who is starting to demonstrate a genuine aptitude for the use of oblique strategies in problem solving — hadn’t seen a different route to access a bolt his now vision challenged Old Man could not see, I might be lying out there in the driveway still.

With his help, though, we finally got the entire system free from its three mount points — the exhaust port, a mount on the front of the engine, and a bar that ran across the bottom rear of the frame.

It didn’t take much inspection to conclude that my initial notion of a trip to my favorite welders was really ill-advised.

Can you say….Big Hairy Exhaust Leak

 

Apart from the obvious damage to the exhaust exit– which was going to be somewhat challenging to repair because of the method Harley Davison engines use to secure the headpipe — one doesn’t have much room at all to increase the effective diameter of the headpipe with a weld because of the manner in which the retaining snapring/retaining flange have to slip over it.

The rest of the exhaust – which was a typical Buell design with three separate chambers and resonating tubes contained in the muffler — didn’t look that great either. There were at least two more places where welds were visibly deteriorating right before my eyes, and the likelihood that we were going to have to be making more such repairs six months hence was unacceptably high.

That, and the thing weighted a freaking ton.

For a very little motorcycle what appeared to be a 20 pound plus exhaust didn’t make a lot of sense to me.

In the Fix or Replace Department, this was coming down a firm Replace.

 

***

 

So I spent some time trying to figure out who made the best aftermarket system for The Blast. There really weren’t a lot of choices. And maybe even less choices than that if one remembers that Finn’s motorcycle spent a lot of time in an indoor parking garage with a lot of expensive automobiles with sensitive alarm systems.

Every time I’d ever ridden The Blast up to the top floor of the parking structure, I’d gassed the little bike hard on every ramp that led up to the next floor. With the stock exhaust in a confined space, the bike sounded pretty thumpy.

Thinking about what the bike would sound like in there with a stupid loud exhaust — I’m talking to you D&D Drag Pipe — all I could see was three dozen Lexus, Jaguars and Acuras with their alarms all bleating plaintively in unison.

Such a scenario would not end well.

Anyway.

The only manufacturers that still manufacture an aftermarket exhaust for this motorcycle are Vance & Hines and Jardine.

The Vance and Hines is a ‘closed course competition’ only pipe. Aluminum headpipe and muffler. When I called the Nice Folks at V&H, they told me their system was ‘pretty loud’. When I asked them about the availability of a baffle that might make the system quasi-socially-responsible, they referred me to a third party that they thought made one “that might work.”

Call me judgemental, but this wasn’t feeling like a solution.

Which brings us to the Jardine.

The Jardine system has a pretty similar aluminum muffler body. They do, however, sell a mated low decibel exhaust exit insert for it, and their headpipe is made of stainless steel.

In a two horse race, we had an obvious winner.

In looking to buy one, I was surprised to discover that Summit Racing — from whom I was accustomed to ordering parts for my now sadly-departed 95 Dodge pickup — also carried a rather astounding range of motorcycle hard parts — brake pads, rotors…exhausts.

Where the online price for the Jardine ranged between $409 and $489, Summit had it for $365. They didn’t stock it…. after I placed my order they would order one and have it drop-shipped from Jardine straight to me. They’d never have anything to do with the deal other than deposit their margin.

I ordered up the Jardine exhaust system from Summit Racing.

 

***

 

The exhaust and carburation on a stock Buell Blast are not optimized for performance.

The intake and exhaust are tuned and restrictive. The engine — if one could call that ‘tuned’ at all — is tuned for tractability and low levels of power and noise.

Ditching the stock exhaust would absolutely require completely overhauling the carb — new pilot and main jets, and maybe a few other things besides.

There are two unvarnished good things about Buell Blast ownership. The First Thing is the Buell Riders Online Blast Forum, which knows all — sees all. One member of the forum, Dan, even got off the couch and designed and manufactured components that addressed some of the bike’s design peculiarities.

The Second Thing is that the Blast shares its carburetor — a Keihin CV40 — with gazillions of Harley Davidson Sportsters, and a couple of sub-zillion HD Big Twins as well. What this means to you is that tuning parts, including hot rodding parts, are available both directly from HD and from a cadre of aftermarket companies as well.

There’s even a company — CV Performance, Inc — that only makes tuning parts for the HD CV40 carb.

Woo-hoo.

The Blast Online brothers have tables which provide the tested jet sizes for each aftermarket exhaust that has ever been made for the bike. CV Performance had those jets as stock items. They also had two little gems that also needed to be installed to civilize living with the bike.

The first was a hand adjustment wheel to replace the stock idle adjuster, which requires a screwdriver. Every Japanese motorcycle I’ve ever seen has one of these — HDs and their ilk, at least from the factory, apparently do not. The second was a similar hand wheel to replace that factory air mixture screw, which was factory sealed under an aluminum plug. The combo would make dialing the carb in post-install childs play. Use the top thumbwheel to dial in the correct idle speed. Then use the bottom thumbwheel to dial in the air mixture so that bike took throttle evenly off idle.

Bada bing, bada boom. Done.

I ordered up the entire batch of CV40 parts, then headed to my local hardware store to pick up some #4 washers.

Then there was nothing to do but wait for the postman.

 

***

 

Unlike Godot, the Postman actually showed up.

The exhaust system hit the shop first. The Jardine pipe looked the business — all the aluminum machining on the muffler, exhaust exit and low noise insert core looked like it was MotoGP-ready. The hardware they had used was also top-notch — aircraft grade nylock insert nuts, and an aviation grade clamp for the headpipe to silencer joint.

After work that day, Finn and I headed out to the driveway and spent a few minutes mounting the system. Other than working with the monster snap-ring that Harley uses to retain every headpipe they’ve ever made — which requires its own dedicated monster snap-ring pliers, naturally — the work proceeded smoothly and without incident.

Well, without incident if one is willing to discount having to mount the snapring twice after I realized that the retaining plate needed to be passed over the headpipe first before mounting the snapring. We got better the second time after the ‘practice run’.

Finn’s ability to visualize how things fit together definitely indicates he made the correct choice of careers. It also makes him the ideal mechanic’s assistant. He was once again able to identify a route to apply torque to a fastener under the bike that might have taken me somewhat longer. It also doesn’t hurt that he can see small print on components that seem to be decreasing in size, at least from my perspective.

Once the pipe was successfully mounted, Finn’s first impulse was to start the bike up.

“Naah, let’s wait on that, Finn. Based on the jet numbers we’ve had to order the stock jets should be waaay too small. Would run like crap if it runs at all. Patience, Grasshopper. The carb parts should be here tomorrow. This carb is dog-simple — the work will not take us very long.”

 

***

 

As expected, Friday’s mail had the package from CV performance.

Saturday a.m. we put the Blast up on the swingarm stand and set about liberating the carb.

We pulled the tank cover and fuel tank, removed the air filter, and were looking at the business end of the fuel system.

One of the required ‘adjustments’ was to raise the slide needle in its holder, in order to ensure that the off idle mixture didn’t lean out, causing stumbles or backfires. The carburetors to which I am accustomed have a snapring to retain them and multiple grooves in the needle to permit said adjustment.

Not so The Blast. Its needle has no provision for adjustment — it simply sits in the bottom of the slide where it is trapped in place by the slide return spring’s plastic retainer.

Which brings us back to the aforementioned #4 washers.

The #4 washers are just large enough to fit on the carb’s needle. They’re a known thickness. Determine how high you want to raise the needle, and do the math.

Given how the carb sits when installed in the motorcycle, the easiest place to do that procedure was right where it already was.

The diaphragm cover on the CV40 is held in place by four screws. One of those four screws also holds the throttle cable pulley. I pulled that corner first, and disconnected the throttle open and close cables from the carb.

After unscrewing the other three corners, the carb’s top, diaphragm and slide assemblies were in my hand.

All things considered — 14 years of limited use and benign neglect followed by one year of really intensive use — things looked surprisingly clean and generally pretty good. No serious gook or deposits, no visible wear. The diaphragm even checked out.

I pulled the carb’s needle out of the slide, slipped my washers underneath, and put the whole thing back together. I used some carb and choke cleaner to get the slide shining, seated the diaphragm in its groove on top of the carb body and buttoned the whole thing back up.

Next, we’d need to pull the carb out of the bike to do the jet service.

In The Blast, the carb is held in place by a single screw clamp on the cylinder head end, and three allen head bolts that connect it to an intake venturi fitting and the airbox. It’s about 10 minutes from intention to workbench.

Stupid Plug, Gooped Up Flange

 

What needed to be done was very straightforward.

Larger pilot jet and main jet needed to be installed. After bathing everything — carb body, float bowl — in carb cleaner and shining things up with clean shoprags, I replaced the entire main jet, needle jet holder/emulsion tube and needle jet stack with new parts.

A few artful turns of my favorite carb screwdriver, we had a new pilot jet, too.

We, collectively, are perilously close to a point in time where using the phrase ‘favorite carb screwdriver’ will not communicate any meaning whatsoever.

I noted how many threads of the idle speed screw were showing, then removed the screw. I installed my new idle speed thumbscrew adjuster and turned it by hand until the same number of threads were showing. That setting would be a good starting point.

The mixture screw install was a little more chewy.

The Nice Folks At The Factory had decided that the mixture screw was something which You Would Never Need and Should Not Be Allowed To Touch.

Funny, that.

Accordingly, they had thoughtfully press fit a nice aluminum plug in the mixture screw bore.

And that, brothers and sisters, is why God and Bosch made lithium ion powered rechargeable drills.

I draped the entire carburetor in clean shop towels, then fitted my smallest dentist-wannabe drill bit into the chuck.

After a deep breath to steady myself — wouldn’t want to mess this hole up — I slowly spun up the drill until I was sure my hole was in the center of the bore plug. 20 seconds of spin later, the bit punched through.

I threaded a self tapping sheet metal screw into my tiny hole, and then pulled the screw and plug out with a pliers. After clearing the drill swarf, I was able to remove the mixture screw and replace it with the EZ-Just Mixture Screw. I ran the EZ-Just down until it bottomed, then backed it out the 2 3/4 turns I’d been told was the approximate setting.

With everything in place, I replaced the float bowl on the CV40 using some Allen bolts also supplied by CV Performance — the original screws were Japan Industrial Standard (JIS) — which looks a lot like a Phillips head screw but really isn’t. In practical use, JIS screws get destroyed through the use of Phillips screwdrivers, since darn near no-one even knows what a JIS Screwdriver is, much less actually owns one.

I spent a little bit of time cleaning up the exterior of the carb body. It might be another 15 years before it got cleaned again, so I wanted to be thorough. I spent a little extra time giving the hairy eyeball and extra attention to the output side of the carb, where it fitted in to the rubber intake manifold.

These motorcycles are notorious for funky tuning resulting from intake leaks at that very spot. And to my eye it appeared that someone had tried to use some form of caulk or sealant to smooth over the cast-in groove in the carb’s exit flange. This little improvisation, it should be noted, would make the carb to rubber manifold joint far more likely to leak than if the groove was there for the rubber to conform to.

I cleaned it all out and returned the exterior of the carb body to stock finish and condition.

It was time to see what we had here.

 

***

 

3 Allen Bolts, 2 screwclamps and 3 10mm bolts later, the Blast was back together on the workstand.

I turned on the fuel petcock, and waited a suitable amount of time.

I may have actually twiddled.

I walked over to the other side of the bike, looking for errant fuel. I didn’t see, smell or slip and fall over in any.

I walked back to the left side of the bike and turned the key. The Blast went through its little electromechanical dance – whizzzz! – as it energized and started up the instrument displays.

I hit the starter — “whoooof… whoooof….whoooof…whoooof…”

There were a lot of places in that carburetor that didn’t yet have fuel where fuel was supposed to be.

“Whoooof… whoooof….whoooof…WHUMP! WHUMP…. wumpwumpwumpwumpwump….”

It was immediately apparent that the Blast had undergone a personality transplant. It wasn’t like it had taken a trip to full-on racetrack honk, but there was no longer any question you were listening to A Motorcycle.

Amazingly, the initial idle speed and mixture settings appeared to be pretty close. As the bike came down off the enriched high idle, idle speed was in the ballpark — I used the adjuster to goose it upward ever so slightly. Throttle response wasn’t bad either — I opened up the mixture screw until response started to soften, then went back a 1/4 turn.

Spot on and a rock solid thumping idle. Rolling the throttle open snapped rpms upward with a healthy bark from the new muffler.

I went inside to get a helmet and some gear.

 

***

 

Trolling out of the neighborhood it was clear that everything had changed.

Small changes in the throttle now produced noticeable and proportional results. One of the reasons I appreciate carbureted vehicles is that they exhibit analog response — the systems perform and provide feedback that is sensitive to the operational gestures of the driver or rider. Whacking the grip to immediately deliver LTO feels very different from smoothly rolling the throttle progressively to the stops. A throttle opening I select on a corner entry is exactly the throttle opening I get — not a slightly different one selected by some ride by wire software.

The Blast was now all kinds of responsive at low engine speeds and small throttle openings — something it absolutely was not before.

I mean, you could solidly short shift the bike and there’d be power in the next gear.

When I got to The Pike, I gassed it. After a short shift to second, I rolled the throttle open and wound second, and then third gear all the way out.

The sound of the engine was simply marvelous — a basso profundo machine gun, with a genuine snarl on the overrun when the throttle was snapped closed between shifts.

There was no popping or burbling on deceleration… running the engine up to high RPMs demonstrated a genuine power step and well more power and acceleration than had been there before. It seemed the rejetting work had been spot on — I’ll admit being surprised at the amount of new lunge coming out of a single two valve, aircooled, pushrod Sportster refugee cylinder.

I was down to the bottom of hill at the Brookside Inn bang-bang corners far sooner than I remember Blasting there previously.

I wound the gas on and charged the short straight and the steep right that lead back up the hill. The Brookside Parking Lot’s Ultra Glide clan’s gazes were definitely drawn by the sporting report from their Big Twins’ little brother.

Two thirds of the way up the long and steep grade I deliberately gave the gear up early, and let the bike pull fourth gear from well below the engine’s torque peak. With the thump of each power pulse coming back off the rock cut, I got another demonstration of the appeal of American power — big cylinders, comparatively low RPM, and unrestrictive exhausts making power and that booming wonderful sound.

I needed to get this bike back in Finn’s hands.

 

***

 

After I got back to the shop and got my gear off, Finn was geared up and ready.

With two “Brraps” he was around the corner and gone. As he left the neighborhood I could hear The Blast’s engine revving out as it headed up the highway.

I suspected I might not see Finn for a while.

 

***

 

And as I suspected, I didn’t. An hour, an hour and a half, maybe a little more — which is as much as you have gas for with the small Buell tank — before I heard the thumping coming back up the street, up the driveway and back into the shop.

Finn revved the engine twice before shutting it down.

Previously, Finn never revved the engine.

Now, it seems, you just got to. You can’t help yourself.

 

***

 

I’ve had the bike out several times since then, and each time is a revelation. I take it whenever I have a short trip to make that keeps me off the highways. On the backroads one just wants to revel in the sound — running the revs up and then engine braking to slow down — going “VOOObaaaaa… VOOObaaaaaa” and feeling the thrum of the motor through the footpegs and bars.

The bike is silly light and agile, and I’ve finally internalized its “You-Don’ts-Gots-To-Speed-Up-Coming-Out-Of-Corners-If-In-The-First-Place-You-Never-Slow-Down” Ethos. It seems The Blast’s throttle is perpetually opening – using it to set entries — torquing up on the way out.

The look of the Jardine system really cleaned up the appearance of the bike — the stainless steel headpipe also turned a nice bronze tone after it had been run and revved for a few miles.  Finn and I both noticed that the weight reduction made the bike easier to turn in on corner entry.  15 pound weight loss on a 390 pound motorcycle is definitely noticeable.

Nice Tone, Nice Headpipe Color

I never want to get too cocky, but it feels like we’ve got this little motorcycle sorted out. It behaves like a real motorcycle and really is fun to ride in its chosen element.

I’ve got a better feeling about this bike getting him through another school year without requiring the laying on of hands (and wrenches).

There will aways be little projects, like fabbing up soft saddlebag guards out of 1/2″ electrical conduit after noticing that small hole abraded though the plastic drive belt pulley shroud. It amazing what you can do with the bike’s designed-in underseat bungee anchors, some threaded rod, some nuts and bolts, and a really large sledgehammer.

Half Inch Conduit Isn’t Just for Wires Anymore – Saddlebag Guards for $4.73

 

Then there’s the small matter of the AutoChoke. I am like Ahab in that I will carry the fight against the White Snowmobile Part until the end of my days. I’d had the Hoca Manual Choke Kit and Sportster Enrichener Valve installed, but the cable I’d procured didn’t have long enough a throw to close the enrichener 100% of the way.

8mm choke…meet 7mm choke…I’d have to buy a Sportster enrichener valve for this to work….

 

I’d sourced and modified a nice handlebar mounted control — the whole thing looked factory, but the enrichener slide was only closing about 90% and I ended up having to reinstall the AutoChoke. I’ve subsequently obtained a cable that looks like it will work but with summer nearly over I may just be out of time.

 

The Clamp (Modified)

 

Looks Factory

 

This isn’t over yet, Moby Dick.

We’ll get a ride or two together in the coming weeks, but then Finn and his motorcycle will head back to University.

With both Finn and The Blast gone, it really will be quiet around here in Jefferson.