Geezer with a Grudge

Miles and Miles to Travel (1994)

2013-06-19T10:15:00.000-05:00

[Long before there was a GWAG, I wrote all sorts of articles on spec for a variety of magazines and industry rags. This was an 1994 article I wrote for Rider Magazine. I had it sold to the magazine, before I ever bought a trip map, I thought. After it was all whipped together, I discovered my editor was gone and the magazine wasn't accepting any more trip articles. Bummer. Still, I made the trip, got paid an advance, and had an adventure.]

Introduction

Three years ago I met the bike of my dreams. I figure that a few years before then, some Yamaha engineers got together in some muddy stream and said, "We need to do something for Tom Day. We have built a bike for almost everyone in America, but we haven’t done anything for Tom since the mid-1970’s. We took dirt bikes away from him when we jacked the seat heights to six feet. We even built the Virago for Elvis and he’s been dead for 20 years! Let’s make a Thomas William Day bike, OK?" They did, but they screwed it up and called it the TDM, instead of the TWD. Jingoish, I guess.

I can live with that. It took me two years to break down and buy a TDM and by then dealers were practically giving them away; especially the really cool¾ and red¾ 1992 version. I’m sorry I wasted those first two years. I’m getting old and losing two years of fun wouldn’t have been worth the $3,000 I saved. I lost that much on my IRA’s in the stock market during those years.

This year’s vacation could have been a lazy plane ride to Seattle and a week hanging out with friends, but I own a TDM! I planned a trip that would prove to the world what a terrific bike Yamaha had made for me. I would do a 1,600 mile freeway blitz to Seattle and a meandering return trip that would take me over freeway, two lane asphalt, dirt roads and dirt trails. I hoped to travel every kind of road surface in the U.S. of A. I was convinced that the TDM was a cross country dirt bike disguised as a mid-life crisis crotch rocket.

I added a few personal touches that I wanted to test on a long trip. Because of a hand freezing problem a few months earlier, I attached Acerbis’ Rally Hand Guards to my bars. Clearview Shields (Golden, CO) built me a prototype of the TDM shield he is planning to market. Kerker pipes came with the bike when I bought it and I left them on, since they saved me about 30 pounds over the stock pipes. They added 30dB SPL to the road noise level. I hoped that ear plugs would neutralize that disadvantage. After 15 years of dirt biking, I couldn’t bring myself to do anything to add weight to the bike; even something that would save my hearing and keep my enemies list low. The bike also came with a Corbin seat. Because I hoped they would add to the bike’s handling, durability, and mileage, I put Michelin A89X and M89X radial’s on the bike. A Chase Harper tank bag and saddle bags and a Tour Master tail bag did the luggage duties. Unlike big-deal magazine editors, I had to buy most of this stuff, so I made sure it fit the tour and the bike. The added weight and wind resistance from the luggage altered the bike’s handling, but I brought enough stuff to change residence. In fact, I ended up with too much mild weather clothing and too little roasting weather stuff.

8/10/94 Wednesday

Broke the corporate rules and only wore the top half of the dress code uniform. I came in my riding jeans and only had to dump the tie, dress shirt, dress shoes, and bad attitude to hit the road. Before I was released, I listened to every conversation, even ones that didn’t include me, for the phrase, "I guess you don’t need to hang around here anymore." I got the word at 3:00AM and was out the door 5 minutes later. My bags were packed, the bike was gassed and prepped, and I strapped on my helmet as I drove away from Hell; I mean work.

Since today was our 10th anniversary, my wife and I met in Boulder for lunch. The traffic was miserable between Denver and Boulder. Bumper-to-bumper, 5mph, smog sniffing hell. My bike that can fly and I’m crawling. Almost two hours later, I arrive at the restaurant an hour late. My wife only got here 20 minutes earlier, so I’m not in trouble with a capital "T." We ate, talked, and said good-bye; anniversaries don’t get any better.

Finally, I’m off. Sort of. I hoped to travel northwest to Montana by two lane U.S. Highway 285. Bad decision. More bumper-to-bumper slow motion. Colorado’s Front Range is as bad as southern California. People with bad hair and bad driving skills everywhere. Another hour wasted and no miles traveled. I give up just before Longmont and head for I25, which was also packed, but moving at a reasonable speed. About 10 miles from the Wyoming border, the crowd began to disperse. By Cheyenne I was on open, empty road.

I gas up at Cheyenne and continued northwest on I25. Cheyenne is the beginning of a wonderful relationship with Montana. Good road. Fast traffic. No cops. Great scenery. People are passing me and I’m doing 95! So I go faster. Every other vehicle is a bike. Most of them are going east to Sturgis. I spent the afternoon waving so often my sleeve wore out. Some of the non-Harley riders were traveling faster than greased Ninjas.

Past Cheyenne, still on I25, I can see for miles. Soft rolling hills that are only fenced near the freeway. Sheep and cattle graze together. Cars and bikes smoke up the road without a black-&-white in sight. I get a miserable 37mpg for this stretch, but I make good time. Thirty miles from Cheyenne the terrain turns spectacular. Nothing seems close, though. You can hang on to the throttle and still have all the time you need to enjoy the view. Huge piles of rock have heaved themselves on top of each other, to get a look at the Harley’s and the rest of us. Every Western movie I’ve ever seen must have been filmed here. I keep an eye out for smoke signals and stage bandits.

About seventy miles east of Casper I pass a "Converse County" sign and 1/2 mile later a "Game Crossing" sign. I had Nike’s in my bag and wondered if they would let me play anyway?

A few miles north of Cheyenne, the plains swell into rocky ledges that Festus and Mester Dillun would get sniped at by Native Americans (Whoa! I can be PC.) The weather is perfect, I have a full tank, and the scenery is terrific. You can smoke it here and still have time to enjoy the view. Everything is bigger and further than I’m used to, even by Colorado standards. I traveled 325 miles in my first half day of this trip and I’m beat. The TDM has been comfortable and nothing hurts, but a half work day plus the miles has done me in.

Douglas, the home of the Wyoming state fair, is a great place with motels, hot showers, a McDonalds, and good old high school boys smoking cigarettes and sitting on pickup truck hoods. And soul music blasting out of every radio I heard ("Just Gimme Some Kind of Sign, Girl"). You probably think the Kerker’s took out my hearing and I was having an aural flashback, but I swear I heard political commercials too. I would never imagine a county treasurer ad. Nope, it was soul music, even for breakfast at the local’s downtown restaurant. Can’t beat that.

8/11/94 Thursday

Douglas doesn’t have a grocery store that stays open late or opens before the banks. I had breakfast, hoping I could find one before I let go of my motel room, but no luck. Just one small tube of hair shampoo, that’s all I wanted. But do you think I could buy one?

Driving across this beautiful, nearly unscarred plain, you could almost forget what a disaster humans have been to this world. The Dave Johnston Power Plant, just east of Glenrock, WY, will keep you within reality. This monster spews enough steam and smoke that you can see it for 10 miles. I though I was coming onto Long Beach, CA. I stopped to write this and a hawk screeched its way past me. Even old Dave couldn’t completely spoil this spot of Wyoming.

At Casper, I had to decide whether to stick with my planned route or get off of the freeway. I decided for chaos. I aimed at Yellowstone by way of US Highway 2026. After blasting along with no traffic in sight for more than 100 miles, I hit the reserve tank 22 miles from Shoshoni. Nothing but desert for 22 miles and I paid $1.29 for 4.3 gallons of the most precious fluid I’ve ever bought.

If you’re planning your urban wild life vacation, have I got the place for you. Montana has 10 people to part with and Morton has 5. Kick up your heels in Wyoming! I can’t believe AAA puts these places on the map. Dubois, on the other hand, has 985 and most of them are rich, judging by the huge log mansions, BMW’s, and Toyota 4-wheelers.

Wyoming must have half of the state employed at tearing up the highways. I sat in line waiting for them to change the guy leaning on the shovel for a total of 45 minutes in a 200 mile section of highway. Maybe that’s where all the rich folks in Dubois come from; the highway department. Our tax dollars attempting to be a work.

The Acerbis Rally Handguards and Clearshield custom wind screen paid for themselves between Yellowstone and Bozeman. I drove through a heavy mist which progressed to a driving rain and climaxed with bullet-sized hail. I changed gloves on the move, attempting to stay out of a pack of semis following me. When I lifted my hands out of the protective cover of the handguards, my hands were pelted blue and soaked in seconds. I made the change in the Clearshield’s air pocket and was able to ignore the storm till it played out a few miles south of Bozeman. My gloves were only a little damp at the edge of the gauntlets. The windshield kept my chest and below out of the rain and I was as comfortable as possible through the storm. When I stopped at a filling station, I joined a pack of riders (mostly Harleys) who had been hiding out for the past hour. They thought I was crazy to go back out into the storm, but I was comfortable and wanted to find a motel before they filled up.

Bozeman was a disappointment. In honor of Robert Pirsig (Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance), I really wanted to stay there. I suppose, equally in honor of him, Bozeman didn’t want me. Every hotel was full, except for a casino/motel that had a $200 bridal suite available. I didn’t feel that desperate. Just before giving up and finding a tree to curl up under, I found a motel at Whitehall, 60 miles west of Bozeman. I found two motels, actually, both were hidden a few miles south of I90 on state highway 2. I spent $18 and slept like a baby.

8/12/94 Friday

The next morning I cruised though the Idaho pan handle's canyons and enjoyed the perfect, cool biking weather. I stopped at one of the "Sturgis Coffee Shops" for a free (minus donations) breakfast and got the straight stuff on the local scenic roads. I sped up when I passed a sign bragging about the Rock Falls’ "Bull Testicle Festival" ("Have a ball!"). You never know when there might be a shortage and the locals are hunting for substitutes.

In Missoula, Montana, I met a guy on a full dress BMW K1100. He gave me some road condition advise and told me about a Flathead girlfriend who had the "perfect place to hold a martini, while she was giving him a blow job." He was visiting Misoula to see her again. Once again, I had to face the deprivation of my own life. I have never known any Flatheads and I’m never going to be rich. This guy said he always buys bikes in pairs so he can guarantee himself someone to ride with. He started riding on a pair of Kawasaki Big Horn 350’s and has progressed to a pair of BMW K1100’s. I own a pair of socks, but I don’t share them.

At this point, I want to mention one of the high points of this trip. Since I left Colorado, I have seen one highway patrol car in nine hundred miles. That guy passed me and the pack I was trailing like we were parked; and we were doing 90mph! What a country! Who needs the Autobahn? We have 650+ miles of I25 in Wyoming..

For the first 800 miles of the trip, I had picked up the habit of dashing between filling stations for the first 120-140 miles at whatever speed seemed appropriate and, after I hit reserve, I mellowed out to 60-70mph; praying for a filling station. This was a dumb tactic from Casper to Yellowstone, since that cut my range to a margin that made praying a constant responsibility. But, mostly, it was the most fun way to travel. My worst mileage was 35.6mpg and my best was 44.6mpg. The worst mileage came between Coeur d'Alene and Moses Lake, Idaho, a section of flat, hot, desert where the traffic was flat out, non-stop. The best was driving down the peninsula between Hoquaim, Washington and Portland, Oregon. The scenery was so incredible there that I stopped to take pictures and wallow in the ocean every few miles, but I still smoked the territory between clear cut forest sections. Mild mannered driving and chest-on-the-tank blasting got nearly the same results, so I let nature have its way with my right hand.

Between Coeur d'Alene and the Cascades, I didn’t stop for picture taking. You wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference between that area and lots of Kansas. I liked Coeur d'Alene, but west of the lake to about ten miles of Spokane is one long, traffic congested city. It reminded me too much of L.A. and that made my head hurt. Then the desert, which also reminded me of L.A. I gotta go. I cooked in the 100+ degree desert. I stopped at every rest stop and watered myself down. I stood in the sprinkler system of one of those places and I swear I heard bacon sizzling before the water finally lowered my body temperature. The air wavered all around me and the asphalt was soft as putty. Good thing there are no corners in that 240 mile oven.

I stopped at the Rainbow Motel in Ellensburg, Washington. Nice good motel and an experienced bike owner whom to to BS; he’s been on trips across Canada and gave me some good ideas for next year’s trip. I ate some greasy fast food before I fell asleep.

8/13/94 Saturday

Again, I woke up later than I wanted and hit the road hungry. I’m starting to get into the habit of putting in a few miles before breakfast. It feels good to ride right out of bed and it feels even better to work up an appetite before breakfast. I stopped at North Bend, Washington, just before heading up the Cascades. I wandered around, taking in North Bend Days and listened to a killer country guitar picker for a while. Then, I hit the road with both barrels firing (You can say that when you ride a twin.).

The 125 mile trip from North Bend to Seattle is pretty amazing. I swear, there is a spot where the freeway has desert on one side and 75 foot firs and forest on the other. The mountains leap out of nowhere and this part of the freeway is a royal blast on a bike.

Just before I passed over a bridge and started heading up the east side of the Cascades for the last section of desert mountains, I had my one and only "incident" of the trip. I’d stopped at a "scenic viewpoint" to admire a man-made reservoir and had just enjoyed the fact that, at near sea level, my TDM could do wheelies in three gears exiting the parking lot. A few hundred feet from the exit a large dog or coyote ran onto the highway and stopped right in my path. Grabbing more than my usual two fingers full of TDM brakes, I decelerated from fast to stopped in well under a zillionth of a second. The mutt looked at me, barked, and picked another lane to scratch his ass. I crossed the bridge a little more slowly than the rest of the traffic while I shook out the dampness in my jeans.

I rolled into Bellevue, Washington about noon and parked myself on a friend’s couch for a few hours. That night, we took in a pier-side concert, War and Tower of Power, and a lot of Seattle’s downtown sights, by car. I still loved my TDM, but I was beat. I think the desert did it. For two more days, I goofed off, played basketball, and enjoyed being away from the road. I visited the Microsoft "campus" and was depressed at the "information highway" working conditions. Very prison-like. In retrospect, it’s difficult to remember which parts in my memories came from Microsoft’s offices and which parts were from the "Underground Seattle" tour. By Tuesday I was ready to roll again.

8/16/94 Tuesday

After saying goodbye and tending to a little business, I headed out of Seattle a little after noon. I planned to take the scenic route down the peninsula, after getting there by the Kingston Ferry. Bikes, as they should, get priority on the ferry. Pass the line of cars and head for the front parking slots. It’s about time someone recognized our superiority. I could ride these boats for the rest of my life. What a great boat ride and I get to take my bike! The day was clear and cloudy, at the same time. I could see Canada and the U.S. clearly.

It’s good to be on the road again. I have no idea where I’m going or when I will get there, now. The directed part of the trip is over now and I’m on my own with only the wind and handlebars to follow. I guess I’m expected back in five more days, but I can’t think about that. I can only follow my front wheel.

This is my first chance to see a rain forest. I could go to Canada, by ferry, or to Oregon, by road. Those are my choices, because I won’t backtrack. I’m through with freeways for a while. The tallest mountains are shrouded in clouds and rain. I can’t see detail, only hazy forms. It looks like I’m going to get wet. I should have patched the hole in my rainsuit’s crotch.

I found some other bikers to talk to about Washington’s highway 101 and the places I should watch for. Mostly, I played tourist and enjoyed the boat ride. As the boat lined up for docking, I walked back to my bike and stuffed my gear into the bags. Since there were no pedestrians on the boat, bikes went out first. I stopped at the first station in Kingston to fill up and walked across the street to an auto parts store to buy a can of tire seal. I’d been meaning to buy that stuff for 1,6000 miles and I don’t know why I was inspired to do it then.

It’s amazing how fast you can learn to resent the "amenities" of culture. Things like fume catchers on gas pumps, pre-paying for gas at self-service stations, cops on every corner start to eat at you till you are ready to go somewhere isolated. Kingston had that affect on me. I checked the bike over and headed for the western Washington beaches.

Fifteen miles later, I was stuck at the Port Gamble toll bridge waiting for the "men leaning on shovels" to let me pass. There was some noise about construction in the area, but all I saw was two people with stop/slow signs and some parked trucks with shovel-leaners nearby. Twenty minutes later, we were moving again. I made it about ten miles past the bridge before I noticed an instability in the rear end of my bike. I stopped and found the rear tire was low. I rotated the wheel on the kickstand and found a leak, but no sign of a nail or anything in the hole. I pumped the tire up and took off, slowly, for a phone.

I made it into Port Ludlow and called AAA for help. After an hour of debating with Washington’s AAA and Colorado’s AAA phone reps, I learned that Washington isn’t in the United States. They have "a different series of policies" for motorcycle coverage and I would have to pay for the tow and Colorado would reimburse me. (I’m still waiting for the reimbursement.) A really well equipped and professional driver carefully picked up the TDM and drove me to Port Townsend, where I paid $85 for a motel room on the beach. I could have picked a lot worse places to be stuck. Nice town, great view, great restaurants.

8/17/94 Wednesday

I got to Port Townsend after the local Honda dealer had closed, but I was there before they opened in the morning. I could tell you that Port Townsend Honda & Marine was one of the high points of the trip and, if I hadn’t been forced to visit them, it could almost be true. They were professional, cool, and fun to talk to. Tom Noyes, star mechanic, let me use the opportunity to look at my bike from the bottom side to best use. I tightened bolts, checked for leaks, and fiddled around while he struggled to fix the collapsed Michelin. And struggle he did. Michelin radials are not built to fix. The inside surface is so convoluted that he had to grind at the inside of the tire for a long while. He still wasn’t happy with the smoothness of the surface and the patch didn’t seem to be sticking well. We added suspenders to the belt and put in a tube. My kickstand bolt had tossed its nut and worked its way almost off of the bike. He ground out a custom locknut and re-threaded the bolt. I bought another can of air and tire goop and hit the road about lunch time.

I expected the trip down Highway 101 to be beautiful, unusual, and inspiring. I’ve stared at pictures of the rain forest in National Geographic's for years and was expecting the experience to be something I’d remember for the rest of my life. Sometimes it was that kind of experience, sometimes it was really depressing. So much of the forest has been clear cut that it hurt to look at the ruins. I enjoyed the remains of the forest and the beaches, but my memory of that portion of the trip is damaged by the thousands of acres of stripped clean mountains and beaches piled high with the discarded carcasses of huge fir trees. Those images pushed me to rush through a section of my trip that I had hoped would be special.

On the other hand, the stretch of 101 to Hoquiam along the bay is incredible stuff. I passed house boats, skiers, a huge Hitachi barge, and rotting historic structures, while I swept along the edge of the ocean on a great twisting road. I didn’t stop much, but it was hard to keep my eyes on the road for the great view on both sides of the road. Since there was almost no traffic, that wasn’t a major disadvantage.

I didn’t slow down as I passed Portland and kept running until I exhausted myself. By then, I was on the east side of the Cascades and I spent the night in Hood River, Oregon. Considering that I hadn’t started until after noon, a 500 mile day meant pretty hard traveling. At least my patched rear tire held up solidly. The other advantage to staying on the move was that I missed out on the long lines of people waiting for whatever the men-leaning-on-shovels make people wait for. There was nearly 100 miles of cobbled-up highway between the eastern edge of Portland and Hood River and, since I passed through that at night, I didn’t have to park in the heat with the other tourists. I don’t feel that I missed anything valuable in Portland.

8/18/94

The next 150 miles toward Boise, still on I84, were fun but hot. From Hood River to Boardman, the freeway parallels the Columbia River and I hopped from one side to the other—I84 to US Highway 14—whenever the whim struck me. I wasn’t in a hurry and both roads were fun to travel and free of men-leaning-on-shovels.

I took a side road, county highway 142, away from the river at Lyle, Oregon. The road was nothing special and the temperature shot up fast away from the river. Thinking that I could navigate my way back to highway 14, cross-country, I headed south on the first dirt road that looked like it had been traveled in the last decade. It whittled down from a wide two lane to a narrow single in a few miles. In another five miles, the single lane turned into a pair of worn ruts. The TDM’s suspension handled the ruts and holes, but the bike’s weight was convincing me that it was no dirt bike. The Michelins were even further from off-road usable. They allowed the bike to slip in every possible direction and got no bite at all on the sand. So I went faster to compensate. I figured that if I was going to crash, I might as well crash solidly. When my arms and legs were burning and barely after I’d switched to reserve, the road changed back to a decent single lane. The trail-to-farm road route repeated itself until I was back on highway 14. I have no idea what that road was used for, it went nowhere other than the route I took. I watched my back to see if Rod Sterling was announcing "The Twilight Zone" the whole way. Weird.

I made it to Boardman, Oregon and headed southeast, away from the river. Thirty miles of hot, flat plains and I’m back in high desert. This is beautiful country. I checked out the Oregon Trail tourist spots and had a great time looking on all directions until a little south of Baker City. It gets hot and Kansas-like quick here and I wicked it up to get where I was going as fast as possible. I made it to the Idaho boarder about noon. Gotta love an early start, but I’m seriously hungry.

Idaho was burning. The whole state was either cooking something or on fire itself. Just before the border city of Ontario, I began to smell French fries. By the time I could see the city, my helmet was filled with drool. There is a huge Ore-Ida potato chip factory in Ontario and the whole valley smells like a monstrous McDonalds. By the time I was free of the actual source of that odor, my helmet lining was saturated with potato grease and I lived with hunger for another fifty miles. Which carried me into the next burnt and burning territory where fields on both sides of the freeway were flaming and billowing smoke. That cured the hunger pains, in a few miles my eyes were burning and my tongue felt like I’d been eating lit cigarettes. At Boise, I was downwind of of the Sawtooth and Boise National Forest fires. Sometimes the smoke cloud was as thick as fog. The smoke cloud was as thick as fog from slightly east of Boise and that cloud stayed with me, in some form, to the Utah border.

I made it to Boise mid-afternoon. I was out of the burning fields and into the burning forests. Boise was cloudy with smoke from the national forest fires. The heat was especially oppressive, combined with the smell of burning trees.

I stayed with an old friend that night and we planned on an early morning and a trip to Sun Valley for the next day. To prepare ourselves for that, we stayed out sampling Boise’s nightlife until way-too-late-o’clock.

8/19/94

Dave and I left early and the sun was shrouded by smoke for most of the trip. I followed his car for a few miles and got bored. When we left the freeway, I left him. Highway 20 out of Mountain Home is a fun ride over some good road and great scenery. I waited at the highway 75 intersection for Dave to catch up and we meandered into town together.

Sun Valley, the place that drove Hemmingway to suicide. Now I can say I’ve been there and understood that. The rich and slippery come here to shop. The wannabes come here to shop, too. In their spandex uniforms, the women who wannabe "trophy wives" parade up and down the sidewalks, hustling their stuff. I was constantly reminded of the joke about the priest asking the babe if she would do it for a million dollars, then a penny, as he tried to determine her price; having already determined her morals.

No, I didn’t like Sun Valley. This is not a fun place to ride a motorcycle. There are cops on every corner and they are collecting "road taxes" like the roads are about to go out of style. My bet is that if Hemmingway had lived only a few miles south, in Ketchum where the working class lives, he’d have lived to a natural death. Ketchum has a much better class of people, fewer cops, and serves better breakfast.

8/20/94

I started the day off with breakfast in Hailey, said goodbye to Dave, and cut across a county road east on state highway 20 toward Craters of the Moon National Park. If it hadn’t been for Dave’s suggestion, I wouldn’t have gone this route. A few miles east on 20, I stalled at another group of men-leaning-on-shovels! There is no escape from these people It doesn’t matter how remote the road is, they are there; holding up traffic, leaning on shovels, and smoking cigarettes. Where do they find all the shovels? I’m pretty sure that, if you could disappear all the shovels belonging to public works departments, there wouldn’t be an employee left standing. Or they’d actually be forced to do some work to keep from falling.

Craters of the Moon is about the weirdest excuse for a national park in the park system. What it sounds like is what it is. Black, volcanic rock piled everywhere. As you approach the park, the desert begins to be more regularly dotted with this stuff until you are finally completely surrounded by heaps of stuff that looks like it was dumped here by the Intergalactic Department of Sanitation. No kidding! I did the look around the park, looked into the oven-hot caves, burned my arm on one of the handrails, and headed for the air-conditioned, clean-bathroomed Visitor’s Center. I came, I saw, I TDM’d my way eastward.

I linked up with I15 at Blackfoot, Idaho and turned south, toward Utah. More shovel-leaners. I tried to fool them by cutting off on Highway 30 at McCammon, but they were waiting. Twenty minutes later, I’m blasting past cars and semis on almost totally open road. Another nice highway, as long as the shovel-lovers stay away.

I popped out on I80, from US 30, and rode it fifty miles east to the Flaming Gorge, Utah, exit, state highway 530S. The first 30 miles into the park are nothing special. You can see the bare edge of the Flaming Gorge Reservoir, on the distant west horizon, but the terrain around the highway is flat, dry desert with high and hot winds. 530S travels over a plateau past the Flaming Gorge Reservoir and the winds are steady and strong. The sky looked like rain, but the air didn’t feel like it.

I quickly got bored enough to haul out my detailed map and make a shot at some dirt roading. The "detailed map" was far from detailed enough. The road I picked, turned into a barely rutted trail, which vanished altogether on a slab of rock. I took a chance and went straight across the rock and, 1/2 mile later, I was on a trail again. But was it the same trail I started with? The map didn’t seem to follow the same pattern as the road. I was still going west when I was sure I should have turned south and east, heading back toward the highway. I flipped the map around a while. I drank some water. I took a nap. I decided to keep following the ruts and fifteen miles later I found paved road. The experience with the Michelin’s made me nervous while I was away from traffic. I decided to curtail those experiments until another trip with different tires and more tools.

About 40 miles south of I25, 530S turns southeast and the view improves immediately. The next 90 miles is littered with switch-backs through cliffs and the reservoir constantly in the background. Highway 44 and 191 are some of the most incredible stretches of the Rockies. This is a combination of nearly forested terrain and desert. The sky is cloudy and the temperature is perfect for riding. I blast and stop, blast and stop, all the way into the forested area south of the park, where I hit...more men and shovels. Another twenty minute wait. But this time a really cute girl was hanging onto the stop sign, so it wasn’t a total waste. I’m finally in a forest that isn’t burning. I hope my Kerkers’ spark arrestor is working. I don’t want to be responsible for torching the last tree in the west.

Because I want the last day of my trip to be easy, I decided to blast out the miles between this edge of Utah and western Colorado. Once I turned east at Vernal, Utah, this wasn’t a hard decision to stick with. I’m not much of a desert fan and this is desert. It stayed hot until about 7:00PM and then it was really warm. I had a full moon and no cloud cover, so the land was well lit even after dark. I drove all the way to Craig, Colorado, before stopping. I think Craig has a lively nightlife. I heard sirens off and on all night. It didn’t mean anything to me though. I had traveled 680 miles, all desert. Parts of my body may never move the right way again. I can’t feel my butt, even with the Corbin’s protection.

8/21/94 Sunday

I stuck with my drive-a-while-before-breakfast routine. I drove the 90 miles to Steamboat and arrived in time for sidewalk sales and what looked like a motorcycle festival. I saw bikes I had only seen before in magazines, European magazines. Brand new Motoguzies, BMWs, Ducati's, Paris-to-Dakar replica Hondas and Yamahas, Buells, Triumphs, and zillions of Harleys and Harley-clones. It was a lot like my buddy from the westward portion of the trip had been cloned, there was a pair of everything! I was out of film and my picture taking motivation was drained, so you’ll have to take my word for it. But I’m really looking forward to Steamboat’s "Motorcycle Weekend" now.

Looking at the map, it’s pretty obvious that I didn’t need to make up as much time as I thought I did. That happens every vacation. At least one day out of every trip, I get a burr in my butt and go "mileage berserk." Drop the hammer and ignore every worthwhile sight in my way, because I "have to make up for lost time." Some of those times are lost forever now. I have smoked past moments that could have been precious for all of my life. All I have to show for those times are miles traveled. I did that a little less this trip than usual. Maybe I’m learning.

The rest of the ride back to Denver was nice and uneventful. I stopped at Winterpark and rode the ski lift up and the Alpine Slide down. I bought this vacation’s last tank of gas and relaxed for the final two-lane miles before I hit interstate. That was a good decision, because I70 was bumper-to-bumper, crawl-and-stall traffic almost all the way to Denver. The road was littered with highway patrol, steaming engines, and angry cagers. I cut off at the Red Rocks Park exit and took side roads to avoid the traffic for most of the way back home. Back to work on Monday and daydreams of 3,700 miles on a TDM will have to keep me sane till next year...

#7 If You Live Long Enough

2013-06-18T09:37:00.000-05:00

All Rights Reserved © 2000 Thomas W. Day

One of the "features" of riding motorcycles for 35 years is getting to see a lot of people pass in and out of motorcycling. Quite a few of the folks I rode with and competed against, when I was young enough to think I might grow up to be fast, haven't been on a bike since they suffered some sort of motorcycling catastrophe: the first major broken bone(s), the high price of keeping up with racing technology, a scary and expensive get-off in heavy traffic, or (most commonly) marriage. It still amazes me to see people hang up their handlebars forever.

In the last decade, I've been almost as amazed to know a half dozen 40+ men and women who, swimming against the tide of anti-two-wheeling popular sentiment, purchase and learn to ride their first motorcycle. I will probably end up with an epitaph that includes the words "MSF," "buy a good helmet," and "learn to use the front brake," if some of those folks get to write it. I think it takes a lot of guts to start something as difficult as riding a motorcycle, when it's so obviously hazardous to aging fragile bones and organs.

I've hung out with guys, like myself, who have been in and out of motorcycle ownership their whole lives and will always think of themselves as "a biker," regardless of what's in the garage at the moment. I met one of the first of that group almost thirty years ago. He was a 70-something machinist who spun wonderful tales of riding, cross-country, across north western Texas on his 1920's Indian "sportbike," before there were paved roads (or any roads) in that part of the Great American Desert.

The good stuff about riding a motorcycle, especially competitively, at some point in your life is that you will always have bench-racing bragging rights over bikers who've never experienced a first turn traffic jam. Bench racing is the spice of life when life ain't so spicy anymore. But even if you've never raced, nothing on four wheels (short of a GP or Indy racer or rail-job dragster) even gets near the kick we get from punching a bike's throttle out of a well done curve. Motorcycling is about chasing some sort of adventure, anytime you pick traveling by two wheels over four (or more).

The bad stuff is that, if you ride and pay attention to bikes long enough, the adventure can turn deadly. Stay on the road for half a century and you're likely to see a biker maimed or killed. In my life, I've seen too-many-to-count off-road accidents, a couple dozen road rash events, and three motorcycling deaths; one in rural Nebraska and two in Los Angeles. Ironically, I was sitting at a picnic bench when I saw the first fatal event and trapped in a cage for the other two. Of these awful moments, two were, without question, the biker's fault. The third, was such a pitiful excuse for an accident that, 25 years later, I'm still not sure who ought to get the blame.

The Nebraska death happened when a stereotypical little old lady in a Buick rolled through a stop sign in front of a kid on a small 1970's street bike. Any experienced rider, seeing the tiny bluehair peering over the dashboard, would have suspected she might forget to stop. I think the kid made that guess, himself, before sliding into the side of her sedan. He hit the car, just behind the driver's side door, at well under 10mph and slid over the top of the car without doing any damage to the car, his bike, or himself. He almost managed to hang on to the roof of the car, before coming off the passenger side of the car. But he didn't. When he rolled off and hit the pavement, his skull split against the curb. He was dead before the cops arrived and long before the ambulance. I read, the next day, that he was 17. Obviously, no helmet, and as little protection as a Minnesotan's Mad Bomber's cap might have saved his life.

My second dead biker was a guy who was looking down and back, trying to get his feet into the California-idiot riding position (on the passenger pegs), in heavy Newport Boulevard traffic. The traffic stopped and he didn't. He went headfirst into the rear window of the car ahead of the car he slammed into. Also, no helmet and it might not have mattered. I think he was actually accelerating, before his bike came to an instant stop and he finished his trip by air.

My last dead guy on a bike was ripping down the median lane, doing at least 70mph in a 30mph stripmall zone. He slammed into the back of a stopped van without even blipping his brakes (assuming his brake light worked). He was wearing a helmet, boots, leather jacket, and gloves and most of that stuff came off on impact. The helmet, which may have been stolen because the buckle had been cut off, flew over the van and landed in a parking lot about 100 yards away. The boots were found under the van and one of the gloves landed on the hood of a car parked across the street in the opposite traffic lane.

When the light changed, I ended up getting stuck right next to the guy and what was left of his bike, so I put on my flashers and got out to help. The woman passenger in the van had jumped out to see if there was anything she could do to help, but she was only able to flap her arms, either trying to attract real assistance or in an attempt at flight. I saw the guy's skull was drooping to the shape of the road and blood was leaking out of his ears, eyes, nose, and mouth. He wasn't breathing. The arm flapper wanted me to do CPR or something she'd seen on TV rescues, but I thought I'd do more damage by moving him. We had a pair of motorcycle cops on the scene before I had a chance to finishing explaining to her that "I've been hunting since I was a kid and I've seen dead before. This guy is dead." I know that was insensitively said, but I wanted her to stop shrieking at me and she went right back to the passenger seat when I said that.

The cops didn't do anything more than look at the shape of the guy's skull before deciding they could spend their time more productively by securing the accident scene. It took almost an hour before I could give them my statement and go home. The first officers on the scene really seemed to want to blame some aspect of the accident on the van's driver. They were still haranguing him when I escaped. I could see that he was stopped, waiting to turn, from two blocks away. I can't imagine what he could have done to avoid getting rear-ended by the bike. Still, I could see why the accident made the bike-cops tense. It bothered me, too.

I've had my bikes called "murdercycles," "donor cycles," and other fun things for all the years I've ridden. I admit that I, still and occasionally, have mild hooligan urges and have been known to "play" racer on isolated stretches of two lane. If you do some pretty simple calculations, it's easy to see how just a couple of seconds of badly thought-out vehicle management could result in a disaster. What I saw at these accident scenes has stuck with me for all of the miles I've ridden since. Maybe my 350,000+ uninjured miles of riding owes something to the example provided by these three events. Otherwise, my witnessing their deaths was pointless.

Keep riding and ride safe.

August/September 2000

For A Brief Moment, the AMA Is Conscious

2013-06-17T16:57:00.000-05:00

The AMA managed to puke out the following press release today, barely in time for Ride to Work Day on the 17th. Instead of their gangbanger “causes,” it would be nice to she the so-called “motorcyclists’ organization” get involved this kind of thing as a primary resource, instead of just a “hey this is a good idea” too bunch of followers. I would even join if they quit fucking around battling helmet laws and reasonable standards for exhaust noise.

American Motorcyclist Association salutes riders who commute on Ride to Work Day, June 17

PICKERINGTON, Ohio -- The American Motorcyclist Association is encouraging all motorcyclists to demonstrate the practical benefits of commuting on a motorcycle on Monday, June 17, in celebration of Motorcycle and Scooter Ride to Work Day.

"Motorcyclists know that motorcycles are fun to ride as well as an economical way to transport yourself from one point to another, and Ride to Work Day is a great way for us to demonstrate that to other road users en masse," said AMA President and CEO Rob Dingman. "AMA members ride responsibly and, with the summer riding season upon us, it's a good time to exercise safe riding practices and to urge that other motorists be aware of motorcyclists on our roads and highways."

Started in 1992, Ride to Work Day is now an international event, with participation in cities around the world and recognition by the federal government and local governments in the United States. For millions of workers, motorcycles and scooters are an economical, efficient and socially responsible form of mobility that save energy, protect the environment and provide a broad range of other public benefits.

According to the U.S. Census Bureau and the U.S. Transportation Department, more than 80 million cars and light trucks are used for daily commuting on American roads, and about 200,000 motorcycles and scooters are a regular part of this mix. On Ride to Work Day, the practical side of riding becomes more visible as a large number of America's motorcycles are ridden to work. An estimated 1 million riders will become two- and three-wheeled commuters to help demonstrate that riding is a pragmatic and beneficial form of personal transportation.

Andy Goldfine, a key organizer of the annual Ride to Work Day, said: "Motorcycles and scooters consume less resources per mile than automobiles, and take up less space in parking areas and on roads. Riders seek employer and community support for this efficient form of transportation, and more government and public awareness about riding's many benefits."

For more information about Motorcycle and Scooter Ride to Work Day, visit www.ridetowork.org.

Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy Meets the Triumph Rocket III

2013-06-14T22:14:00.000-05:00

And there is a Harley ad that is unintentionally funnier, unconsciously dumber, and depressingly repetitive and mindless. Nothing like 100 dressed-alike posers pretending to be independent thinkers to remind us that we’re always #1 in being dumbasses.

Sometimes I think Hardly's marketing department is trying to make it easy for comedians. For example, compare the end of the Hardly ad to a more substantial piece of art:

The last time I found two videos so perfectly linked was when I watched Led Zepplin's "The Song Remains the Same" right after "Spinal Tap." Honestly, sometimes I think "The Company" is setting me up. Sometimes, I feel like the fat kid picking on the kid in a wheelchair on a junior high playground. They just make it too fuckin' easy.

Motorcycle Review: Adventure Touring's Founding Father BMW R1200GS

2013-06-14T17:43:00.000-05:00

http://www.amazon.com/Geezer-with-A-Grudge/dp/B007RPQJ24

All Rights Reserved © 2012 Thomas W. Day

[The review published in MMM in the March issue of 2013 was about 1200 words shorter than this review. Since I always start with everything I wanted to say and carve it down to the appropriate size, I usually keep the unedited version and do a "short" edition. This is the long one.]

BMW was the first manufacturer to take the whole "adventure touring" genre seriously, in 1980 with the R80G/S model. Since then, BMW has been hammering this market with a collection of excellent on/off-road motorcycles ready for an adventure when the right owner comes along. In its odd way, the BMW GS bikes carry a special kind of prestige among motorcyclists and the bike-curious. Famous people like Neal Pert, Harrison Ford, Orlando Bloom, and Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman have put the R1200GS in front of millions of television viewers and readers. The rest of us dream about hitting the right lottery numbers so we can be like Ewan and Charley. Two-and-a-half days on an R1200GS and I was almost ready to blow a couple of bucks on my own Power Ball delusion.

I have no idea where this building was. I
stumbled on it while wandering around the
Minnesota River Valley.

After being pleasantly surprised that I could swing a leg over our test bike, my next surprise was discovering that the boxer doesn't kick off instantly. You have to stick with the starter button long enough for all that mass to get swinging. When it first fires up, the motor tosses off an odd vibration and takes a few moments to settle into a comfortable low engine speed rumble. At low engine RPM's, the motor shakes the whole chassis in old fashioned twin style. The exhaust isn't loud, but it's not 2012 politically correct. It's noisy enough that you can blip the throttle to wake up a dozing cager at a stop light. Honestly, I liked the sound enough that popping the motor slightly just off-idle while I'm wasting time at a light was mildly entertaining. Cruising down the super-slab puts the motor at about 4krpm at 70mph. There is a lot of horsepower and torque left from that point to the bike's 8.5k redline. The EFI throttle mapping is aggressive and when you whack the throttle in gears 1-4, be ready to loft the front wheel. At BMW's estimated 42mpg, the 5-gallon tank could deliver a 200-mile range and while the EFI calculator claimed that I'd been getting 42-48mpg, my fuel receipts indicated that I got 32, 34, and 38mpg over almost 400 miles. Shifting is predictable, precise, and no unusual movement is required. Maybe to make the faithful feel comfortable with this radical modern concept, all of that great feel is accompanied with the historical Euro-primitive "clunk" sound on each shift, up or down. The rest of the power transmission is typically BMW.

The R1200GS handling is legendary for a reason. The bike instills confidence, on and off-pavement. The universal design of the GS is slightly slanted toward all sorts of civilized riding situations, the twistier the better. Still, the bike works better than 516 pounds should be expected to work off-road. The weight feels low and in most situations I barely noticed that it is a big bike. The BMW is a little scary in deep sand, but that's probably more me and $18k motorcycles than an actual deficiency. On the MSF course, the GS was maneuverable enough to handle all of the tight cornering exercises inside of the lines designed for our 250cc trainers.

The riding position with the low seat might be too constricted for taller riders, but BMW has several options with the stock seat that can lift the seated position another two inches. I was on the bike, almost non-stop for 200 miles, twice, and comfort was never an issue. In rough riding situations, standing on the pegs requires a little more rearward stance than I consider ideal, because of the big engine cases. It's not uncomfortable and it works, but it's a little restrictive. The skinny footpegs do not work for me. The little rubber insert is easily removed and should be tossed as far from the bike as possible at earliest convenience. Wider serrated pegs would be the first aftermarket piece I'd put on the GS. The bike's handling is predictable and only seems out of its element when you're not pushing it hard enough. Big semi divots in a dirt road are best taken hard and fast, while the usual Minnesota freeway engineering flaws are rougher than expected. The single-sided swingarm is, as always, maintenance-friendly, beautifully executed, and downright cool. The tubeless wheels and wire hubs are solidly trick.

With or without ABS, the GS has an integrated braking system that applies both brakes with front brake application. The rear brake is plenty powerful on its own. The BMW's ABS system is more aimed at on-road conditions. In loose gravel or sand, the rear brake pulsates and the front is too grabby for a balls-to-the-wall panic stop that relies on ABS for control. In fact, I'd be inclined to turn off ABS on a long off-road trip. On pavement, the BMW's brakes are firm, powerful, and predictable.

[What's under the BMW's seat.]

Turn the seat lock toward the back of the bike and the passenger seat comes off, revealing extra storage rack space. Turn the key toward the front and the rider's seat can be removed without messing with the passenger seat and you can get at the battery, the "rider's manual" storage, the tool kit, and a helmet security loop. All of the electrical systems, except the auxiliary LED headlight circuit, are electronically fused, so resetting one of those systems after a fault only requires switching the ignition off and on. The rest of basic maintenance is pretty well considered, too. Removing the right side cover exposes the air filter and servicing that unit is as simple as it should be. Servicing the brakes, wheels and tires, suspension, and the usual electrical culprits (lights) has been designed to be simple and fairly tool-free. Early in the test, I discovered the oil level was a little low. Topping off the oil pointed out a little gripe I have with BMW's maintenance procedure. The oil fill is on the top of the right side cylinder and the inspection window is under the left size cylinder.

[All the available information from the "multifunction display; from the BMW rider's manual.]

The "multifunction display" looks pretty unused, in its normal state. Typically, fuel status, water temperature, the gear indicator, turn signals, an ABS status light, the odometer or one of the two tripmeter options, and one of the on-board computer functions are all that is displayed. However, if all hell breaks loose on the bike, the data display could be pretty well jammed with fault information. The fault displays include warnings for tire pressure faults, a "needs service" indicator, battery charge fault, emergency engine operation mode, low oil pressure, low oil level, headlight failure, and a collection of alpha/numeric codes for troubleshooting purposes. The display is, in fact, a full-service troubleshooting tool with a collection of really cool hidden capabilities that service techs rely on in repairing electronics-heavy modern motorcycles.

[The whole rider's information package.]

From a rider's perspective, the whole console is functional and user-friendly. The analog tach and speedometer are easily interpreted, especially in the dark, and where you'd expect them to be. The speedo is large and the main item in the instrument cluster, just like it should be (140mph/230kph max). The tach is at the top with an 8.5krpm redline. Just below the tach is the very bright LED display and below that is the previously-discussed multifunction display. The instrument cluster is fortified by a serious looking crash bar and completely shielded by the windscreen.

[Just a little of the stuff you can do with your right thumb.]

The bike has a collection of switches near the left grip for the usual turn-signal, horn, and lights operation, plus switches to cycle the computer display function (INFO), a switch for disabling ABS and the Automatic Stability Control (ASC) functions, and a switch for controlling the Electronic Suspension Adjustment (ESA) options. The INFO switch cycles the computer functions through a clock, two trip odometers, ambient temperature, average speed, fuel consumption, estimated remaining range, and oil level. Our bike did not have either of the ASC or ESA options.

Our test bike did come with about $1,600 of optional features, including a lowering setup, heated grips, hand guards, an on-board computer, and the super-sexy cross-spoke wheel package. Other options include electronic suspension adjustment (ESA), automatic stability (traction) control (ASC), and an anti-theft system. Going for every BMW GS option adds about $3,600 to the $16,150 base price.

Because the R1200GS has been around for a while, Touratech, ADVDesigns, and lots of aftermarket suppliers have dozens of farkles and useful accessories for the R1200GS. You could almost double-down on your $16,500 base model investment from their catalogs. Our test bike came with a tall ZTechnik windscreen and that company's mirror extenders and an accessory shelf for power connectors and your GPS or radar detector. With the mirrors extended an extra 3", they provide a completely unobstructed view of where you have been. The very-adjustable windshield mount allows for considerable alteration of the shield's angle and height. I'm not usually convinced that I like tall shields and the ZTechnik was no exception. I suspect I'd like the stock shield and mirror positions better than that rig.

I'm not a fan of motorcycles with character, but the BMW's character is "competence." Lots of little things are done well. From a kickstand that never offers a moment of insecurity, even when you're putting it down in soft dirt, off-camber, when you're tired and distracted to a motor that just does what it's supposed to do. It's a stupid little thing, but one I appreciated every time I parked the bike. Even the BMW's key is beefed-up. Instead of having the key notches on the outside of the key, BMW has put the notches on the inside of the key slot, making the key stronger and the lock a lot harder to pick. If you add the anti-theft option to the bike, picking the lock won't help a thief ride away on your bike. The Electronic Immobilizer System (EWS) handshakes with your smart key to determine if you're using an authorized key. If you aren't, the bike stays immobilized. The ignition is disabled until it is deactivated by a remote control if or a special code is entered by way of switching the key off and on. Damn, that's tricky!

The auto-cancelling turn signals were a nice surprise. I haven't had that convenient feature since my '83 Yamaha Vision and I've missed it. The heated grips were completely new experience. Sev turned them on just before I rode away from his house and by the time I made it home, I was plotting heated grip installation on my V-Strom.

Monday night, I put the big BMW back on the freeway for the last time. Traffic was heavy and a little competitive. The big bike effortlessly puts me where I want to be, when I want to be there. In that environment, a gear indicator is useful. The GS pulls hard at any RPM above 1,000, so it's hard to feel the shift points surrounded by noisier vehicles. From my home to Leo's South, I have 27 miles of urban traffic to collect my last thoughts about this motorcycle. Owning a R1200GS is out of my socio-economic class, but I can almost imagine putting in a couple of evil years to change sides in the Class Wars, just to own a big GS. I am going to miss this motorcycle. It looks so good sitting next to my WR250X in the garage.

Thanks to the folks at Leo's South, Wayne and Randy Bedeaux, for making this terrific motorcycle available for review. This was an especially generous loan, since it was one of their personal bikes. If it were mine, I wouldn't let this babe out of my sight.

Originally published in Minnesota Motorcycle Monthly, March 2013.

Model	R 1200 GS $16,150 MSRP
Engine
Type	Air/oil-cooled flat twin ('Boxer') 4-stroke engine, two camshafts and four radially aligned valves per cylinder, central balancer shaft
Bore x stroke	101 mm x 73 mm
Capacity	1,170 cc
Rated output	110 hp (81 kW) at 7,750 rpm
Max. torque	89 ft-lb (120 Nm) at 6,000 rpm
Compression ratio	12.0 : 1
Mixture control / engine management	Electronic intake pipe injection / BMS-K+ digital engine management with overrun fuel cut-off, twin spark ignition
Emission control	Closed-loop 3-way catalytic converter, emission standard EU-3
Performance / fuel consumption
Maximum speed	Over 125 mph (200 km/h)
Fuel consumption per 100 km at constant 90 km/h	55 mpg, at a constant 55 mph
Fuel consumption per 100 km at constant 120 km/h
Fuel type	Unleaded super and premium.
Electrical system
Alternator	three-phase alternator 720 W
Battery	12 V / 14 Ah, maintenance-free
Power transmission
Clutch	Single dry plate clutch, hydraulically operated
Gearbox	Constant mesh 6-speed gearbox with helical gear teeth
Drive	Shaft drive
Chassis / brakes
Frame	Two-section frame consisting of front and rear sections, load- bearing engine-gearbox unit
Front wheel location / suspension	BMW Motorrad Telelever; stanchion diameter 41 mm, central spring strut, spring preload with 5-position mechanical adjustment
Rear wheel location / suspension	Cast aluminum single-sided swing arm with BMW Motorrad Paralever; WAD strut (travel-related damping), spring pre-load hydraulically adjustable (continuously variable) at handwheel, rebound damping adjustable
Suspension travel front / rear	7.5/7.9 inches (190 mm/200 mm)
Wheelbase	59.3 inches (1,507 mm)
Castor	4 inches (101 mm)
Steering head angle	64.3°
Wheels	Cast aluminum wheels
Rim, front	2.50 x 19"
Rim, rear	4.00 x 17"
Tyres, front	110/80 R 19
Tyres, rear	150/70 R 17
Brake, front	Dual disc brake, floating brake discs, diameter 305 mm, 4-piston fixed calipers
Brake, rear	Single disc brake, diameter 265 mm, double-piston floating caliper
ABS	BMW Motorrad Integral ABS (part-integral), can be switched off
Dimensions / weights
Length	87 inches (2,210 mm)
Width (incl. mirrors)	36 inches (915 mm)
Height (excl. mirrors)	57 inches (1,450 mm)
Seat height, unladen weight	33.5/34.3 inches (850/870 mm) low seat: 32.3 inches (820 mm), lowered suspension: 31.1 inches (790 mm)
Inner leg curve, unladen weight
Unladen weight, road ready, fully fuelled ¹⁾	516 lbs (229 kg)
Dry weight ²⁾	461 lbs (209 kg)
Permitted total weight	970 lbs (440 kg)

EYES AND OHS THAT SOUND LIKE EMS

2013-06-12T09:58:00.000-05:00

[I write more than rants and unfounded opinion pieces. Sometimes I lie for the fun of it (write fiction). This is a story I wrote for a long-dead Southern California motorcycle magazine way back in the 80’s. I still like it. I hope you do too.]

All Rights Reserved © 1988 Thomas W. Day

Hemingway would have loved this sport. McQueen did, he came here all the time. No moody pampered tennis players for those guys. Speedway. The queen of England ain't gonna show up here.

If the Queen isn't coming, the King's influence is strongly felt. Speedway is a motorcycle sport that has rules more like a moral code than a list of laws. Arthur and the Round Table are alive on the round track. Speedway rules promote sportsmanship and outlaw chance's miss-step. This is not just a man's sport, but a gentleman's sport; like jousting or dueling. There are no "acts of God" here. God has nothing to do with speedway racing. The sport looks out for its participants better than any god that I've seen evidence of.

The racers work every week, at a handful of tracks, sometimes for twenty-year careers. Blue-collar labor on a tenth mile dirt oval. They earn twenty-to-forty-grand annually and a speedway career is probably about as dependable as high-tech engineering. A man can't expect to retire after having done the same job for forty years, but he can make a good living for a decade and then hobble off and learn how to do something else. I guess this is why speedway rules are just and humane; otherwise the racers would join a union like other blue collar guys.

I really want you to understand that this sport is not like other motorsports. Like motocross, for instance. Motocross is like Real Life in the Real World. The Real World that has a real sun that most college professors never see the light of. The Real World where economics is just another brand of pseudo-philosophical-alchemy. The Real World where the closest thing to Hollywood's Super Cops is the seventeen L.A., blue-suited, street-thugs who pounded on an unarmed black traffic offender and claimed "occupational stress impairment' and retired on pensions that would keep Donny Trump happy. Motocross is that kind of Real World game. For example, you lead a race by a mile or so and keep it up for thirty-nine out of forty laps, beating your body to hamburger on terrain that mountain goats would pick their way through. You get twenty feet from the finish line and a hot-dog stand falls over, into the track, and kills you. You lose. The next guy behind you wins, assuming he misses the dog stand. Everybody else who finishes beats you, too. Just like the Real World.

Speedway does not tolerate the Universal Disorder. The rules of speedway protect the competitors from disruptive environmental intrusions. In speedway, if the dog stand scenario occurred, you get squished, but you win. You'd be dead, but a winner and that's more fair than you can hope for in this world. The concession-stand-aborted speedway race ends with the racers finishing in the positions they were in at the moment the tube-steaks ended the race.

Just to keep this train meandering away from the story I eventually plan to tell, but solidly into the philosophy of speedway, let's put you back out in front of the pack. Coming out of a corner, the guy behind you bumps into your rear tire and you both dump it. So does the guy behind him, he crashes into the heap that you and the other guy made. This happens in the fourth lap of a five lap race. Two other guys pass your metal and skin pile and finish the race, but you still win. That's justice. The guy behind you gets booted out of the race and the guy behind him finishes second. When you fell down, the founders of this sport kindly carried the finish line back a few feet behind where you got clobbered. The race ended there.

The Real World will not harm a speedway rider while he is on a sanctioned track. Acts-of-God will not effect the fairness of the speedway universe. You've suffered enough; having to ride a seventy horsepower bicycle in chemically treated dirt, without brakes, in a terribly noisy environment, under eye-damaging Hollywood-style spotlights, risking your life and left leg, chasing other equally disadvantaged guys around the track at sixty miles an hour. If God or Fate wants to screw you up, they will have to wait for Sunday morning; or until the races are over and you are back on Real World freeways. That's why I love this sport. It's as fair as a John Wayne movie.

Anyway, I'm at the races. Friday night in southern California. In a fairgrounds in the redneck part of southern California that most of the country doesn't even know exists. While the folks in Kansas dream of crazy, trendy, immoral Hollywood, I sit on bleachers with a few thousand transplanted Okies, Arkies, and what other breed of Midwesterners managed to earn enough gasoline to find the Golden State.

The structure we are sitting in is only a part-time speedway bowl. It was built to be a rodeo stadium and fairground arena where four-H kids show off their pet calf before sending him on his journey to the feedlot and packing plant. The track is ringed with wooden bleachers and the wooden bleachers are surrounded by concession stands (beer, pizza, hot dogs, speedway t-shirts, more beer) and the rest of the county fairgrounds. We're bruising our buns on the bleachers, soaking up beer from big milky-white plastic cups, chewing hot dogs smothered in red, yellow, and green chemicals.

The track officialdom meanders out to the fake grass hump surrounded by the oval. Referees, linemen, TV cameramen, assorted racer's girlfriends, a few little kids, and The Promoter find places to stand in the center of attention. The brilliant lighting makes the contrast between the track and the plastic grass and the white fence circling the track seem unreal. Like a cross between the vision of Norman Rockwell and Salvador Dali.

When the opening public address system squeal dies down, we notice that Motormouth isn't announcing tonight and a new set of vocal apparatus is at the microphone. We've never seen him, not even seconding Motormouth. In seconds, the new jaw gets tagged "Mushmouth." He's probably related to The Promoter. In California, everybody with a uniform or a microphone has a well- placed parent.

Anyway the Mushmouth's worthless, I can't understand a thing he says and nobody around me can, either. He's not cutting his words out right. No diction. He has his m's down though, every damn word sounds like it owns at least four m's.

Somebody gets vocal, "Makes you wish whats-his-face was back, doesn't it?". Motormouth. Yeah, I do kinda miss him. He can tell a joke and I can make out the punch line. He doesn't know diddly about racing, though.

The stars and stripes are waving and the p.a. blares out a pitiful version of "Oh Say Can You See." Stand up and act like Republicans. While the cheesy, scratchy, distorted recording of some Sow Cal high school band blares on, the crowd talks loudly, makes soggy bomb noises, or sings along, dive-bombing Jimi Hendricks-style at the rocket's red glare. When the tune is mostly over, I drop to my bench synchronized with five thousand other phony patriots. I don't know why they bother with that stuff here. It may be John Wayne county, but this is Saturday night with Ma and Pa Biker. The flag and Oh-Saying-and-Seeing don't symbolize anything more than the God-given right to beat up on faggots and non- whites to most of this bunch. I'm drifting philosophical, again.

The first bikes turn out and the riders sit on their machines waiting for the announcer to read off their names. While the bikes get push-started and sputter onto the track, Mushmouth mumbles away in some foreign language. When I can make out a few of his words, I try to match them with whatever is happening on the track. This guy isn't adding much to my Big Night Out and I'm losing concern for my fellow man, in his case.

Occasionally, a rider will stop, hike the rear wheel off the ground with his right foot peg, and let the rear wheel spin free, warming the engine up and protecting his clutch from frying before the race starts. Then he drops the back end to the track and roars off toward the starting gate. The racers finally line up, four riders across the center point of the oval track, splitting the grandstand straight in half.

The starting gate is a pair of poles on each side of the track, mid-way down one of the two straights. A pair of cables are pulled tight between the two poles. A two foot collar holds the two bands apart and onto the two poles. A giant rubber band is pulled tight through a pulley when the gate is down across the track. A solenoid releases the collar and the gate jumps up like a Polish guillotine.
Mushmouth has been babbling since we finished ignoring the national anthem. My friends are starting to complain about him. I am curious: I wonder if you could see his lips move if you were close enough to see his lips.

One of the guys I came with shares a joint with our row of bleachers, then we all split a bowl, and I'm buzzed. The first heat takes off. We are sitting at the apex of the first corner and the bikes slide by us. The track splatters up over the banister into my beer. Usually, I put my hand over the cup to protect my investment, but the grass has made beer as important as day-old soda. I have gone beyond caring about a little dirt in a cup of piss-colored pop.

Being stoned always makes me industrious and I make a project out of Mushmouth. I'm gonna figure out what he is saying. Off and on, for the last twenty years, I did time in assorted rock and roll bar bands. It takes an unusual sort of training and ability to figure out the lyrics to R&R tunes and I can do it. I am probably among the best in the country at figuring out the words to your favorite pop songs. I probably even know the words to "Louie, Louie." I can figure out what this guy is saying if I concentrate. Dope makes it easier for me to concentrate. I am single-minded, normally, but pot makes me hyper-monotracked.

The first race circles the track twice, then half the field goes down in a pile at the opposite end of the oval. They will re-start. Our man-at-the-mike will make noises into his equipment, probably explaining in great detail what is happening and why. I identify a few words this round, "..sum toms it takes a wall to git thuh feel of thuh track...have seen three ah fo re-starts afoe..." and so on. He isn't that tough. In fact he probably talks as clearly as about everyone I know. I bet cruddy public address systems have suppressed as much information as the Pentagon. That may be, but, in the Real World, a man has to compensate for the obstacles that are thrown in front of him. Motormouth gets understood on the same system. He never says anything worthwhile, but it is understandable. In fact, Motormouth never says anything that wouldn't be immediately obvious to an extra terrestrial stepping out of his saucer into the middle of the track on his first trip to Earth. But Motormouth says his nothing with distinct tees, hissing esses, open ohs, and long eahs.

The race starts, the bikes circle the track five times, shooting the fans with dirt. And the announcer drones on. A couple of elimination races go by, we watch the third-division beginners crash into each other, the walls, and invisible barriers strewn in some pretty harmless looking sections of the track.
After the beginner bodies are removed from the track, the first of the semi-finals is on camera. As the bikes line up and the roar of the engines all peak together, I suddenly decode the announcer's secret language, "Watch him on the right, Number Nine," I interpret. He uses the racer's perspective and describes the way the riders see the start. "He'll jump right in, drop into the middle, and block the track off. There, watch him go!" That's me interpreting again. Mushmouth probably used forty ems in two sentences.

The gate springs into the air, dirt rooster-tails behind the bikes, and they leap toward us. "There he goes, turn, turn, turn, right there! He got it." The fucker did it. Mushmouth called the race right from the beginning. Right on schedule. Dead nuts! He called it and Nine did it, right on cue. Just like he said it. I'm stunned. Now, I'm convinced that this guy is no ordinary fan, he is a super fan. I look at my friends to see if they got any of this. The one guy who really knows about racing is looking back at me. He grins and says, "He does know his racers." I nod back, wide-eyed and speechless. I have to tell you, I am blown away. You are told and I can go on.

Nine wins the race. He was gone, after that incredible start. The other three guys fought it out for positions two through five, but the first spot was never in question. The crowd actually gets off of its collective butt and does some serious screaming. A fair number of people trade "all right" with "shut the hell up," directed at Mushmouth. The announcer is screaming with the rest of the multitude, but he doesn't make sense.

We sit through six more races and he guesses the start four out of six times. The two races he guessed wrong on were restarted twice, because the hot guys couldn't get through the corner using the line Mushmouth thought they would try. Mushmouth called the shots like he had a screenplay on every one of the Division One races. He didn't do so well with the lower division races, because fate has more to do with winning than skill with those guys. They fall down when a cloud covers the moon and the track gets too slick for them maneuver on when it snows in Tibet.

The amateurs aside, Mushmouth is an undiscovered speedway psychic genius and is going to stay that way. It bugs me because he is made for this crowd. This lot of thousand short-sleeved lower-middle-classers is easily the most knowledgeable bunch of sport spectators in the world. This place is full of experts. A bunch of speedway connoisseurs and this guy is a gourmet of gourmets. This great fan who can read races and talks the talk and knows the inside stuff and has a racer's crystal ball, is here to talk to the perfect audience and they can't understand a word he says. Because his eyes sound like ohs. He should talk to his mirror with marbles in his mouth for ten hours a day. Rembrandt without a paint brush.

If these people knew what he is saying, they would be awed. He would be famous. They should love each other, but the affair is as one-sided as a Midwestern twelve year old lusting after Mick Jagger. Mushmouth insists on shoving the mike halfway down his throat because it makes him sound larger than life. No mike technique. He's not alone. Rock and rollers and evangelists do that, too. God has a big boomy voice, so Billy, Jerry, Jimmy, and that whole race of grown men with little kid's names and a set of collection plates have to boom, too. It doesn't matter that nobody understands what those guys are saying because "It's not the meat, it's the motion." I don't know who rock and rollers are trying to imitate.

A sports announcer is heard or hated, heard and hated, or heard and loved. Sport fans don't appreciate an evening of amplified mumbling.

The guy really needs diction lessons. Now! I bet my generation is stacked with stunted geniuses like this sucker. Lost at sea with his cotton-mouth. Poor lip and tongue control. No snap on the tees. He probably couldn't pronounce a vowel in front of a firing squad.

Another third division race is up. He warns some guys along the second straight, "Back off fromat fence...hot and heavy there, bad fur you and the rahders. Sumbuddy git those guys off the fence." The track was starting to hook-up too good. Before, the fast guys were sliding along the fence when they shot out of the first corner. If the beginners did that, somebody would scrape the paint off the ads and the teeth off the fence sitters. Sure enough, two tyros demolished themselves on the wall. The spectators had backed off and only got a little dirtier than the rest of us.

Third division demolition ends and we get back to the pros. A rider skips off the wall at the edge of a turn. He flounders around for a dozen yards and barely gets control of his bike before throwing it into the next turn. I think Mushmouth called him a schlockmeister, "Go tuh Europe an learn tuh really beah Schlockmeister. Learn tuh tripup widout losin it." I guess the fumbling rider had done just that, spent a few years in Europe learning how to stumble but not fall; and hold his position.

Mushmouth tried to lead the "more beer" cheer. It kinda worked, but he got about as many boos as yeas. He yelled, "Who wants to see ... win it?" Somebody behind me yelled, "Who wants to help me shoot that jerk?" That got a standing cheer from our section. It is obvious that these people really dislike the guy. Nothing he mumbles gets any respect. Steinbeck said "no in-between anywhere." Mark one up for Steinbeck. Mushmouth does have a hard act to follow. Motormouth isn't bad. He's clever, he knows some stuff about speedway. He knows something about most every kind of bike racing. "The voice of motorcycling," even. But Mushmouth knows speedway. He called a race, perfectly. He picked the winner and read off his game plan, step-by-step. Motormouth couldn't do that if the number one plate was riding in a third division race.

The crowd is pretty small tonight. A lot of the really hot guys are in Europe, competing in world class speedway. So the racing isn't quite as hot as the best of times. Some of the horde are leaving early, before the main events. His muffled voice calls out, "Come owan back, the races are juss fian. The ress rumes aranent krauted. Ters loss ah rume an tease guys are blowin it out fur you. Hey, here we go!" Another heat takes off, flinging mud that slowly fills the rows of beer cups standing empty on the bleachers. After topping my mountain, I'm bored. This is a short story because I have a short attention span. Mushmouth isn't a challenge anymore and I'm through interpreting for you.

We leave after the handicap final. Sometimes I like to watch the trophy girl get mugged, but my friends have had enough and we go. We leave with a majority of the crowd. I don't think anyone is staying to hear my boy mumble about who won tonight.

The End

Still No Parking

2013-06-11T14:54:00.000-05:00

I was downtown (St. Paul) this afternoon for work crap. Because I expected to get in and out fast, I rode the bike. Boy was that a mistake. It has been about two months since the end of the semester and the last time I rode into downtown St. Paul and the number of “No Motorcycle Parking” signs has blossomed like dandelions in my backyard. There must be hundreds of places motorcycles are not allowed to park.

If you think future planners are including two-wheeled vehicles in their plans, you are not paying attention. They are slowly working to eliminate every advantage motorcycles and scooters have in light of what everyone in transportation knows will be the next step: self-driving cars. Between our hooligan ways and our marginal contribution to traffic, emissions, and general usefulness, we’re about as popular as cops and as expected to survive into the next generation as dinosaurs.

#6 Conspiracy Theories

2013-06-10T09:31:00.000-05:00

http://www.amazon.com/Geezer-with-A-Grudge/dp/B007RPQJ24

All Rights Reserved © 2000 Thomas W. Day

Normally, I'm paranoid. Being a sixties refugee, it's normal for me to believe that, around every corner, there is a plot to tangle up my thought processes. Lately, I've noticed that a really sinister attempt is being made to make me reform one of the central premises of my life.

For example, a few weeks ago I went to a local bike's shop's open house. These guys were dealers for the bike I was thinking about trading up to. I called ahead and learned that they had one available, although it was the last one they expected to get all season. It was even the color I wanted. So I plan to blow a Saturday morning hanging out at a bike shop, maybe, buying a new bike.

The place is pretty much a zoo, when I get there. Bikers all over the place. Sales people all over the place and some bikes for sale, including the one I want to look at.

Being the recluse that I am, I try standing next to the bike fumbling with my wallet for a half-hour, or so, hoping to attract a sales dude. Finally, I stick my foot out and trip a guy with a dealer's ID badge. He is a nice enough guy, but doesn't know squat about the bike. He tells me he'll find someone who does and send him my way. I wait another half hour before leaving the bike and hunting down the clueless but helpful guy. This time, he gives me the other guy's name and points him out for me. The guy I want to talk to is, apparently, a week out of high school and is engaged in a pimple squeezing contest with two kids who don't look old enough to buy carbonated beverages.

As I head toward the sales kid does a flanking maneuver that puts the other two zit factories and a couple of crotch rockets between us. I make two more attempts at communicating with the kid and he pulls off two more impressive block passes that put me even further from yelling distance.

I give up and go back to my bike. Nobody wants to sell me anything today, so I have nothing to lose. I pop the seat and grab my tool kit. When I get back to the bike I wanted to buy, there is a "sold" sign on the seat. Fortunately, for me, I'm no longer in the market. I just want to learn something about the bike, in case I'm ever someplace where one might be for sale. In a few moments, I have removed the seat, popped the tank bolts, propped the tank with my spark plug tool, and pulled the radiator away from the motor, so I can look at the cylinders and carbs. All I wanted to know was how difficult it would be to do normal maintenance. Since I was learning so much, I decided to stay in school and was about to play with the shock, when a sales manager appeared and asked me "what the hell do you think you're doing?" He declined my offer to reassemble the bike and I decided to move on, while he was still being polite.

A weekend later, a friend conned me into visiting his favorite Harley shop. We both rode our bikes, a pair of Yamaha's. He owns a Harley, but didn't feel like looking cool that afternoon. Many of my friendly readers are probably still grinding their teeth, remembering my ranting about past Harley experiences. All that history and animosity aside, we chugged into the lot, packed with bikers and cruisers and free hotdogs and beer, and went inside for free food.

A sales guy, who always remembers my friend's name since he bought a new Sportster last year, greeted us and aimed us at the food and the beer cooler. We talked about bikes and I gave him my "dirt bikers don't ride Harleys" routine. He told me that he was an old dirt biker and had felt the same way until a few years ago. He used to race an Ossa Phantom. I used to sell them out of a garage in Nebraska. He wasn't bothered by my disinterest in his bikes and I almost wished he had something to sell that I wanted to ride. He tried to point me toward the Buells that might be more my style of bike, but admitted that they were pretty awful on dirt roads. And so it went for my visit to a Harley shop. Compared to being ignored and abused where the bikes are more to my tastes, it was sort of scary.

My next-door-neighbor rides a huge Harley; a full faired, hard-bagged bus of a bike with a radio, an intercom, a passenger seat that probably reclines, and I'm sure there's a kitchen sink on the bike, somewhere. He's the best neighbor I've ever had, in a half-dozen states and a dozen houses. The man's a walking testimonial for "you meet the nicest people on a . . . Harley?"

Last summer, I went for a ride with my neighbor and some of his friends. A whole collection of nice people on big twins (and a couple of Gold Wings). The pace was a bit slow for me, but you couldn't beat the company.

So what's the deal here? Are all these folks putting on a show, just to confuse me? Are the rice burning dealers going full-bore jerkwad while the Harley crowd turns into mild mannered grandparents and helpful, friendly sales guys? Being painfully honest, it's hard to top those crotch rocketed packs of kids in shorts, Nikes, and muscle shirts when it comes to motorcyclists creating enemies for the rest of us. Only the real Hell's Angels did more damage to two-wheeled vehicle safety than those boys have done in the last couple of decades.

Now, it's likely that a Harley rider is your dentist, banker, or some geeky engineer who bought his bike to celebrate his first million. Even harder to comprehend, the Harley might even be the guy's first bike. If it's a woman, the chances are really good that the Harley is a first bike.

Personally, I like my stereotypes to remain predictable. I mean, what's the point in having unpredictable stereotypes? If Harley dealers and owners are going to become nice people who wave at other bikers, stop to help a fellow biker broke down on the road, and don't threaten kick over my bike when I park it at the end of a line of shining chrome works of porky art, how the hell am I going to make snap judgements about who's riding what? I have to think, a little, at work. I don't want to have to engage tired and worn out braincells on my own time. Motorcycling is supposed to be a simple, recreational activity and thinking about stuff like this is messing up my hard-earned preconceived notions.

July 2000

More Evidence

2013-06-08T15:37:00.000-05:00

Humans are clearly not smart enough to play with 200mph motorcycles off of the race track. Here is one more example of a dumbass in a world of dumbasses. This one appears to be proud of the fact that he almost killed a friend and himself. More evidence that dogs should not breed with monkeys. This kind of stuff is why I can't get too worked up about 400ppm CO2. Humans are clearly not intended to become a sentient animal.

Going Downhill

2013-06-07T18:47:00.000-05:00

When I was a 19-year-old kid and was barely into ownership of my first car, I didn't know an open end wrench from a socket from an Allen wrench. Right after getting married, I bought an early-60's Opel station wagon (that probably looks a lot like the one at right, if it hasn't been crushed into a little rusty square). It was a great car that served us well and didn't cause any irritating problems, but it was destroyed by a lady who ran a light crushed my little station wagon with her damn Cadillac. She claimed I'd run the light and the cop decided to believe the well-dressed bitch rather than the long-haired hippy kid and I walked home $500 poorer and without a vehicle.

I went from good to bad. My next vehicle was a barely-used 1959 MGA convertible. It had been left in storage by a guy who went overseas for several years. My independent euro-trash mechanic/friend thought he was doing me a great favor in scoring this car for $500. In Dallas, an MGA is pretty much a 100-miles-between-major-repairs vehicle. The MGA's postage stamp radiator didn't even get close to dealing with Dallas' 100+ days and the car blew a head gasket about every other day. I sold it a year later and several thousand dollars poorer for $300 and it rolled away smoking like a "clean coal" power plant. I have had nothing by sympathy for sports car owners ever since.

A couple of unreliable but cheap vehicles came next, but the first one that mattered was my 1967 VW convertible. I loved that car, but less than 10,000 miles after I bought it (for $1600 with 15,000 miles on the odometer) the engine tossed a rod. I took it back to the dealership where I'd bought it and the in-house, real German mechanic rebuilt it for $500 (that number just kept coming up). I learned a few things from watching him work on the motor. I learned a lot more from John Muir's handy book, How to Keep Your Volkswagen Alive.

When I decided my growing family needed more room, I traded my beautiful convertible for a 1971 Westfalia Vanagon. That was my next-to-the-last experience with a car dealer. The VW dealer had spun the mileage back about 60,000 miles and the motor and transmission were held together with banana peels and bailing wire. After a brief moment in court, I walked away with some cash and a bad taste in my mouth regarding VW dealers. The company didn't do much for me, either, and I have never forgotten that. Over the years, I've learned to be wary of dealers. I hear pretty much nothing but horror stories from bikers who trust their rides to the place where the bike came from. Hardly anyone has anything good to say about the people hired to work on vehicles in dealerships.

But I don't usually think about that stuff much. I mostly do my own work and muddle through slowly but eventually. In looking at a how-to PDF on installing a transmission modification to my "new" motorhome, I ran across this statement, "Most VW dealerships have no idea that the ATF needs to be changed every 40,000 miles minimum (as per the shop manual fine print). Most dealerships have never done this job and have no idea how to do it properly. Additionally, most will tell you that the automatic transmission is a "sealed unit" and is never to be opened or changed. This is utter nonsense. Do not listen to them! In fact, my blanket advice is to never go to a VW dealership for any reason, if you can help it!"

Some things are, apparently, universal.

I was sort of thinking that when my two-wheel days are done, I'd graduate to a new front wheel drive Beetle convertible. Maybe not.

Motorcycle Review: Riding High 2002 KLR 650

2013-06-05T17:28:00.000-05:00

[This is pretty cool. Way back in 2002, I was still wearing my 1984 Aerostich Roadcrafter. I'd almost forgotten about that old reliable suit with the cotton stuffed into the shoulders, elbows, and knees as "armor." It was so worn out that no part of the Goretex resembled water-resistant and the nylon was as soft as a cotton t-shirt. I really wanted to enter this suit in one of Andy's "ugliest Aerostich contests, but I was always teaching a motorcycle class when those contests were happening.

The magazine didn't use many of my pictures, so this could be the only place to look at a slightly stripped-down KLR in a review. In retrospect, I'm not ashamed of my take on this classic motorcycle.]

Take a look at a Kawasaki KLR 650, the next time you're standing under one. It's a pair of stilts on wheels. The KLR 650 is a motorcycle SUV, it seats you tall enough to see over anything shorter than a refrigerator semi. Following me on a trip to Red Wing, my son-in-law said that he never once lost sight of me, even when he was jammed up in freeway traffic a full freeway exit back. If one of your goals in riding a motorcycle is to be noticed, this is the bike for you.

It's got a cool-factor that can't be measured in normal bike terms. Ride one of these things in to downtown Minneapolis and everyone looks and you get to look down on all of them. The military-green paint job is a lot more attention grabbing than you might suspect. The bike looks like the only thing that's missing is a machine gun mounted between the forks. Its post-apocalypse, Mad Max styling just begs for armament of some kind, at least a giant pump-powered water cannon.

There are some significant limitations to a bike this tall. My first attempt at getting on to the KLR ended with me and the bike lying down together in Victor's driveway. Our test bike's kickstand had been trimmed away for some unknowable purpose and the combination of the bike's unnatural over-center perch, a 35" seat height, and my 28" inseam was a formula for a little driveway comedy. I managed to protect the bike with my body parts and, after hitching my Aerostich into full-wedgie mode, I got on the KLR and waddled out of Victor's neighborhood. Either the wind was blowing not so gently through the trees or there was an alley full of folks laughing at me as I drove away. On the other hand, it's something of a comfort advantage to be able to hang your legs freely while long distance touring. Win some, lose some.

When I got the bike home, I let some of the air out of the forks and stared at the rear suspension until I gave up on the hope that there would be a way to drop the seat height a foot or two. Once again, Randy Newman's "short people got nobody to love" has returned to haunt me. If I was going to test ride this thing, I'd have to take it as it is. I considered a pair of mount-and-dismounting options from my ancient past: the Wild Bill Hickock hayloft-drop and the Hopalong Cassidy running mount. The barn-drop tactic seemed impractical, so I went for the other routine. As long as I had an unobstructed ten-foot starting gate, I was in business for the rest of the test ride. I started the bike (while standing beside it), punched it into first, and swung on board as I let out the clutch; Pony Express-style. I've been getting on to bicycles that way for 50-some years, so why not motorcycles?

After getting used to the handling and height, the KLR sets you free from normal street riding restrictions. You start looking for roads that will offer a challenge. I don't mean just off-the-beaten-path two lanes, or even dirt roads. I mean any spot you can squeeze the KLR's wide bars through. On boring stretches of highway, I found myself examining the ditches for off-road diversions. Even I35E's exit ramp hillsides attracted my attention. Railroad tracks are fun to skate over, if you have the suspension for it. My own backyard got a little trials action workout, which caused a small domestic conflict. She'll get over it, when the flowers grow back.

Off road, the KLR is pretty darn close to being a pig. Kawasaki claims a dry weight of 337 pounds, add another 30 pounds or so for 6.1 gallons of fuel, and the odd 20-50 pounds it usually takes to complete the wet weight figure, and you're pushing a lot of tonnage for off road work. The seat height and weight combination would make me very nervous about a rocky stream crossing, for instance. However, the bike skates over mud, sand, gravel, and asphalt. For adventure touring, the KLR is more than up to poor road surface travel. The KLR rolls over curbs like they're grains of gravel. Speed bumps are a waste of cement, unless they were intended to be KLR boredom-busters. You can catch a little air on a properly designed speed bump and that's entertaining.

Fifteen years ago, I was a very dissatisfied owner of a 1986 KLR 600. The 600cc KLR was overweight, under-powered, and handled poorly on the street or dirt. It was a bit fragile, too. The KLR has grown in many dimensions since then. From 1987 on, the KLR picked up 50cc, a few inches of seat height and suspension travel, and became considerably more sophisticated and a lot more fun.

The motor is a kick. The KLR is a little cold blooded, needing a lot of choke to get it going, even on relatively warm mornings. Once it's firing cleanly, the motor pulls like a truck. It starts pulling from idle and builds torque and horsepower (about 41hp) all the way to redline. The tach provides fairly convenient speed markers with 55mph at 4,000rpm, 70mph at 5,000, and you can do the math for the rest of the critical numbers. I, of course, would never exceed the posted legal speed limits. The bike comfortably cruises at any legal or marginally legal speed you select. I’m pretty sure that top speed is somewhere very near 100mph, but how would I know? The engine note is strange at idle, the exhaust makes a quirky whistling noise that almost sounds obscene. Once you twist the throttle, a badass single-cylinder, low-pitched, splat-blub-pop takes over.

It's not loud, but it's not tame either. During my test ride, the KLR burned a gallon of fuel every 58 miles. That works out to a full tank range of almost 350 miles! The 5-gear transmission is overkill. The bike really only needs 1st, third, and fifth. Hooligan-wise, it's possible to pull a 1st gear wheelie, but 2nd gear and beyond are solidly anchored to Mother Earth.

Stopping, on the other hand, is something the KLR does with solid power. Both brakes are progressive and powerful.

One of the more interesting street compromises made on the bike is the rubber footpegs. With a little mud on the pegs, they're pretty much useless. However, unlike real dirtbike pegs, they don't grind up the soles of your boots. Something that might be important to a commuter or someone riding from Texas to Alaska with a single pair of boots and a couple of changes of clothes.

This motorcycle is likely to spend 90% of its life on pavement. Considering that purpose, the KLR's seat is a perfect screwup. The seat wastes at least an inch and a half of unnecessary seat height, it's too soft to be comfortable for more than 20 minutes on the road, and that's just getting this bike warmed up. The Kawasaki engineers ought to invest in a seat from Corbin, Sargent, or any of the half-dozen companies that have provided aftermarket solutions to this component.

I put almost 300 miles on the KLR, looking for terrain to challenge the suspension. I really wanted to try a stream crossing, some whoops, and get a little air time to see how the bike worked away from pavement. The only opportunity I got to test any of these characteristics was on the way back from Redwing, Sunday night. Unfortunately, it was dark, I was wearing a tinted shield, and I'd lost my support team so nobody was there to take pictures. As Victor found out, in an early trial of the KLR, it will fly and it lands so softly that you could get into a lot of trouble before you really tax the suspension.

In too many ways, the KLR reminds me of the first days of SUVs. Pickups with passenger seats, tall suspensions, and minimal comforts. The real market appears to be in imitation SUVs, like those overstuffed, 4-cupholder-per-passenger station wagons sold by Acura, Mercedes, and, even, Cadillac. The KLR may be over and under-kill for just about every rider except for a really tough few. It's too heavy for serious dirt riding. It's too tall for all but a tiny minority of the riding population. It's too macho for just about everyone. What it does is something unavailable from any other bike imported into the US. Since the KLR650 has been in production and imported here since 1987, I'm guessing that there are a reasonable number of riders here who want to go where the KLR can take them.

Kawasaki's $5,000 MSRP seems like an incredible deal compared to the limited competition in this area. While Honda and Suzuki's 650 bikes appear to be much better dirt bikes than the KLR, the KLR and the BMW F650s stand alone as a fully equipped adventure tour bikes available in the US. The BMW’s MSRP of $8,200 is more expensive and way less well distributed across the country. Something you consider when you're aiming a bike cross-country.

If you do your own maintenance, the KLR might be your dream bike. Pop off the side covers, the seat, and the tank and you've exposed almost everything you're ever likely to need to get to repair. The engine, carb, and electrical parts are completely exposed after removing four screws and two bolts. The air cleaner is one more screw and a wingnut away from being out of the airbox and in your hands. Kawasaki has done a wonderful job of protecting the intake from dirt and water and I'd be surprised of the KLR wouldn't power through seat-deep water without a hitch.

A Google search on Kawasaki KLR650 will get you more than 5,500 hits. This motorcycle is a serious topic of conversation. One of the many highly detailed links is found at http://www.angelfire.com/co/klr650/. You can go just about any KLR-where from there. You can buy highway pegs, comfortable aftermarket seats, larger than stock brake disks, tall windscreens (Kawasaki even sells one), any gearing configuration you can dream up, steel lined brake cables, hard and soft luggage from a dozen different manufacturers, suspension kits, electrical modification kits, and even larger accessory fuel tanks. If you have a craving for a motorcycle you can completely customize, the KLR has to fit somewhere on your list.

After returning the KLR, I quickly noticed that there are bumps on the road. Lots of them. I discovered cracks, potholes, heaved asphalt, and other irregularities that went unnoticed on the trip to Delano. Now I'm really missing the KLR.

Originally published in Minnesota Motorcycle Monthly, September, 2002

Motorcycle Content in the New Yorker?

2013-06-04T13:28:00.000-05:00

The Day Coffee Stopped Working

Add caption

“What do you think, Motley Jack?” he asked his jester. “Does the Secretary of State ever look back on all the good times we had together?”

But his jester didn’t answer. He was too busy doing wheelies on his dirt bike.

The President laughed to himself. One of the things the scientist had told them was that they’d have to use their vehicles less. “Yes, even dirt bikes,” the scientist had said. “Stop asking that.” But the President kept not being able to believe that even dirt bikes wouldn’t be allowed! What was this shit?! Thank God they had made the scientist go away, eventually, back to the black site.

In the morning, the President’s forces would move against the band of marauders from New Buttland, which had crossed the border in search of coffee. Theirs had run out.

#5 Old Guys and Old Bikes, What's with That?

2013-06-03T11:58:00.000-05:00

http://www.amazon.com/Geezer-with-A-Grudge/dp/B007RPQJ24

All Rights Reserved © 2000 Thomas W. Day

Most of my friends are over 40. Some are over 50, like me. The most curious thing I see in an awful lot of geezers is an intense desire to collect stuff from their youth. I'm trying to understand this phenomena.

Did other, non-Boomer, generations do that? OK, my mother and her friends packed their husbands' houses with overpriced wreckage they referred to as "antiques." They'd clutter our father's living rooms with rotting, rusting junk that had a quality and finish any competent cabinetmaker would describe as "bad." But these were bored housewives with grown and gone kids, nothing but network daytime TV to watch, and no decent hobbies to distract them from turning their homes into museums. That's dumb, but understandable.

I don't remember any of my father's friends getting wrapped up in the "good old days." Hotrodders don't count, of course. Those guys take rusted hulks with under-powered six-cylinder flathead motors and turned them into roaring monsters that Chrysler would be proud to call "The Prowler," if Chrysler had engineers who could build something that hot. And I'm sure as hell not talking about guys who can only afford one bike per decade and have to cobble stuff on to that sole ride to keep it current enough to satisfy their need for speed and handling. Or guys who keep patching up the old babe because nobody seems to want to make a bike that does what we like to do on bikes (everything from canyon carving to dirt biking, all on the same two wheels).

Nope, what I'm talking about are guys who have money. Guys who buy old bikes in awful, mediocre, or showroom floor condition and spend zillions to "restore" it to original condition. Guys who spend more money on restoration than a brand new, state-of-the-art, thoroughly rideable motorcycle costs. Even worse, guys who buy a brand new replica of a 1940 motorcycle for thirteen times what it would cost them to buy a modern motorcycle.

This is a freakin' national craze, you know? We have people paying a fortune for moldy Barbie dolls, baseball cards that were less important than the bubblegum they came with, and motorcycles that don't generate enough power to avoid being overtaken by geriatric bicyclists.

There are events for these "collectors." In fact, I used to go to one of them every year in Steamboat Springs, Colorado. For me, it was sort of like visiting a re-enactment museum by motorcycle. Although, after three years, I started spending more time in the hot springs Jacuzzi than at the "races." (I put races in quotes because some heats moved so slowly that younger spectators were out-running the bikes up the hills.)

As justification, some people call this I-miss-my-childhood hysteria, "investing." Apparently, they believe our kids are going to think "I wish I had as much fun as mom and dad did when they were teenagers?" Get real. No chance. Once we've gotten over "booming" nobody's going to care if we had Barbies, bikes, or Baywatch. Our kids have extreme sports and extreme toys. They'll have as much use for a 1971 Yamaha DT-1 as you and I have for horse drawn wagons and buggy whips. Don't tell me, your wife has a planted a buckboard in your front yard and stuck a buggy whip on your living room wall?

June 2000

Closer to the Edge - Isle Of Man - TT Race, FULL MOVIE!

2013-06-02T12:12:00.000-05:00

This might be the coolest thing YouTube has ever published. The full freakin' movie:

When no place in Minneapolis/St. Paul ran this movie, I seriously considered moving somewhere civilized. I still am. I do not understand a single word Guy Martin says, but I love what he does with a motorcycle.

I can't say that the TT is high on my list of "things I gotta do," though. The archaic rules and arrogant timekeeper bureaucracy is too much for me. It feels too much like golf or even the crazed way observed trials is judged. (How can you roll backwards and not have lost "forward motion?") A 30S penalty for supposedly being 0.1mph too fast out of the pits is insane and cost Martin the Superbike title in the first race. I can't watch that kind of shit without wanting to hang an official. (Of course, hanging officials is pretty high on my list of favorite things to do on good days.)

These guys are either the craziest people on earth or the bravest. Could be both. The tank-slapping when those bikes come down off of the rises in the roads is insane. Totally insane.

NOTE: This does not qualify as a "movie review" because I loved every minute of Closer to the Edge and I have no useful criticism to offer.

Dumbest Thing Yet?

2013-05-31T07:24:00.000-05:00

When I got back from a short ride and hang with Chris Luhman yesterday, I did some slightly-put-off maintenance: oil change, chain clean, lube, and adjust, cooling system flush. As I began the usual process, I flashed back on a rushed oil change I did, near the end of last season, on the V-Strom last year that might take the prize for being the dumbest maintenance move I’ve made in my fading memory.

I did a crap-load of stuff on the bike; from the usual to the once-in-10,000-miles stuff. I intended to do more, but while I was wandering from task to task with no real focus or check-list, I managed to dump a whole gallon of expensive synthetic oil into the fill-hole before discovering that I had yet to replace the drain plug. After smacking myself around the garage for a few minutes, I installed the plug, filled the crankcase with my backup oil (not synthetic), and terminated the maintenance session.

I still need to repack the steering head bearings, but in the mood I was in after blowing $25 in a few moments of stupidity I decided discretion was “the better part of valor” and my bike, too.
Some days, maintenance brings out the really stupid in me and on those days I try to be flexible enough to find something else, something easier, to do rather than continue on the path that will likely end in a screwed up motorcycle and additional expense. How ‘bout you?

2013-05-30T19:36:00.000-05:00

Now Honda is really getting serious about motorcycles for the next generation of rider.

Fighting Over Small Stuff

2013-05-29T13:33:00.000-05:00

When I first started teaching MSF classes, I tried to take every opportunity to ride the state's motorcycles in the course demonstrations. I felt that I had a pretty good grasp of the program's text and post-exercise analysis, but I was still doubting the concept of "traction" and some of the other core principles we were teaching. When I became an instructor, the qualification process "proved" that I could ride well enough to teach the course but I wasn't yet completely convinced. After my first year, that was no longer an issue and I found plenty of opportunity to ingrain the ideas and practices into my normal riding routine.

Like most of the state's instructors, I would still rather "ride than talk." For the next six or seven years, anytime I was given a choice between talking or riding I always chose riding. There is an aspect of showing off in doing the demos that is probably unhealthy and less-than-useful for our students. I have yet to work with an instructor who doesn't do some of that and I sure do. However, the compulsion to ride over standing around yakking and hanging out seems a little out-of-place with a group as diverse as our instructors. About five years ago, I began to ride my KL250 to class and most everywhere. When I moved to the small bike from my V-Strom my interest in demo'ing on the state's bikes began to decay. When I bought the WR250X, riding over talking took a big hit. Most of the time I pick whatever option will move the class along the most efficiently. If the other instructor talks too much about stuff not in the program or "enhancing" the same material until eyes glaze over and brains shut off, I'll take more turns talking. If it's taking too long to setup the range and do the demos, I'll ride. Otherwise, I don't care which I'm doing.

The fact is, my WR is so much more fun to ride -- everywhere -- than anything MNDOT owns that I don't get much out of riding the state's bikes. Figuring this out made me realize something about my co-instructors: they don't have anything as cool as the state's bikes to play with!

This all reminds me of a couple of neighbors and friends who own large, noisy motorcycles that require rearranging of the garage before the motorcycle can peek out of it's winter hibernation hole. Both of these guys are terrified of riding on the freeway and neither put more than a thousand miles a year on their bike. I am clueless as to their motivation for owning a motorcycle, other than the obvious fact that they have tied some of their self-identity to the idea of being "a biker" and owning a motorcycle is a prerequisite for that fantasy. That is a lot of stuff to mess with for a delusional self-image, isn't it? Insurance, maintenance, giving up useful garage space to a useless toy, frustration, and the continual disappointment that must come with looking at the tarp-covered hunk of hippobike every time you strap into the old family cage.

Knowing that most of my co-instructors drive a cage to their classes and all of the few who ride are one liter-or-better gigantatrons, I suddenly have something slightly like sympathy for their desire to ride something fun. Now, if I could only convince a few of them that small bikes are more practical than large.

#4 History is Everything

2013-05-27T11:16:00.000-05:00

All Rights Reserved © 2000 Thomas W. Day

The marketing golden rule is "perception is everything." Perception is a shallow concept, compared to history. Marketing guys are partial to shallow concepts, so if you can forgive them for all of their other faults you should have no trouble letting them live over this one. From an in-duh-vidual motorcyclist's experience, my personal history and my limited study of the broader perspective has colored my perception of our sport and the vehicles we chose to ride. I think that's a true statement for almost all of us who've been on two wheels for any length of time.

As a beginning rider, I was chased from the Kansas highways by hostile and incompetent cagers. I ended up spending so much time struggling to keep my bike vertical in the ditches that I decided to become an off-road biker. (Like I had a real choice?) That first motorcycle was a 1962 Aermacchi/Harley-Davidson 250 Sprint that actually belonged to my brother but, since he was younger and smaller than me, was mostly mine. He, more or less, passively observed as I turned his bike into a oval track scrambler and, in a few months, a hunk of junk. (See the included photo for an example of an ideal application for the Harley Sprint. Source unknown.) The only positive thing you could say about the 250 Sprint was that it had a macho (low and loud) exhaust note. It was a total wimp of a motorcycle and, like other four stroke hippos, was quickly chased from the dirt by the European and Japanese two-stroke invasion.

After a pause in riding, while I conditioned myself to tolerate the rattle of two stroke machines, I bought my first real off-road bike. A long period of motocross and cross country racing, enduros, and observed trials followed. An integral aspect of my history includes loving the smell of burnt bean oil on a cool summer morning. (I'm not kidding. I can practically drown in good memories from just a whiff of the stuff.) In the early 80's, I moved back to the street, after a series of racing injuries turned me into more of an obstacle on the track than a racer. But my heart was still bent to places where street bikes are rarely seen. I still expect a road bike to be a tolerable performer on dirt roads. My worst and least logical prejudice is based on specially outdated experience. 1960's and 70's dirt bikers and Harley riders weren't exactly on friendly terms. That tense relationship and a general disdain for American "quality control" earned through 25 years as a technician and engineer, still colors my perception of folks who chose to ride motorcycles that look and perform pretty much like they did thirty or fifty years ago.

I expect that, today, there are a lot more Harley riders wearing ties and driving Accuras during the work week than there are hustling coke and participating in town-trashing. (The stats on today's Harley owners' incomes are pretty impressive.) Still, I remember being chased from some of America's great motorcycling events by smelly, wanna-act-like-a-vicious-frat-brat gangs. The sound of a badly tuned two-cylinder tractor motor raises my hackles.

There's also a function-follows-form aspect of cruiser bikes that doesn't work for me. Even the cosmetic aspects (color and graphics) of dirt bikes have a function (identification on the track). When it comes to all of the other characteristics of a dirt bike, if it didn't have a purpose it wouldn't be there. Racing, in general, puts function so far before form that it's almost amazing that racers bother with paint, at all.

Street bikes are considerably less restricted by functionality (read: no connection between function and form unless absolutely necessary) From my perspective, cruisers appear to be more intended to be seen than ridden. Cruisers may even be seen by their owners as being more art than bike. Similar to how Frank Lloyd Wright's construction projects are viewed more as creative works of art than reliable protection from the elements.

I've been married to an artist for 30+ years. My wife's disdain for proper material use and structural integrity has, and will, always confuse the crap out of me. I, honestly, can't figure out why you'd build something that wasn't done "right" (from an engineering point of view). The way I see it, you always have the option of designing something that will hold up to expected use and exposure to the elements. Why would you chose to ignore that stuff?

Of course, my wife and her arty friends see my point of view as "limiting" and they apply the derogative label of "artisan" to anyone who believes that artistic value and quality of construction are compatible concepts. While it's possible for me to imagine that they could be right, it's not something I am willing to spend any time thinking about. It doesn't fit within my historical experience or my perspective. In the same light, I can't see why anyone would chose chrome over a much more durable anodized finish, leather over a tougher and more IR and weather resistant synthetic material, an airbrushed enamel paint job over epoxy powder coating, or tube mild steel over a reinforced cast aluminum frame. It's a form of blindness that I'm, apparently, permanently afflicted with.

The opposite disability is pretty easy to spot when an owner of a "rice burner" parks on Taylors Falls' main street. All of the cruiser folks act like a sacred burial ground has been turned into a toxic waste dump. It's pretty funny to watch, if it's not your bike the boys in black leather are threatening to trash. I can't claim to understand the history behind this perspective. It's not mine to share or understand. Since 1966, I've been on the other side of the fence (If you'll give me credit for owning that ancient Aermacchi. Otherwise, I've always burned Italian, Spanish, German, or Japanese rice.)

All of that is a lot of history. All mine. Ride for 35 years and 250,000+ miles (not counting the off-road, odometer-less miles) and you'll collect a bunch of history, too. With history comes perspective and prejudice. I wish it weren't true, but it seems to be.

MMM April 2000

Coming Along, I Hope

2013-05-25T11:06:00.000-05:00

I'm about 2/3 of the way done with scheduling my old Minnesota Motorcycle Monthly column history into this blog. It has been a few years since I've looked at this stuff, even though it was always archived on my own website with Comcast for years. Comcast doesn't offer website space for new customers and, sooner or later, I'll become a new/old customer and the website will become history.

Funny how technology and communications "evolves" and changes the way we humans communicate. For years, I was convinced that I'd find a way to "monetize" my websites (I had several and at least a couple of them were intended to attract business.) Several friends and ex-corporate drones had figured out how to make a killer living as "consultants" and I figured I could dip into that pie, too. I had this sneaky angle that "nobody else figured out," simple explained as being a contrary old guy who solved problems without massaging the egos of the corporate CEO-CFO-whatevers. 30 years ago (Yeah, it was that long ago when Americans made stuff that people bought without government subsidies.), I managed a small manufacturing business. That company went from being a money-loser to knocking out a substantial profit on a substantial gross income in a decade and I had a lot to do with that evolution. I imagined that I could pedal that experience into a fairly regular income, after abandoning my last Misfortune 500 disaster area. I didn't image this strongly enough to count on it and I did my usual thing of cranking up a half-dozen "businesses" and waiting to see which panned out/paid out the most. Having done the for-hire consultant thing for 6 months in the early 90's, I knew how phony most of the crap was and how unlikely it would be that I'd actually find a business owner who wanted to build a business instead of scrap the assets into his pockets and run away before the buildings collapsed on his employees. The one skill Americans have lost above all of the rest of our problems is the ability to manage anything for long-term benefit. We just don't know how to build anything substantial any more.

And I was right. Business and manufacturing consulting turned out to be a non-starter. My income ended up coming from a collection of much less ambitious and mostly-recreational music and small business customers doing acoustic consulting, audio forensic work, and electronic design and repair work. The websites, including the website for the above businesses, didn't do squat for me. Everything I did came from referrals.

Now, I'm told that blogs are "old fashioned." I should be "communicating" on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, or some other limited-text, attention deficit resource. "Nobody wants to read a whole thought," seems to be the direction humans are heading. I am sixty-five-fucking-years-old. I do not care what cliff humanity is driving towards. Like H.L. Menken said, "I write for the same reason cows give milk." There is probably a similar reason why I ride a motorcycle, but I can't think of it. (Of course, I didn't originate the Menken quote either.) If nobody reads what I write, I still write. It's a compulsion. That partially explains why I have a "resource page" where all of the crap I've written is held for publishers to pick-and-choose from that is always about 20 essays-full and I have at least another dozen mostly-written and waiting for a bit of editing before they are also added to the slush pile.

If you haven't caught the "code" yet, if there is a number ("#1001," for example) in front of a Geezer blog entry, it's an old article being archived to this blog. At first, I thought I'd just add the stuff from Minnesota Motorcycle Monthly, since that magazine's current website status was the impetus for moving my stuff from the website to the blog. Since I got started with the process, I have decided to put everything I've had published here, too. That will include a couple of Motorcyclist how-to-ride articles, the Rider's Digest articles (in original form), and every bike review I've done in whole (rather than the published and edited versions). That will amount to about 200-and-counting articles, so the blog will be "busy" for a while (I'm up to #41 and that takes the blog into February of 2014).

I joked that, at this rate, I'll be publishing stuff on this blog long after I'd dead. My wife did not think that was either optimistic or funny. I do not come from a long-lived male heritage, so if the old stuff keeps the blog alive beyond 2015, I'm betting on the blog. And this time, my money is somewhere tangled up in this bet.

The Worst Scooter Driver in China

2013-05-24T16:57:00.000-05:00

We know this dude isn't the "Worst Scooter Driver in China." There is always someone worse. However . . .

This dude doesn't belong on anything motorized.
HINT: Stick it out to the end.

The Modern Motorcycle Diaries

2013-05-22T11:33:00.000-05:00

Expedition South

Simply a great story. Check out his website for more detail and YouTube has all of the episodes of his trip here:

#3 When Two Wheels are Not Necessarily Better than Four

2013-05-20T18:38:00.000-05:00

All Rights Reserved © 2000 Thomas W. Day

A big part, for me, of the beauty of owning a motorcycle is the Zen of maintaining them. All through winter, while my garage is only a couple of degrees warmer than Hillary's heart, I think about the things I "need" to do to my bike come spring. When the early spring rains keep me off of the roads, I have a dry and reasonably well equipped garage to tinker in. It's one of my favorite ways to burn a weekend.

For the first 15 years of my riding career, all of my two-wheeled time was spent on the dirt. Thanks to the simple design and easy access of dirt bikes, I learned to love a good set of wrenches and a day spent getting dirt and grease so solidly absorbed into the pores of my hands that only acrylic lacquer thinner can cut it.

In my early 30's, motorcycles moved from recreation to transportation. I bought my first street bike, a Honda CX500, which was only a bit different than my car, a '67 Volkswagen convertible, maintenance-wise. The CX got a valve adjust every two thousand miles and, occasionally, needed it. While I had the top off, I changed the oil, checked the cam chain tension, and made a lap around the bike looking for leaks, loose bolts, and any sign of lazy ownership. I liked working on that bike as much as riding it, which isn't necessarily a positive comment on the bike's handling characteristics. The CX lived for more than 120,000 miles before I sold it (guilt free) to a friend.

Like an idiot, I sold the CX and the VW. Since then, I haven't owned a car that I can/will do much more than change the oil and plugs. My next series of motorcycles started a maintenance decline that will die with my current ride, a 1992 Yamaha 850 TDM. When it's running, I love the bike. It's suspended tall, it's reasonably quick and handles well on paved or dirt roads, and it's red. All important things, in my mind. However, I hate working on it.

Yamaha's evilly intentioned engineers made almost every aspect of maintaining this motorcycle a non-Zen experience. Even changing out the spark plugs costs a pound of flesh, because the fan housing was positioned to block off bloodless access to the right side plug. The fairing is a cobbled three piece affair that is held in place with a dozen irritating and fragile rubber mounted nuts. The battery, air box, carbs, and most of the electrics are covered by the tank, which has to be removed for almost any kind of service. Of course, the fairing bits have to come off to get at the tank. All that hassle just gets you to the stuff under the plastic. Other painful experiences are exposed once this routine is completed. As much as I like riding this bike, I dislike working on it.

At last year's Cycle World Bike Show, I almost fell in love with the Suzuki SV650. From a distance, it looked like Suzuki had made a bike to ride and to maintain. When I asked a salesman about maintenance, he looked at me like I might be contagious. He babbled about how trouble-free the SV would be. He wanted to talk about the hot new colors (red and blue, incredibly original), the low price, and the bike's specs. I wanted to see how the tank prop worked, how the wheels came off, how the chain adjust worked, if I could get to the plugs without major surgery.

We were both disappointed and I'm still living with my old bike. Until I find a ride that makes me smile when I think about working on it, I'm going to stick with what I have. There is no shortage of bikes that are fun to ride. I live in Minnesota. I spend as many months tinkering with my bikes as I do riding them. I want to have fun at both aspects of being a motorcyclist and, until I find a road bike that gives me that pleasure, I'm hanging on to my dirt bike.

March 2000

Gear Up or Else

2013-05-18T13:18:00.000-05:00

One of my favorite motorcycle campaigns from the last decade or two has been the GearUpProject. I've been sporting one of their stickers on the gashed up side-panel of my V-Strom since I gashed it up (2007 or thereabouts). This group accumulates statistics on riders, crashes, and the effectiveness of gear.

I stumbled on this sneaker/flip-flop wearer's pre-surgery/post-clean-up shot and it is a gross reminder of the high cost of hoping for the best and planning for the same. Nature loves vacuums and hates fools. Like my experience with scooter-ownership, if you aren't smart enough to imagine how much damage sliding down the road at 5-75mph will do to your skin, you aren't smart enough to ride a motorcycle (you can own one, just don't take it out of your living room). The old "Death on the Highway" films the Highway Patrol used to show to high school kids to gross them out and make them consider sticking with bicycles for a few more years before venturing on to highways in Mom's Buick, this kind of illustration is a good reminder of how poorly we are constructed. (NOTE: Someone sent me a note saying this was post-snake bite, rather than a bike related rash. I got the picture from someone and can't even find the original email. I did wonder why the bones weren't ground up. I'm having a bad computer day and managed to "delete" the correction email instead of "publish" it. Sorry.)

After stopping at Fleet Farm to grab some cheap synthetic oil (yes, they do carry several brands of 2-and-4-stroke motorcycle oil for cheaper than average prices), a squid on an R6 rolled in beside us (parking in a regular space instead of Fleet Farm's spacious and roped in motorcycle parking area) dressed in baggy shorts, a wife-beater, and flipflops. He inspired me to consider blowing up this picture (and a dozen other hospital shots into a "squid hall of fame montage") and turning it into a window poster to go along with a "Start Seeing Motorcyclists in Hospitals" sign. How dumb do you have to be to risk this kind of damage?

Driving the camper back from Washington, I was amazed at the number of people wearing helmets (in helmet law states) and going, otherwise, naked on motorcycles. Not coincidentally, I didn't see a single one of those characters showing a lick of skill on their motorcycles. There seems to be a link between riding unprotected and being talentless on a motorcycle.

Exceeding the Limits

2013-05-17T17:34:00.000-05:00

It has been an all-around shit week. My wife is convinced she wants to explore the world in a motorhome. You probably already how I feel about 4-wheel anything and this "plan" smells like something that will put me behind the wheel of a cursed cage for extended periods of time with no upsides in sight. Being the passive-aggressive Midwesterner I am, I found a pretty good deal on a motorhome I can probably tolerate and bought the damn thing, driving it home 1800 miles from near Portland in a couple of days (and nights).

Arriving pissed off and disoriented, I went back to what passes for my "life" Tuesday and promptly had my billfold stolen during a physical therapy session at the Roseville Community Center, The asshole smacked my MasterLock, cracking the hasp and made off with my identity, a couple hundred bucks of travel money left over from the trip, and a couple of credit cards. So far, he's racked up $2400 in idiotic charges and proved that the world of credit is populated with moronic vendors and a lot of stupid bankers. Being as true as possible to stereotypes, the jackass went first to some place called "Hat World," followed by Footlocker, "SQ Dionte Tinkel, OFG Wireless (bought a disposable phone), and to the Roseville Apple Store (twice) for iPads. If the Roseville Police can't find this douchebag, having been photographed in high-resolution by the Apple Store and in pretty good resolution leaving the community center, they should close up shop and quit wasting taxpayer money. I'll put my money on the Roseville cops being far too lethargic to find their own shoes in the morning, let alone a thief who might actually move faster than 2mph.

I know better than to bring valuables into the locker room, but you're damned if you do and damned if you don't. Leave them in the car and any idiot with a Slim Jim gets your stuff. Take the stuff into the gym locker room and they bust the lock and are off and spending money like a Kardasian with an unlimited credit card. Carry the stuff into the gym and they have all sorts of opportunities to grab your stuff while you exercise. The only solution is to avoid going anywhere. The world is obviously full of useless, bored young men and the next douchebag who whines to me about abortion might get a late term look at the procedure himself.

The lost week hasn't ended yet.

I made an errand ride to the library, returning a couple of books, getting caught in a rainstorm, and managing no to fasten my tailbag solidly to the rack, and losting the damn thing somewhere between the library and a drug store. This is the second small MotoFizz bag I've managed to "lose," the first one was stolen from the bike when I made a quick trip into work to grab some test papers about two years ago. This one, I tossed myself. Stupidly, on the way there I thought "I ought to write my name on this damn bag."

I'm sitting in the sun porch, feeling sorry for myself. Clearly, Alzheimer's has claimed what's left of my tiny brain. It's probably time to make that walk into the forest and hope for a large predator to make a quick, clean kill.

POSTSCRIPT: Someone incredibly helpful found the bag in front of his house, called my work number (business cards were in the bag) and left it on his porch where I could find it last night. Incredibly, the MotoFizz stayed on the WR's tailrack for 2.2 miles of moderate traffic maneuvering. I missed finding it myself because I turned a couple of blocks too early on the return trip to the library and the good Samaritan had already found it by the time I made the return pass. So, now I can go the the Alzehimer's clinic knowing, for a few moments, where some of my stuff is.

Getting Tricky with a V-Strom

2013-05-16T11:50:00.000-05:00

The project bike after installment #1.

The folks at RideApart.com have started an interesting project, creating a better-than-the-Adventure-V-Strom for less than the additional $1500 Suzuki tacks on for the Adventure model. With a function-based goalpost, one of the usual bullshit "improvements" dumbass motorcycle magazines usually start with died out of the gate: "So we had no intention of throwing an exhaust system on this thing that would blow a grand of the budget to liberate 1.37 horsepower."

Suddenly, I have become a huge fan of RideApart.com. The last two issues of Motorcyclist and Motorcycle Consumer News have pissed me off with their insistence on making noise as a delusion of speed and power that I am tossing their subscription letters into the trash without bothering to look at what they are offering.
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They started with the undeniably best and most indispensable "upgrade" a motorcycle can get, a center-stand, and progressed to a bashplate (also indispensable off-road) and a chain-oiler (we can argue about that one). With only $600 of their $1500 budget spent, this looks like one of the best upgrade articles ever. Apparently, having a budget is the key to spending money intelligently.Who knew?