A balanced life

This little doodad is supposed to help me have a perfectly running motorcycle. I think I balanced my carbs pretty well - at least the four little metal tubes ended at all about the same spot. 

And it does seem to be running better. But it never matters what the job is with my bike, I always run into complications. On this little job, I snapped my fuel line. Replacing it meant I had to remove the airbox so I could reach the fuel connector on the carburetors. 

Of course, that involved removing the gas tank, the seat, the side panels. I began the job on a Friday evening, then spent all day Saturday working on balancing my carbs.

I guess that's how life is -- every seemingly simple job will deliver a multitude of complications. Overcoming those complications is how people grow and how they learn.

Something Pops would make

When I was a kid, my dad, Pops, was a master of making tools out of almost nothing - usually involving a 2x4 somewhere in the mix.

Here's my version of a Pops tool. I needed something that could clean out the metal shavings from my crankcase when I retapped the spark plug hole. I couldn't figure out a way to use a 2x4, but I did use some duct tape! Well, and a funnel and an old piece of fuel line.

And my shop vac. Does that count as a new tool? 

Cool bike

This is what I wish my bike looked like. I hope I get there someday. 

Sometimes, riding is real work

When I was a young guy riding my 650 all over LA, it seemed so easy. I'd grab my helmet, grab my key, hop on my bike and ride away.

Like this guy I saw in Pasadena in December!
But I don't live in LA anymore. I'm in the soggy Pacific Northwest. That means just riding to work means gearing up in my bulky rain pants, boots, sweatshirt under my riding coat, helmet, sometimes wiping some anti-fog cream on the inside of the windshield -- all before I even hop on my bike.

So, yeah. It can be real work.

Still worth it, though. 

Riding season? What riding season?

I don't know why, honestly, but it burns me to hear about motorcyclists and bikers talk about some sort of riding season. Riding a motorcycle isn't like playing baseball. It doesn't take sunny skies to enjoy riding a motorcycle.

All it takes is a road and the right gear.

Where I live, it rains about eight or nine months out of the year. If I limited my rides to cloudless days and temperatures above 60 degrees, I'd ride maybe a dozen days out of the year. Well, maybe a bit more than that, but whatever the true number, it wouldn't be enough.

My philosophy all last year was that if it was dry in the morning, I'd ride in to work. Sometimes, I got caught in the rain on the way home. By December, I didn't care if it was raining on my way in to work, either.

Snow and ice, well, those sidelined me. I found out it can still be dry with the temperatures in the 30s. I  also learned that Carharts actually keep your warmer than denim, and long johns are even better.

Even so, some days I was pretty stiff legged walking into the office and it took until my second coffee break for my face to thaw out. This year, I'm going to invest in some Gerbing wear, unless all the BMW and Goldwing riders bought them out.

Recently, to save money, I joined a vanpool to work. I like my co-workers who ride the van. One of them even brought a dozen doughnuts for the group the other day.

Still, after four days in a row of the vanpool, I craved a morning commute where the only sound I heard was the wind and my engine. 

Well, and the 80's soundtrack I've got on my iPod. What can I say? That was my era.

Table o' parts

Confidence is a table full of carburetor parts.
My bike has been running rough since I replaced the petcock - the doohicky that allows gas to flow to my carburetors when the engine's running. My old one was, well, old, like 30 years old. It let me know just how old it was by letting all the gas that wanted to flow into my carbs just go do it, even when the bike wasn't running! Yup, that old petcock was generous.
But coming out to my bike after work to find a puddle of gas beneath it was unnerving -- as was the ride home thinking there was a potential bomb just beneath my crotch and I was riding it at 70 mph an hour down the freeway. At one point, it made me so nervous, I slowed to 60 because we all know gasoline burns much more gently at that speed.
So I parked my bike for a week while I waited for my new petcock to come in the mail and drove my hated Saturn Vue. Why did I ever buy that thing?! God, I hate even looking at it. I feel like such a jerk driving that box.
Well, the new part arrived and it was an ill-fitting after-market part. So off it went back to the company while I ordered the correct, stock part from a different company. Sigh. Another week went buy - meanwhile, I went to work, took a few days off, went camping with the family.
When I got home, yay! My new part was waiting for me!
On it goes and everything's hunky dory. No. Wait. What's this? I ride my bike around and its like slogging through mud. It has no power, and twisting the throttle feels like I'm pouring cold oatmeal down my bike's throat.
Sadly, I park the bike again.
Today, with some trepidation, I removed the side panels, removed my airbox, removed my gas tank and then - pulled the carbs.
When I got inside the most amazing thing - bits of rubber everywhere!
I think, although I'm no egghead or mechanic for that matter, that the seals on my old petcock began to dissolve and trickled into my carburetors, clogging up critical passageways for my fuel and upsetting that delicate balance required for the carbs to operate well.
It was a relief to find this junk.
I plan to wrap up the cleaning tomorrow and (fingers crossed) get back on the road.

I saw alot of anger growing up, and so I try to control my own. But I'm not very good at it, not at all.

So when the Harley Davidson flew past me, without even a wave, my hand began to twist the throttle without a conscious thought. My bike is old, I know that. It's old and tired and its 80 horsepower engine, a beast in its day, is a sopwith camel in a jet plane age.

Still, the bike respondedand I tore down the freeway, buffeted by the wind. I guess I'm old, too, and I'm an 80s guy in a Millenium age, but I cut my teeth riding the Los Angeles freeways, splitting lanes, weaving among cars, a shark swimming in a sea of traffic.

And so without much thought I flew through and among the cars, danced with my bike on the blacktop, the Capitol Dome flying by, and the fat, lumbering Harley, nearly as big as a car itself, was a quarter mile behind me in a few moments time, caged in by traffic.

The weekend was spent tightening down all the screws and bolts I shook loose on my poor old bike. That's what a temper will do to you.