4 October, 2019
I got the news yesterday that a second cousin, Christian, had died as a result of injuries sustained while fighting a forest fire. I don't recall ever meeting the man, also an Iraq war combat veteran, but I have met his parents and sister. They all live in the Pacific northwest so family visits don't really happen. Still, it's family. My family, despite being spread out, is pretty tight. If some distant relative contacts someone from out of the blue the response is "Come on over, we'll put you up for a few days." I think that's really cool.
Facebook, love it or hate it, has provided me with a way of keeping in touch with my more distant family. I love it, but FB still has the stink of disconnection. Before the internet as we know it, the phone and address lists kept by my parents and grandparents were epic sagas. Just as I was leaving on a solo motorcycle trip to my Dad's home town this summer, Mom handed me a slip of paper with the last known phone number of one of her friends. Just in case. I've gone off on a tangent.
With the news of Christian's death, my immediate reaction was to go forth and support the family. Christian's sister and father had posts on FB (which is how I found out about his death), but I didn't know how to respond. I never know how to respond to that kind of news.
I've written about the death of my father, brother and one of my best friends (Audra) before so I won't rehash those stories. The relevant points are this. When Dad died I heard "I'm sorry for your loss", and minor variations, so much that I swore I would never say that. "I'm sorry..." equates to an apology. Why are you apologizing for my Father's death? You didn't kill him. "Thoughts and prayers..." Well, after my Grandfather's death (a Methodist minister for four decades) and then my Father... That was, almost, the final nail in the coffin of the belief in God for me. Prayer meant nothing to me. Toss in my Brother and then Audra... There are a lot of mental scars that just can't absorb well-wishes anymore.
Maybe it was the trauma of losing my Father that short-circuited my brain into analyzing how people responded as a way of not thinking about what had actually happened. The kind people who propped up myself, and my family, at that time (repeated when my Brother died) were great. They were also struggling with "What do I say?" Just the fact that people gave a damn, in any shape or form, did wonders. At my Father's funeral the assistant manager, Dave, from the grocery store showed up. He had flowers from the store and a card signed by all of my coworkers. I still get a little teary-eyed thinking about that kind gesture. My best friend (his future wife and his three siblings by default) and a good chunk of his family (all of them had adopted me as family) were also there. All of it was a show of friendship and support. I will never forget any of them. What I learned was that actions mean more than words. My whole world was chaos. I didn't know up from down, left from right... It's like I was in the middle of the Atlantic and just trying to keep my head above water and then "There's Dave, there's Adam and his family..." Just those people being there gave me something to focus on and it was like they had thrown me a rope and were pulling me to safety.
When Best Friends' (meaning all of them) Father died, I was there. I had no clue what do do, but I was there. Best friend's wife died, I was there. I was a pall bearer and let me tell you, carrying one of my best friends to her final resting place, that hurt. A lot. Best friends' Aunts died, I was there. Still had no idea what to say but at least I could "be there". Not my family, but kinda my family... My default position in any of those situations is to just hang out in the background and be ready should someone need something. Ran out of TP in the bathroom? "I'm on it!" I could say. Physical presence. They helped me when I needed it so I wanted reciprocate.
But with Christian I can't do that. I'm thousands of miles away from them. I can't be there to hang out in the background. I can't give them hugs. I can't make supply runs to the store when the TP runs out. I don't know what to do and I can't find any words that won't sound like something on a cheap wall hanging from Target. My response thus far has been a "sad face" on FB. I had to do something. I can't even write a letter because I don't have an address to send it to.
What do you say, what do you do, in a moment like this?
04 October, 2019
01 August, 2019
Motorcycles, Ignorance and Tolerance
I've been commuting on the Bonneville recently. Who can argue with 47 miles per gallon and a whole lot of fun? I rolled into work Wednesday and as I entered the yard there was a truck driver getting out of the way. Imagine "Larry the Cable Guy" getting out of a square-nosed Peterbilt. Stereo-typical (I wonder if there is such a thing as mono-typical? I digress) truck driver.
I park the motorcycle and head into the office, gear is still on, and I see that driver at the front desk. Everyone is busy so I go to the window and ask if I may help with something. Helmet is off, unzipping the jacket and "Larry" says "So you're the guy who whizzed by on that rice bike." I replied with "Excuse me?" (still had ear plugs in). I pulled the ear plugs out and Larry says "The rice bike..."
The look of confusion and mild offense (we'll get to that) on my face made Larry explain that he is "a Harley guy" with a smug smile upon his face. To which I replied "There's a Sportster in my garage and that 'rice bike' you saw is a Triumph Bonneville." He had nothing. He's a "biker", not a motorcyclist.
When I'm out finding those hidden curvy roads and spectacular scenery, I wave at every rider I see. Even the scooter bros. Trikes get no love. 99% of the time the other rider waves in return. Larry is the 1% that doesn't return the wave. Larry is a dick. Larry's "gear" is probably just what he had on driving his truck. Ball cap, good 'ol southern boy "christian" jewelry, sleeveless plaid shirt and plain 'ol jeans. I can throw stereotypes back. With a healthy dose of sarcasm. #superpower.
Though I think it's insane to ride without proper gear (imagine opening the door of your car and jumping out with what you have on. Will your OOTD save you?) I will defend a person's right to ride without gear if they choose to do so. It's the wrong choice, in my opinion, and the beanied, gear-free, motor company faithful/sport bike squids, have never been sliding down a pea-graveled road (local county Rd. in my case) at 50mph. I had to toss out the helmet and gloves, but got away with a scraped knee, scraped leather jacket (from Sears no less), bent handlebar and broken turn signals. Oh, and a major sense of dread when I had to tell Dad that his worst thoughts about motorcycles had come true.
This is a lesson in how to be a decent person. Instead of "You rode in on that rice bike..." how about "What's that motorcycle you rode in on?" Or instead of "ATGATT (all the gear all the time)!" I wait for a question about the gear I have. "...No it's not hot at all. These vents here, here and here do..." Tolerance. Some people like obese land yachts with no ground clearance, some people like motorcycles with good brakes and enough ground clearance to enjoy curvy roads.
My ideal is not your ideal. You can't go through life with the "Hell hath no forgiveness for those who do not think like-wise" attitude.
23 February, 2019
Religion
I will be as blunt as possible right from the start so you don't waste your time reading something you disagree with.
If you live your life in accordance to a book written thousands of years ago (and embellished throughout the generations to accomplish some selfish assholes' goals) you're a fool and cannot think for yourself.
If you wait for God, Allah, Buddah, Odin, Ares or some other mythical "being" to solve your problems you get what's coming to you. The whole of any religion is contradictory to itself. Religion is a way for a few to control many. The Devil is in the details.
Generally speaking, most Muslims, Christians, Buddhists and Pagans are all about supporting their communities. Feeding those who are hungry, housing those who have no home, aiding those who are sick... That's not religion. That's just being a decent human. What difference does it make if a hungry person is homosexual, muslim, christian, pagan etc. When someone falls, you pick them up. Period.
I was forced into attending church as a child. I didn't believe any of it and rebelled at every opportunity. I skipped out of the conformation classes frequently and when confronted by my parents I would ask "What are they gonna do? Hold me back another year?" It was important to my parents, but not to me. There's a twist to the story.
My Mother's Father, Grandpa Arnie, was a Methodist Minister. Grandpa had married Grandma, in secret mind you, had three children (my Mother being their first) and were farmers. This all happened in the midst of the Great Depression. Grandpa, due to having a family, or being a conscientious objector, worked in a bomb factory during WWII as his way to contribute to the war effort. I don't know the details, but at the end of WWII he heard the calling of God and gave up farming to become a servant of God. Though I'm not a "good" christian, I can't help but respect my Grandfather for having the cajones to throw everything to the wind and pursue something he thought was his destiny.
My Mother's family was living on a shoestring as farmers but once Grandpa started his journey to becoming a servant of God, things for them became dire. Mom frequently tells stories of how they depended on donations to keep them alive. During Grandpa's time earning his theology degree (something most "preachers" don't possess) his youngest child, my Uncle, contracted polio. You anti-vaxxers are idiots. Through hand-me-down clothes, used cars and donations of food, Grandpa completed his degree and became a Minister. He became an evangelist of the purist form. Not the Billy Graham type of bullshit "evangelist". Grandpa took care of his flock. He visited people at their homes, made sure they had enough to eat, fixed their tractors (he was an old farm boy after all), visited the sick in hospitals... He was being a good person and looking out for his fellow man.
Grandpa baptized countless babies, married countless couples and presided over the funerals of his people. It was this world in which I was raised. Though I did not like being forced into attending church every Sunday, Grandpa's humanity was passed to me. It is a gift of which I am most thankful for. That gift is, for me, what "religion" is. Taking care of your fellow man. Regardless of what a person's beliefs are. If you are hungry I will feed you. I'll also show you how to bait the hook so you can fish for yourself. If you are cold I will bring you firewood to heat your home. I will also show you how to sharpen an ax, fell a tree and split logs.
Outside of the sermons I heard Grandpa give, I never heard any of the "The bible says this and the bible says that..." nonsense. I have exactly two sermons of Grandpa's on tape. They are very precious to me. In those two sermons he is expressing how to be a good person. Help your fellow man. To me THAT is what religion is all about. Helping people.
If you live your life in accordance to a book written thousands of years ago (and embellished throughout the generations to accomplish some selfish assholes' goals) you're a fool and cannot think for yourself.
If you wait for God, Allah, Buddah, Odin, Ares or some other mythical "being" to solve your problems you get what's coming to you. The whole of any religion is contradictory to itself. Religion is a way for a few to control many. The Devil is in the details.
Generally speaking, most Muslims, Christians, Buddhists and Pagans are all about supporting their communities. Feeding those who are hungry, housing those who have no home, aiding those who are sick... That's not religion. That's just being a decent human. What difference does it make if a hungry person is homosexual, muslim, christian, pagan etc. When someone falls, you pick them up. Period.
I was forced into attending church as a child. I didn't believe any of it and rebelled at every opportunity. I skipped out of the conformation classes frequently and when confronted by my parents I would ask "What are they gonna do? Hold me back another year?" It was important to my parents, but not to me. There's a twist to the story.
My Mother's Father, Grandpa Arnie, was a Methodist Minister. Grandpa had married Grandma, in secret mind you, had three children (my Mother being their first) and were farmers. This all happened in the midst of the Great Depression. Grandpa, due to having a family, or being a conscientious objector, worked in a bomb factory during WWII as his way to contribute to the war effort. I don't know the details, but at the end of WWII he heard the calling of God and gave up farming to become a servant of God. Though I'm not a "good" christian, I can't help but respect my Grandfather for having the cajones to throw everything to the wind and pursue something he thought was his destiny.
My Mother's family was living on a shoestring as farmers but once Grandpa started his journey to becoming a servant of God, things for them became dire. Mom frequently tells stories of how they depended on donations to keep them alive. During Grandpa's time earning his theology degree (something most "preachers" don't possess) his youngest child, my Uncle, contracted polio. You anti-vaxxers are idiots. Through hand-me-down clothes, used cars and donations of food, Grandpa completed his degree and became a Minister. He became an evangelist of the purist form. Not the Billy Graham type of bullshit "evangelist". Grandpa took care of his flock. He visited people at their homes, made sure they had enough to eat, fixed their tractors (he was an old farm boy after all), visited the sick in hospitals... He was being a good person and looking out for his fellow man.
Grandpa baptized countless babies, married countless couples and presided over the funerals of his people. It was this world in which I was raised. Though I did not like being forced into attending church every Sunday, Grandpa's humanity was passed to me. It is a gift of which I am most thankful for. That gift is, for me, what "religion" is. Taking care of your fellow man. Regardless of what a person's beliefs are. If you are hungry I will feed you. I'll also show you how to bait the hook so you can fish for yourself. If you are cold I will bring you firewood to heat your home. I will also show you how to sharpen an ax, fell a tree and split logs.
Outside of the sermons I heard Grandpa give, I never heard any of the "The bible says this and the bible says that..." nonsense. I have exactly two sermons of Grandpa's on tape. They are very precious to me. In those two sermons he is expressing how to be a good person. Help your fellow man. To me THAT is what religion is all about. Helping people.
03 February, 2019
Replace, Don't repair: A lesson In Corporate Greed.
Those of you who did have a Dad, Grandad, Step Dad etc. who DID fix things, you would take the faucet apart, figure out how it works and do what you had to do in order to make the faucet work properly.
If you fall into the first category, I'm not trying to degrade you and make you feel like less of a man. Not being sexist, the man typically gets the "fix it" tasks. Or the more manly man of the two if that is your situation. If you're using a butter knife as a screw driver to assemble your shitty Ikea "furniture" I will applaud you. You are taking the task into your own hands and doing the job the best you know how. Conversely, I will chide you for not having taken advantage of your "smart" phone to look up the task on YouTube. Or, perhaps, order up an old shop class textbook from Amazon. The demise of shop class in schools has put a massive surplus of those old textbooks on the market. There is no excuse for you to NOT have one of those books. Read it. You will become more independent. Even if you have no desire to build things or repair things, reading old books will, at least, give you some idea of what you're dealing with. An informed person cannot be taken advantage of.
My bathtub's faucet started dripping again. I have "hard" water in my home and the plumbing is subject to the effects of mineral deposits and scale. About nine years ago the bathtub's faucet started dripping and I had to address it. Being outside the "normal" business hours, something I deal with as a night shifter, I had to do with what was available. That's my super power. I make things happen with few resources.
I grew up in a rather frugal house. When a faucet started to drip my Dad would fix it. He would take the faucet apart, inspect it and repair it if he could. If seals and springs need replacement he would take me in tow and head off to the hardware store. He would take the old parts along so he could compare them to the variety of replacements, purchase what he needed and then we would return home. The new parts were installed, the faucet didn't drip, Mom was happy and then he would give the old parts to me. Maybe I was different, maybe not. I found those old valves, seals and springs to be more fascinating than the toys I had. I would assume my parents knew that I was interested in those things. Otherwise they would have just thrown those old parts into the bin.
So nine years ago I took that bathtub faucet apart and inspected the parts. Mineral scale had built up on the seals and the bore they resided in. The scale prevented the seals from seating, completely, against the valves. I scraped the scale off of each part, used pliers to stretch the springs a bit, resurfaced the face of the valves and put it all back together. That repair lasted nine years. Then the faucet started dripping again.
I expected to go through the same process of disassembly, cleaning and reassembly but it wasn't to be. The cup seals had wear in them that was beyond repairing. Home Despot was still open so I figured I would go out and get a seal kit, install it and be done for another decade. Nope.
Home Despot had a valve and seal kit from some shit-hole Chinese manufacturer for $10, but they had only one in stock. The sealing face of the valve was plastic. Not the brass of the original part. $10 for injection molded nylon, two o-rings, a spring and cup seal. That's a ridiculous price. Oh, but wait, the genuine Delta valves are plentiful. $10 each, but no cup seals or springs. The only cup seals and springs available were in a "Pro Pack" of 50 for $10. I was pissed off.
You can bet there was some suit, who had no idea that Phillips head screw drivers came in different sizes, who meticulously planned the exact situation I was in. When my Dad and I went to the hardware store a kit of valve, seal and spring could be had. Dad didn't have to purchase a 50 pack of seals and springs because the valves did not include those parts. If you're one of those suits, go fuck yourself. You're the kind of douche who buys a diesel pickup because you don't know any better. I see that and will rake you over the coals as revenge. You twats couldn't change a tire without calling for help. Enjoy your extra long wait and extra billable time as your family waits to get "up north" for your vacation. If you could get out of the mindset of blue collar tradesmen being "below" you, you might just get better service. Your "nose in the clouds" attitude is what your level of service is based off. Us "lower" people know you couldn't fix your way out of a wet paper bag. Maybe you should have taken a shop class instead of calculus I. Shop class would have been a better choice.
It is plain to see that the suits know most people, younger generations in particular, haven't had the benefit of shop classes. [sarcasm] "Who would want a shop class? Nobody would want to have such a lowly blue collar job. They can just call a plumber to fix that leaky faucet. [/sarcasm] Yeah, sure. With their nearly maxed out credit cards on top of their crippling student loan debt. Those young folk couldn't take a shop class because shop class didn't exist. They're at the mercy of those who DID have shop class and bothered to learn, on their own in many instances, how to work in the skilled trades. I find that shameful. One of my nephews was told by the local "quick lube" place that his car needed an air filter. He doesn't even know how to change an air filter! The shop classes were gone when he was in school. The suits know of my nephew and others like him. They're taking advantage of it.
Through my YouTube videos (amongst other YouTubers) I am doing my best to wrest control away from the corporate bean counters and put it back into the everyman's hands. Did your tire go flat? YouTube that shit and do it yourself! Plugging a tire is not rocket science. Do NOT let the fear of the unknown stop you. The information is out there. You just need to search for it.
"Throw off those chains of reason and your prison disappears" - Neil Peart, Rush, Hemispheres, Cygnus X-1, Book II.
14 August, 2018
A Motorcycle Tale
When I was a kid I had some exposure to Harley-Davidsons via a couple of cousins and my brother. My brother first had a "Hardly-Davidson", an Aermacchi Sprint which never ran right, but it got me hooked on the "Milwaukee Iron". I rode my bike around pretending it was an H-D and had fun. Later on my brother acquired a late '70s Sportster and I fell in love with the thing. I was in high school at that time and was hell bent on being a biker. My father did NOT want his youngest son riding around on a motorcycle. I had some Harley shirts, got the requisite engineers' boots, had a Sportster 883 ad (torn from a magazine) in my locker, I watched biker movies, I read a book on Harley-Davidson... I was Mr. Harley-Davidson without ever having ridden a motorcycle. Looking back on it I was quite pathetic.
I got a little seat time on one of those small Japanese '70s dirt bikes a friend had. My brother even let me ride his Sportster once. Near the end of my Senior year of high school I made a promise to myself that, one day, I would own a Harley. About ten months after that promise I ended up with a $150 Kawasaki KZ650-B1. Dad was not happy. He didn't speak to me for a week. Dad eventually said that he wasn't happy with my decision but respected how responsible I was. I had the thing registered, insured, had a helmet etc. right from day one. It was my first year in tech school. My instructor at the time used to be a motorcycle mechanic and he changed everything I had thought about motorcycles.
He loaned me a VHS tape of that year's Moto GP at Laguna Seca. I had never seen road racing before but it caught my interest. I was also reading every motorcycle magazine the school had. I then got a subscription to Motorcyclist magazine. Harleys were constantly being bashed and I couldn't understand why. "Ah, these guys are all sport bike people and have no idea how awesome Harleys are." I thought. The writers always complained about poor handling, lack of ground clearance and such. Harleys were frequently compared to tractors. The summer between first and second years of tech school I went to see my first road race at the local track. I heard a Ducati for the first time.
I didn't know it, but I had become a motorcyclist at this time. Not a biker.
The second year of tech school led to a loss of interest in Harley-Davidson. I was never going to be able to afford one and, as I was finding out, they weren't much for sport riding. The KZ650 was slowly becoming more sporting. unnecessary parts were removed, parts were bobbed, the exhaust went from 4 into 2 to 4 into 1, just like sport bikes. I was riding the hell out of that thing. It just kept progressing a little bit at a time. I started pushing the bike a little more here and there, I pushed myself a little bit too. I really liked that old Kawasaki. it wasn't a 600 Ninja, but that old KZ650 was more than enough for my meager skills.
Fast forward to 2009-2010. The Kawasaki had stopped working just after I got my first place and it was put in the garage for four years. I bought the house and moved the KZ to another garage where it would sit for years. I eventually decided that I would figure out the problem and had it diagnosed within thirty minutes. I kicked myself for not having done it years before. But, the economy had tanked, major industry disappeared from the city and I had no money for motorcycles. Things got so bad that I made the heart-wrenching decision to sell my beloved KZ650. Worst decision ever. I should have just let it sit in the garage for a couple of years until things got better. But I didn't and I regret selling it. Oh well, I had to live with it. I thought that motorcycling had no interest for me anymore.
Three years ago a coworker had been having some trouble with his '98
Sportster. Some idiot somewhere in the past had put a "big bore" kit on the thing so it went from being an 883 to something like 1150-ish. The coworker was young, had a heavy hand and had damaged the cylinders. He had it repaired at the dealer and he promptly did it again. He did the work that time around and I started asking him (I saw a deal and I could fix it) if he wanted to sell it. He declined. He got it running, it puked the oil out, he learned about dry sump oil systems and then rode it for months until "that day". He said he was out riding with his friends and the thing started running on one cylinder. He had another Harley in his sights and asked me if I was still interested in buying the Sportster from him. I got it for $800. I fulfilled that promise I had made to myself in high school.
The sporty sat in my garage for a year before I decided to see if I could get it running. Put some fresh gas in, did some rudimentary valve train and cylinder inspection and got it running. I honestly couldn't tell if it was running right or if it was just the "performance" shit that got put on it. Lumpy cams and all that kind of stuff. It also had straight pipes. Way too freaking loud. At least it ran on both cylinders as far as I could tell. I put it back in the corner and there it sat.
This summer I decided to clean the thing up, put a new battery in it, get it registered and take a little ride just to see if it was something I could putt around town with. Then, something happened. The motorcycling bug bit me again and after having given up on motorcycling I found myself obsessed with getting this poor, abused Sportster back on the road. Once it was running and registered I took it around the block to see how things went. No big problems so it was off to the gas station for a fill up and then I rode around the neighborhood. I couldn't work on the thing fast enough. I got it insured and started hunting for some stock exhaust, which I found, and when I was putting the quiet exhaust on I found the origin of the "running on one cylinder" complaint.
You'll have to do the research for yourself but, in short, a lollipop fell out of one of those annoying straight pipes. That was fixed with the replacement exhaust, the carb got tuned a bit, things that had been ignored for so long by previous owners were adjusted, paint and chrome got polished, the "hammer & chisel mechanic" repairs done by previous Bubbas were fixed properly.
I've put a few hundred miles on it so far and have no plans to stop. But I've learned something about Harley-Davidsons. I don't really care for them. Harleys don't have the little things that the Japanese motorcycles have but everyone ignores. Flip up seats that reveal a bit of storage and helmet hooks, comfortable riding positions (talking about "standard" motorcycles like my old KZ650), engines that don't shake you to pieces, decent control layout... When I flipped up the seat of the KZ650 I would see the battery, air filter (both easily changed) a small compartment for the tool kit and a document holder for the owner's manual and registration card. My Sportster doesn't have any of that and I find it annoying.
As I put more and more miles on the Sporty I am beginning to understand all of those complaints I read about in those old magazines. There isn't much "feel" with a Harley other than vibrations and aching muscles from uncomfortable riding positions. I don't like forward controls. I don't buy into the "forward controls let you stretch your legs out" nonsense. That's fine for tooling around town while "cruising" and it looks cool, but forward controls got old fast. Japanese "standard" motorcycles put your feet below your butt where they should be and the handlebar makes you lean forward just enough to cause the wind, at high speed, to keep you supported. Brilliant!
I have a list of things I'm going to be doing to this Sportster in order to make it more to my liking. Mid controls to get my feet in a more comfortable spot, a wider handle bar for a bit more leverage and the slight forward lean of my torso, decent shocks etc. I'm trying to make it into the KZ650 I loved so much. It won't be, but I can get it close. The passenger accommodations have been removed and the seat, with it's passenger pad, is going to disappear soon. For me, motorcycling is a solitary endeavor. I'll ride with my best friend, but that's about it. Large group rides don't appeal to me but I have yet to participate in one of those. Maybe I'll give that a try this summer. I have a feeling it wouldn't be long before I started looking for the next turn so I could go out on my own. That's just me.
I look back on my childhood and think about how I wanted a Harley and how I wanted to be a "biker". I got the Harley and despite the things I don't like about it, I'm just happy to be back on a motorcycle again. I haven't smiled so much or felt so happy in a long, long time. But, I'm a motorcyclist and I'm not brand-loyal. I wave at every rider I see because, regardless of the motorcycle, we're all out doing the same thing. Having fun.
I got a little seat time on one of those small Japanese '70s dirt bikes a friend had. My brother even let me ride his Sportster once. Near the end of my Senior year of high school I made a promise to myself that, one day, I would own a Harley. About ten months after that promise I ended up with a $150 Kawasaki KZ650-B1. Dad was not happy. He didn't speak to me for a week. Dad eventually said that he wasn't happy with my decision but respected how responsible I was. I had the thing registered, insured, had a helmet etc. right from day one. It was my first year in tech school. My instructor at the time used to be a motorcycle mechanic and he changed everything I had thought about motorcycles.
He loaned me a VHS tape of that year's Moto GP at Laguna Seca. I had never seen road racing before but it caught my interest. I was also reading every motorcycle magazine the school had. I then got a subscription to Motorcyclist magazine. Harleys were constantly being bashed and I couldn't understand why. "Ah, these guys are all sport bike people and have no idea how awesome Harleys are." I thought. The writers always complained about poor handling, lack of ground clearance and such. Harleys were frequently compared to tractors. The summer between first and second years of tech school I went to see my first road race at the local track. I heard a Ducati for the first time.
I didn't know it, but I had become a motorcyclist at this time. Not a biker.
The second year of tech school led to a loss of interest in Harley-Davidson. I was never going to be able to afford one and, as I was finding out, they weren't much for sport riding. The KZ650 was slowly becoming more sporting. unnecessary parts were removed, parts were bobbed, the exhaust went from 4 into 2 to 4 into 1, just like sport bikes. I was riding the hell out of that thing. It just kept progressing a little bit at a time. I started pushing the bike a little more here and there, I pushed myself a little bit too. I really liked that old Kawasaki. it wasn't a 600 Ninja, but that old KZ650 was more than enough for my meager skills.
Fast forward to 2009-2010. The Kawasaki had stopped working just after I got my first place and it was put in the garage for four years. I bought the house and moved the KZ to another garage where it would sit for years. I eventually decided that I would figure out the problem and had it diagnosed within thirty minutes. I kicked myself for not having done it years before. But, the economy had tanked, major industry disappeared from the city and I had no money for motorcycles. Things got so bad that I made the heart-wrenching decision to sell my beloved KZ650. Worst decision ever. I should have just let it sit in the garage for a couple of years until things got better. But I didn't and I regret selling it. Oh well, I had to live with it. I thought that motorcycling had no interest for me anymore.
 |
| Day I brought Sporty Spice home |
Sportster. Some idiot somewhere in the past had put a "big bore" kit on the thing so it went from being an 883 to something like 1150-ish. The coworker was young, had a heavy hand and had damaged the cylinders. He had it repaired at the dealer and he promptly did it again. He did the work that time around and I started asking him (I saw a deal and I could fix it) if he wanted to sell it. He declined. He got it running, it puked the oil out, he learned about dry sump oil systems and then rode it for months until "that day". He said he was out riding with his friends and the thing started running on one cylinder. He had another Harley in his sights and asked me if I was still interested in buying the Sportster from him. I got it for $800. I fulfilled that promise I had made to myself in high school.
The sporty sat in my garage for a year before I decided to see if I could get it running. Put some fresh gas in, did some rudimentary valve train and cylinder inspection and got it running. I honestly couldn't tell if it was running right or if it was just the "performance" shit that got put on it. Lumpy cams and all that kind of stuff. It also had straight pipes. Way too freaking loud. At least it ran on both cylinders as far as I could tell. I put it back in the corner and there it sat.
This summer I decided to clean the thing up, put a new battery in it, get it registered and take a little ride just to see if it was something I could putt around town with. Then, something happened. The motorcycling bug bit me again and after having given up on motorcycling I found myself obsessed with getting this poor, abused Sportster back on the road. Once it was running and registered I took it around the block to see how things went. No big problems so it was off to the gas station for a fill up and then I rode around the neighborhood. I couldn't work on the thing fast enough. I got it insured and started hunting for some stock exhaust, which I found, and when I was putting the quiet exhaust on I found the origin of the "running on one cylinder" complaint.
You'll have to do the research for yourself but, in short, a lollipop fell out of one of those annoying straight pipes. That was fixed with the replacement exhaust, the carb got tuned a bit, things that had been ignored for so long by previous owners were adjusted, paint and chrome got polished, the "hammer & chisel mechanic" repairs done by previous Bubbas were fixed properly.
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| Sporty Spice in its current config |
As I put more and more miles on the Sporty I am beginning to understand all of those complaints I read about in those old magazines. There isn't much "feel" with a Harley other than vibrations and aching muscles from uncomfortable riding positions. I don't like forward controls. I don't buy into the "forward controls let you stretch your legs out" nonsense. That's fine for tooling around town while "cruising" and it looks cool, but forward controls got old fast. Japanese "standard" motorcycles put your feet below your butt where they should be and the handlebar makes you lean forward just enough to cause the wind, at high speed, to keep you supported. Brilliant!
I have a list of things I'm going to be doing to this Sportster in order to make it more to my liking. Mid controls to get my feet in a more comfortable spot, a wider handle bar for a bit more leverage and the slight forward lean of my torso, decent shocks etc. I'm trying to make it into the KZ650 I loved so much. It won't be, but I can get it close. The passenger accommodations have been removed and the seat, with it's passenger pad, is going to disappear soon. For me, motorcycling is a solitary endeavor. I'll ride with my best friend, but that's about it. Large group rides don't appeal to me but I have yet to participate in one of those. Maybe I'll give that a try this summer. I have a feeling it wouldn't be long before I started looking for the next turn so I could go out on my own. That's just me.
I look back on my childhood and think about how I wanted a Harley and how I wanted to be a "biker". I got the Harley and despite the things I don't like about it, I'm just happy to be back on a motorcycle again. I haven't smiled so much or felt so happy in a long, long time. But, I'm a motorcyclist and I'm not brand-loyal. I wave at every rider I see because, regardless of the motorcycle, we're all out doing the same thing. Having fun.
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