Adjustable rake angle

Eddie has a new supermoto that is very pleasing to the eye. It is a Husqvarna SM 450RR, a limited production race bike. It cost $7,000 (used), which is exactly the same amount as a one-year supply of earth-friendly, biodegradable diapers. Guess I’ll just take the diapers.

There aren’t many opportunities to connect my geek-obsession with motorcycles to the law school curriculum. In fact, most of the time, motorcycling and the law just don’t really get along. During my Criminal Law class last semester, I realized that riding a motorcycle on one wheel down a public street would be seen as criminal negligence by a jury of my peers. It was a sobering moment.

After having such a difficult time trying to meaningfully daydream about bikes while in class, I was relieved to discover Hegel’s philosophical view about the justification of private property, because it seems to correspond so well with my visit today to see Tower’s latest cafe projects at Twinline. Basically, Hegel thought that a human being cannot live a full life, and cannot reach the best state of his or her true capability and agency, without deeply engaging with not only our human society and culture but with the very creation of our culture. Hegel’s “culture creation” involved an individual’s creative material interaction and work with physical objects, along with the individual’s knowledge that a particular creation be imprinted with his or her unique mark and personalized style. People must be made to feel secure in their control over the objects that they use or create, at least temporarily, in order to fully develop their true efficacy and agency. So, things need to be owned, because the control of ownership is conducive to the fulfillment of this basic human interest. In other words, one’s greatest self development might be attained by spending dozens of hours making a custom fabricated motorcycle tank.

Twinline has changed a bit in the last year, but the shop-heart is still beating strong, and the bikes are more dangerous and beautiful than ever. The parking lot was empty when I drove up and parked, but that wasn’t surprising on a February weekday in Seattle. After entering the grungy warehouse door, I found Brian and Keo tinkering in the main mechanic’s bay. I had a bag of taco-truck mulitas to share, and they put down their wrenches while I spread the greasy food out on one of the benches. We laughed and they told me about some project bikes, some drama, a death, and a birth. I worked here over a year ago and for only a few months, but today I found something therapeutic in the smell of the solvents, the sound of the distant hiss and puff of an air compressor. I let myself slowly look around the huge shop space.

Some George Strait was playing quietly on the speakers. A shy high school student from Bremerton was polishing aluminum engine case covers in the back. At least sixty motorcycles were lined up in rows against the far wall. A custom chopper, a vintage two-stroke racer, a KZ1000 battle bike, a Royal Enfield with an icon of a Hindu god on the headlight bucket, and dozens more, waiting for service. And, of course, Tower’s custom creations, all full of personal agency.

Keo's personal XS650

I’ve had a fear of ticks with lyme disease ever since mountain-bike goddess Julie Furtado’s dreams of an Olympic gold medal were crushed by a lyme-tick. It was later determined that Furtado actually had lupus, not lyme disease, but this fact does nothing to allay my fear of the crab-like parasitic monsters that thrive here in the Berkeley Hills. 

My ride into Sibley the other day began with another disease-carrying tick warning sign at the trail head. I’ve gotten used to seeing this little sign, and in spite of my fears, I’d soon forgotten the little buggers within a half mile of spiriting down the dirt track.

Ticktrack

The only single-track in Sibley are the little goat trails that skirt the cliffs and peter out into nowhere, and it was on one of these goat trails that I picked up my first tick. Since I had been obsessively checking my legs every thirty seconds, I saw the thing right away, and flicked him off. I had a chance to look at the insect, and I noted that it did not have the little red horse-shoe shape that apparently indicates the disease carrier. I looked around and realized that the trail I was on was a tick hot-zone; tall grass everywhere, with scrubby oak trees over the trail. Trying to remain calm, I carefully turned my bike around and tried to get back to the main trail and out of the tall grass. Within seconds, I noticed another tick on my lower leg. As I reached to flick it off, the beast seemed to realize what was happening, and started madly scrambling through my leg hair, looking for a place to bite and set up camp. I looked more closely at him, and thought I saw the infamous red horse-shoe on his tiny, repulsive body. It was a disease carrier, and it wanted my blood.

The adrenaline hit me like a shot of cocaine to the testicles. I began swatting at the tick with both hands as though I were trying to put out a fire, shouting and swearing. Riding as fast as I could back to the main trail, I started to imagine how many millions of blood-starved ticks were teeming in the grass just out of sight. It was like a nightmare.

As I reached the top of a grassy hillside, out of breath and still panic-stricken, I nearly ran over a young couple on a blanket. They were lying in the grass, completely ignorant of the hordes of ticks who were no doubt coming for them. I thought it was only appropriate to warn them of the danger. Trying to settle myself down, I screamed:

“THE TICKS- THEY ARE EVERYWHERE-THOUSANDS-I’VE JUST BEEN ATTACKED TWICE-GET OUT-GET AWAY FROM HERE.”

“oh, really? thaaanks,” said the girl, barely moving. Her boyfriend said nothing. I couldn’t believe it, and turned to ride away. Before I was out of earshot I heard the boyfriend making some grotesque sort of insect noises, and turned to see him pounce on the girl on the blanket. He was pinching her everywhere while making his tick-sounds, and the girl was giggling hysterically. Apparently a fun-loving tick-attack was a hilarious joke to these people.

cliffs vs. ticks

Wonderful, I thought. I’m like the out-of-towner, afraid of bears in Central Park. Laugh while you can, you crazy, care-free East Bay day hikers. I seriously doubt that Julie Furtado would think it was funny.

One of Rustin's five Hondas

Rustin sent me these photos of a wheel chock and repair stand that he whipped out in his garage. Note to self: learn how to weld!

Morning rush-hour

My brother Jordan commutes to work on a Huffy beach cruiser. He brings a small truckload of gardening tools with him, artfully strapped to his bike with bungee cords. I rode along with him the other day as an assistant to see his professional skills in action, and also to help prepare a secret garden plot that he had discovered in North Berkeley.

green machine

The assistant's vehicle

When we arrived at the “squatter’s garden”, I unloaded the tools that I had brought in my large yellow bag and checked out our little plot. Jordan figured that it had not been planted in at least three years, and it was full of overgrown weeds and random trash. Since a gas-powered rototiller doesn’t transport well on a beach cruiser (or a Mexican track bike), we would be breaking up the soil by hand, with shovels. It was time for me to find out that gardening is no picnic.

the squatter's garden before...

...and after

Adding soil

Making rows

Evening commute

view from Grizzly Peak Boulevard

View Larger Map
Skyline Boulevard is a winding, two-lane road that heads south from Grizzly Peak, and passes along some impressive regional parks, such as the Sibley Volcanic Regional Preserve, Redwood Park, and Anthony Chabot Park. All were very neat, all were very crowded on this memorial day weekend.

Grass Valley Road

Redwood Regional Park

Cathedral Building, downtown Oakland

San Pablo Reservoir from Grizzly Peak

I have become the kind of guy who brings a backpack on road bike rides. Call it being old, call it being incredibly out of shape, but for whatever reason I now feel the need to bring snacks, a jacket, a tool and a camera on any ride that lasts more than three hours.
View Larger Map

Miles: 37

Hours: 3-ish with snack stops

Hills: So, so many

Critters spotted: Wild turkeys and other miscellaneous fowl, deer, cows, and lots of Berkeley dogs.

A shot of Wild Turkey

Briones Reservoir

Golden Gate Bridge

Riding around in Wildcat Canyon Park the other day….

City of Oakland!

Unknown Trail

Cows in the canyon

Unreleased

The thought of riding an old Honda twin doesn’t usually make my heart skip a beat. I associate old bikes like the 1974 CB360 with reliability, trips to the grocery store, something my Grandpa might have liked, etc. Because of those preconceptions, I was in a perfect state of shock and awe after riding Hightower’s latest cafe project, shown in these photos.

When Twinline’s Ian or Tower wheels out a completed project and says, “take it for a spin, dude,” I have learned to drop whatever I’m doing, quickly find the nearest helmet, and go. This CB360 was “unreleased” when I had the chance to ride it, meaning it had not even been seen by the customer, let alone Cafe Racer magazine.

My first impression, after scrunching myself into the tucked-up rear sets and pulling out of the Twinline parking lot, was how well Tower’s custom brake and shift pedals are set up. The brake pedal is totally hand fabricated and shortened, so that when the ball of your foot is on the peg, you can access it with your toes just perfectly. It works.

Custom rear brake pedal

Riding the bike is nothing short of grin-inspiring. Tower has kept the motor totally stock except for pod filters, straight pipes, jetting changes, and maybe a mysterious tweak to the ignition timing via old-school mechanical points adjustment. The tune is perfect: no de-cel popping (which is next to impossible with straight pipes), smooth power band, and very impressive acceleration for such a little guy. The new Hagon shocks and rebuilt front suspension combined with excellent tires created a reckless confidence in the corners, and I found myself pitching it down into questionable lean angles almost immediately. No danger of dragging toes with those rear sets, though. Overall, another lovely creation.

The proud papa

Christmas time

It’s been awhile since I’ve visited the Twinline gang, and walking into the shop yesterday was like returning to a mother’s arms. Especially if my mother was a grease-covered wench dressed in Carhartts. I noticed that Dave’s Honda project was up on the stand, and Dave was bouncing around like a kid on Christmas. The moment that I was walking in just happened to be a special time: time for the first ride of this long winded project. He was hooking up a battery and praying for the rain to stop, so he could fire it up and tear ass down to the O Boy Oberto jerky factory and back. I took some pics before it came off the stand, because it may never be this clean again. To Dave: If you’re reading this, the video of you starting the bike that I shot with my camera is too crappy to include here, the sound of that motor just did not transfer to my little Canon. Kind of like trying to take photos of the Grand Canyon.

The Works

Hightower's custom shift lever

Engine mount

Exhaust and Rear Set

the crew

From a PNWRiders forum member, March 31:

“I responded to your post awhile back about the couriers, and was wondering if I could get some more info.

How did you get started running deliveries? It sounds like a fun gig for those of us who love to ride.

Any helpful info is greatly appreciated.

Thank you”

It was the best job I’ve ever had, and unfortunately the party’s over. Over a period of several years I’ve logged about 130,000 miles, and murdered three sportbikes. How did I get started, you ask…  This is a great chance for me to launch into a rambling, self-indulgent odyssey about my career as a courier. It probably isn’t the helpful info that you’re asking for, and will no doubt be more fun for me to write than for you to read. Nonetheless, let me start at the beginning.
It was the summer of 1994, and the place was Seattle. I was a 19 year old hayseed from Winthrop, Washington, and fresh off the turnip truck. Seattle was actually a somewhat affordable and interesting city back then, and I was easily dazzled by the skyscrapers, the urban grime, and the throngs of exotic-looking heroin users on Capitol Hill. I needed to find a job, so I did what any socially challenged high school drop-out with an addiction to Ernest Hemingway novels might have done: I got hired as a bicycle messenger.

The first six months of messenger work were sort of a fantastic nightmare- I got hit by a car, I made minimum wage, I smelled bad and was starving for calories all the time. But I soon came to love the job, and the co-workers were the most fascinating bunch of weirdos that I had ever seen. There was 45-Carl, a friendly punk rocker from the East coast, who would shoot heroin in the bathroom while waiting for jobs from the dispatcher. There was the car-board dispatcher, a calm, bearded man, who was somehow high on cocaine every single day. There was 61-Travis, who should have been a professional cyclist, and could destroy an entire field of seasoned bike racers whenever he put the bong down long enough to enter a mountain bike race. It was an occupational culture that seemed to attract drug users, hippy jocks, and broken athletes. I suppose not much has changed.

The “Quicksilver” era of the late seventies and eighties may have been the true zenith of bike messenger culture, but things were still pretty good in the mid-nineties. You could easily jump on a Greyhound bus and land in any one of a number of cities- New York, San Francisco, Chicago, Boston, Philadelphia, Denver, Baltimore, etc., and immediately get hired as a courier, as long as you had a bike and the look (cut-off Dickies over lycra, cycling shoes, rampant body odor). After several years of working in Seattle, I decided to check out the scene in San Francisco, which is where I first saw an actual motorcycle courier.

San Francisco has a place called “the wall” on Market Street, sort of a concrete pavilion in the middle of a city block in the financial district, and at any time of day it was possible to see several dozen couriers there, picking at their scabs and “burning down.” Upon my arrival in the city, I went to the wall to find out about who might be hiring, which dispatchers to avoid, and where could I find some of the hemp-oil chain lube that people had been talking about.  I noticed a guy with a messenger bag sitting on a beat-up, flat black FZR600. I realized that he must be a courier when I heard his radio squawking, and I watched him say something to his dispatcher, put on his tattered helmet, and start his machine. In a split second he was pointed down Market street in the middle of all the afternoon traffic. There was a loud bark of exhaust, and his front wheel shot up in the air like a salute in a massive, perfect wheelie- going right down Market into third gear, probably traveling 60 miles an hour before he let it back down. The rest of the messengers watched and murmured a collective “ho-HO!”, before lazily turning back to their hacky-sack games and hand-blown glass devices.

When I was hired later that day at Go! Couriers, I was surprised to see that half of the crew rode motorcycles. Four bicycles, four motorcycles, one car. The motorcycle messengers were a totally different breed of animal than any of the bike messengers I had worked with. Bike guys were into pot, food, fitness, and Campagnolo parts. The motorbike guys were hard-drinking, leather-clad tavern brawlers who cheated death on a daily basis, and were into wheelie stories and whiskey. After work, these two seemingly incompatible stereotypes put their differences aside and got drunk together, at messenger bars like Zeitgeist.

Years later, say 2004, I found myself working as a bicycle messenger in Seattle again. To my knowledge, Seattle has simply never had motorbike couriers, for whatever reason (the weather? hello?), but the motorbike idea was somewhere in the back of my mind. I didn’t own a motorcycle at the time, but I’ve had my endorsement since high school. Still, I didn’t give it much thought until I heard about a guy named Devin, who was apparently making a killing at IndyStealth Couriers on one of those big Honda scooters. We heard that he was clearing nearly twice the number of jobs as the other car drivers, and raking in the commissions. That was when the light bulb came on: since email and electronic file transfer had become ubiquitous, it was nearly impossible to make real money on a bicycle, and bike messengers had been in a slow, downward spiral for years. Drivers, on the other hand, who were able to cover a much wider area, were still making decent commissions.

I found a cheap SV650, and bought it. I was working as an independent contractor at the time, and started contracting for a messenger company that needed a driver. They were already using one motorbike rider, a guy named Steve. Like me, Steve was a long time bike messenger who saw an opportunity to keep riding while making a bunch more money. He had bought a brand new DL650, and we compared notes on rain gear, maintenance, and the danger factor.

The danger factor was something I hadn’t really expected. The job was so terrifically dangerous that it was impossible to even talk to anyone about it. I’ve never been a crab fisherman or a choker on a logging crew, but I can’t imagine the potential for bodily harm being any higher than it is for a motorcycle courier in a metropolitan area. Consider this: of the characters in this story- myself, Devin, Steve, and Earl (who I will introduce shortly), I’m the only one to avoid a serious collision with another vehicle. That isn’t due to me being a better rider; just more cautious, and lucky.

Of the four of us, Steve went down first, one day on Fifth Avenue in downtown Seattle. Steve was a fantastic rider, with a unique, authoritative riding style. He would always sit perfectly upright on his DL, the way that the motorcycle cops sit. He had this tremendous respect for the motorcycle cops, and use to watch them at their training facility, performing maneuvers. The day that he crashed, he says that he “saw a gap, went for it, and the gap closed up too quickly. It was my fault.” He was hit and briefly pinned under the front bumper of a yellow cab, but somehow emerged in one piece and was able to ride the next day. He was wearing a Dainese chest protector, and some part of the underside of that cab punched a hole through the protector, but didn’t punch through his rib cage.

Then we heard about Devin’s gruesome accident with the UPS truck on 15th Avenue West. Devin was traveling North towards Ballard, and saw the UPS panel truck stopped in the middle turn lane. The truck abruptly went into reverse, and started backing into the oncoming lanes. The driver later said he was trying to quickly back up to a loading ramp. Devin says he just had time to think that he might be able to get around, ahead of the backing truck. He didn’t have time, and when he hit the truck’s rear end, his bike went underneath and Devin got tangled up in that little step-up deck that the UPS man stands on when he’s unloading stuff. Devin was mashed, and his leg was hideously mangled. He had to use a walker to get around for close to a year, and he’s lucky to be walking at all today. This was in 2007, he has not ridden a motorcycle since, and will never again.

Enter Earl. Earl is in his 50s and a father of four, and was the most reckless rider I had ever seen. We had all known him for years, when he had been a bike messenger company owner. Everyone also knew he was a little crazy, had beat up some cops and done some jail time, and everyone had a notorious story to tell about him. He claimed to have been a cowboy, a logger, and a professional downhill skier. He was an excellent rider and incredibly fit for an older dude, but also a manipulative sociopath and a chronic liar. When he began contracting for the same company that Steve and I worked for, he was determined to be the fastest courier on the crew. He idolized Valentino Rossi and talked incessantly about MotoGP results, and rode his SV650 like a cat perched on a bulldozer. One of Earl’s memorable claims was that he drug his knees in corners- while in downtown Seattle intersections. To back it up, he took the knee pucks from his riding pants and applied them to a belt sander, grinding them down to make them appear “well used.” Anyone who has done a track day knows what worn- down knee sliders look like, but Earl hasn’t, so he didn’t. It was funny in a pathetic sort of way, like the way he put a Yoshimura sticker on his stock SV muffler. When Earl T-boned an old lady’s car at Third Avenue and Lenora, no one was very surprised, but what we didn’t realize was that Earl’s crash would effectively kill Seattle’s motorcycle messenger experiment. Virtually overnight while in the hospital, with his pelvis shattered and jacked up on morphine, Earl became an anti-motorcycle evangelist. The guy who used to rant about the motorcycle-messenger-as-samurai-warrior, who used to tell everyone how to take corners, was now vehemently against motorcycles altogether. There was wild talk of legal liability, even though we were all independent contractors. He threatened to expose the fact that we didn’t carry the proper commercial driver insurance, and couldn’t be bonded as drivers. The company owner freaked out and dropped us, claiming his clients were demanding proof of proper insurance. I frantically called my old friends at Go! Couriers in San Francisco, hoping to find out how they had worked around the insurance conundrum. I was told that Go! had been sold to a conglomerate, and they didn’t use motorcycles anymore. To this day, I have not found any insurance company that offers the proper commercial driver coverage for motorcycles.

And that was it, no more motorcycle messengers. Steve immediately quit, and never rode a motorbike again. I showed up to his house with a van and picked up a couple of his dead bikes, including his original DL650 with over 120,000 miles on the odometer. Earl is currently working downtown as a bike messenger. Devin works for some printing company. And me, I’m going to law school this fall.

tacoma overpass

end of the road

I heard a familiar complaint the other day from a motorcycle mechanic, that “the problem with America is that we don’t know how to work on stuff anymore. We’ve become de-industrialized.” It’s a common theme in books like Shop Class as Soul Craft; the idea that when we can’t fix our cars or our leaky roof or the washing machine, we lose a truly essential aspect of our American identity. It’s true that these are important skills, and it is rewarding to make a broken machine come back to life. My Dad, for instance, is the kind of guy that can fix anything from a dead tractor to a broken sink, the kind of guy who builds a home-made CNC milling machine in his garage. And then there’s me, just one generation away, who can barely adjust the valves properly on this old SV650.

Battle SV

The problem is, the industrial age is gone. This bike repair stuff is either a cute hobby, or it’s your full time job and you get paid a shitty wage and will soon learn to hate what you do. There’s no future in it. (Edit: There are exceptions, if you happen to be a self-made wizard like Ian or Hightower over at Twinline.) A friend of mine just got a job that pays really well- as a SDET, or QA engineer, or something. I don’t really know what that is, except that it’s way more valuable than knowing how to hone valves. Another friend of mine is in a specialized electrical engineering program, learning about micro-processors and digital controllers, signals and systems theory. He will soon be on the cutting edge of a lucrative industry, designing gizmos that don’t even exist yet. Both of these friends bring their bikes to my garage when a derailleur is out of adjustment, or a headset needs to be re-packed. It’s neat to help my friends out with my specialized skill set, which is worth about fourteen dollars an hour.

I guess what I’m saying is, I will always love turning wrenches, but I’m glad to be going back to school this fall. And the quintessential character of the American identity is not simply knowing how to fix industrial-age machines. If anything, it is about adapting to new environments using whatever tools are available, whether it’s designing gizmos, testing software, or getting your law degree. The only age in human history that we should be truly nostalgic about is the first one, the best one, the hunter-gatherer stage. It’s either that, or full speed ahead.

Touratech studs

Honda Racing NSR250

It has hooks for tie-downs and it rolls around on little shopping cart wheels. What else do you want? Designed by Edip the Turk

Thank You for Shopping at Hardwick's Hardware

The trails at Tahuya were virtually empty today, due to some televised sporting event that attracted all of the ATV riders, like ants to a picnic. I had the place to myself, and found some off-course single track that was much to my liking.

Requirements: Must be able to lift 320lbs.

Managed to get hung up on a large log crossing, and had to lift the KTM up and over it. This bike is no lightweight.

On the ferry ride back home, some passengers spotted a whale in the middle of Puget Sound. Someone noticed that the whale appeared to be dead and floating in the water, and then noticed that it actually looked like a dead person, floating on something. The ferry stopped and changed it’s course, heading towards the strange dead thing. From fifty yards away, we could see that the person was in a wetsuit, moving, and floating on what looked like a surfboard. The life raft was deployed to go and make the dramatic rescue, and everyone cheered from the decks. It turned out that board-bro’s windsurfer had broken apart. He had been trying to paddle with his hands, laying on the board. There was high wind, big swells, it was 3:30 PM, and he was literally in the middle of Puget Sound, about to die. When we were back on course, the captain came on the horn and thanked the passengers that had spotted the hypothermic wind-shredder, and said “this is a good day.” Everyone clapped and cheered again.

Fun's over, brah

As Edip tried to clean the mud out of his open wounds and duct tape his bike’s fender back on, he commented that it was like “bringing a knife to the gun fight.” Indeed. Note to self: bring knobbies next time.

wrong tool for the job

I’ve read about people rebuilding their Koni shocks, so I searched around and found the source for new seals. They are available through the U.S. Ikon distributor (Ikon handles all of the Koni parts). His name is Dave Gardner, and he owns a shop called Recommended Service in San Francisco.

I called Dave on the phone, and it didn’t take long to realize that I was speaking to an oracle of Airhead knowledge. He has been a master tech for 30 years, and knows everything. He has that sort of nihilistic, “fuck-it-all” drawl that is peculiar to old BMW mechanics, and if I lived in San Francisco I would probably be hanging around his shop and begging to sweep the floor, just to listen to him talk. After speaking to me at length about the superiority of mechanical ignition points, he sold me a seal kit. He even agreed to rent out his spring compressor and pin spanner tools. None of it was cheap, but there weren’t a lot of other options. I could buy a pair of new shocks by Hagon or Progressive, but those aren’t rebuildable. A shock that can’t be serviced makes no sense. I could buy a new pair of Konis, but those cost $330 bucks. So, I got Dave’s tools in the mail and got started. I had an email from Dave with some photos to help me through.

From Dave’s email: “you need a 5mm Pin Wrench to remove/re-install the gland nut on top of the cylinder – see picture.  I found this one from Snap-On for about $35…  I use a 2′ pipe as a cheater lever.  These nuts can get rusted on and need soaking in penetrating oil to get moving sometimes.  (Sometimes they never move again.)”

Mine was one of the “never move again” ones. The pin spanner that I rented from Dave was a nice tool, but worthless for removing that stubborn bastard of a gland nut. I tried to heat the parts up with a torch, soak them overnight in penetrant, etc. I finally had to drive the gland nut off with a punch and a hammer, and the thing barely survived.

From Dave: “Once the gland nut is unthreaded, you pull the top mount/rod/piston assembly out of the cylinders.  This is where the oil flies everywhere if you’re not careful. After you get in, it’s easy.  A 12mm socket wrench removes the bolt at the bottom of the rod.  Disassemble the washers, piston, bump stop, Oring and gland nut carefully in order so you don’t mix them up.”

damper rod parts

With a withering dismay, I could see that my shock was… a little different. Instead of a 12mm bolt that permitted the “easy” access to the damper rod parts, mine has a recessed 11mm bolt. I had to grind down a paper-thin socket to get in there and release it. Even when I did, the damper rod didn’t really come apart, and I couldn’t figure out how to get the seals off. Even more alarming, the seals in the kit were a little different than the ones on my shock. I emailed Dave with a cry for help, and he got back to me with the words I didn’t want to hear:

“Whoa, that’s an old one. Can’t even get seals for that old thing anymore. ”

order of damper cap parts

Rats. Dave would send me a refund for the seal parts, but I was on my own as far as servicing this thing. I had to grind down another socket, a 7mm, in order to take apart the damper-cap and clean the junk out of it, and I cleaned everything else with lacquer thinner and compressed air. I decided that my original seals would have to work, and put the old dinosaur back together with 80ml of fresh 7.5 weight BMW fork oil.

world's tiniest motorcycle font

Rustoleum candy paint

Upon finished inspection: no leaks, and the piston definitely feels much better after I cleaned all of the weird stuff out of the little damper-cap-thing (in photos.) For the paint prep on these parts, I used my wire wheel grinder, and also a sand blaster with garnet media (thank you Twinline Motorcycles). Garnet makes a really neat finish on the aluminum parts, a kind of bleached-bone white look. I primed with Krylon and painted with Rustoleum semi gloss.

wire wheel cleaning for the shock cylinder body

special tools required

For anyone thinking of rebuilding their Koni, make sure to ascertain that the shock is the “7610″ model, because that’s the one with available seals. If it’s the old one like mine, have fun painting stuff.

Hightower and Keo

Over at Twinline, Dave’s super 750 is being torn down again for more frame reinforcements and other fabrication work. This is Hightower’s project. It might be the bike that makes him famous. 

Priest Lake

Carcake

Alley at Virginia and 3rd/4th Ave

Picnic

Lazerbike

Warning: Tractor's a' comin

After a stunning, three-hour ride around Carnation and Duvall this morning, I stacked up the KTM in the middle of a Redmond intersection. I was turning from Novelty Hill road onto Avondale after coming up from the Snoqualmie river valley, feeling overconfident and forgetting that it was 35 degrees fahrenheit outside. Right at the apex of the turn, the front wheel “went away”, and I suddenly developed an intimate relationship with the pavement. My knee and elbow armor (ATGATT!) took a nice hit, and I had the surreal experience of lying in the street and watching my bike sliding across the lane, sparks flying, and hitting the sidewalk curb. No harm done except my pride; a dozen Redmond drivers got a nice show, that wonderful Austrian thumper started right up, and the only damage was to the old First Gear riding pants.

ATGATT

From a motorcycle police forum:

“By Lt. L.P. Walker

This is a notice to all motor officers, and especially those who may not have experienced much cold-weather riding. Motorcycle tires and pavement interact differently at colder temperatures giving a rider less traction than he would have in warmer weather. It’s good to remember that riding in cold weather is roughly the same as riding in wet weather.

Colder temperatures affect the rubber compounds in motorcycle tires by making them more rigid and less flexible than they are in warmer weather. This means that the tire has a weaker grip on the roadway surface. Of course the center part of the tire will heat up after a few minutes of riding and give more adhesion, but the edges of the tire that do not contact the surface during normal straight-ahead riding remain colder than the rest of the tire. During tight turns, these cold edges contact the pavement and can lose traction against the cold pavement and cause a front wheel slip that can be disastrous to the rider. In temperatures in the 30’s and below, this becomes much more pronounced.

It’s good to remember that cold tires against cold pavement can cause a situation similar to riding on wet pavement. So treat colder weather the same as you would wet weather, and remember to ride safe.”

In front of Stormy's shop

A barrage of obscene text messages on my phone alerted me that Stormy had just bought another bike, a magnificent 1989 BMW R100RS. I met him for coffee at six o’clock this morning to check it out. He’s like a kid on Christmas: “this thing’s got more gadgets than a Las Vegas whorehouse”

C'mon, feel that throttle action

It’s a life.

The time was 9:00 PM as I pulled up to the strange house, and armed with only my wits and a King County process server’s license, I walked up the dark path and knocked on the door. The guy who answered was all disheveled and wearing a bathrobe; he had a freaked-out look, as though he expected the cops to be standing there with the news that his only child had just been killed in some hideous highway collision. When he saw that I just had some papers to give him, he appeared briefly to be relieved, but then obviously disgusted as he finally read the “SUMMONS AND NOTICE OF DEPOSITION” part. People are always puzzled by the fact that this soul-crushing stack of legal papers is so casually paper-clipped together, which is actually the attorney’s way of saying, we don’t even care enough to put this stuff in an envelope. Sorry, dude.

Before heading out of this sleepy little mountain burg, I rolled past a diner that appeared to be open. Inside was a quartet of grey-haired hippy guys with guitars, so of course I had to stop in, and listen to some Townes Van Zandt covers. I ordered a beer and a plate of onion rings, and looked around the room. The patrons consisted of a middle-aged couple out on date-night, myself, and an androgynous-looking table of mop-haired teenagers, sitting quietly to themselves.

I pondered the fact that I must have looked a lot like those kids when I was 15. In fact, the “techno-granola-nerd” style that I had cultivated in high school was apparently still very much in fashion. And, conversely, the group of pot-bellied Grateful Dead stunt doubles, whose cover songs had degenerated into the usual bluesy Eric Clapton garbage, probably resembled what I would look like in another twenty years. So I’m halfway between Holden Caulfield and late-period Gregg Allman, which pretty much defines my existential turmoil right now. It’s very weird.

Twinline CB160 project

Yamaha RD350