MURRIN’S MOTORCYCLE MUSINGS
It was a glorious day for motorcycling today. 230 miles of twisty mountain roads, cool temps, sunshine and cold beer at journey’s end. With all the headaches of business and the needs of a family, it’s hard to take long rides every week. So when I get the chance, I go at it pretty hard. Those who know me know that I am a motorcycle fanatic. I’d own 100 of them if I could. I have new bikes, vintage bikes, junk bikes and many “in between” bikes in the garage. So when a full day of hard, long distance riding is at hand, the task usually goes to the BMW. Germans know a few things about engineering. Don’t ask them about fashion or haute cuisine, but mechanical function, it’s in their blood. I think they pray a lot to the mechanical gods. My Softail looked eager to go, but she’s great for trips south of 200 miles. The vintage stuff, 1950 and back, that’s strictly for show or bar hopper duty. Now once I got inside the garage, PC (pre-coffee), my 1976 Triumph Bonneville just looked so awesome leaned left on the kickstand. Real chrome headlamp and fenders, twin carbs, old school spokes and solo seat, it lured me. ‘Ride me, Ride me’, it begged. Forget that I am older than dirt, have finicky points, leak oil, have serious chain lash, kick only starting and vibrate like a porn star’s purse above 50MPH. Reliability, I don’t need no stinkin’ reliability. The mechanical gods will shine on me this day, was my thought. As wild hairs go, I must have had a pony tail growing out of my rump. I jump on the damn thing and after two kicks, it roars to life and I’m off. It’s 7:00 a.m., still dark and I’m clunking through 40 year old gears and heading north. Before I could wake up and realize what I had done, I was on my knees in a north Alpharetta parking lot in front of a Starbucks with the left carburetor in at least 20 pieces. Now normally you would not expect a lawyer to be elbow deep in gasoline and carb parts on the roadside wrenching an old bike. However, I am not your father’s lawyer. I must confess, while I understand the finer points of internal combustion, a Leatherman and a coffee shop parking lot are not ideal overhaul conditions. And you should have seen the looks from the yuppies in their spandex heading to LA fitness in their Hummers and Benzes. I thought someone may say (no, I prayed to God for it) “My dear sir, can you extricate your greasy self from our latte experience?” I actually prayed someone would say it, but it never came. Nor did my foul mouthed ghetto Irish, New York accent explosion of profane rebuttal ever get the chance to unleash itself, and send Biff and Lovie scrambling to the safety of the family Lexis. At least that’s how I had it all fantasized in my brain. Just as well. I blew out the clogged fuel port, which left a great gasoline taste in my mouth, and I was off like a prom dress. The mechanical gods had mercy on me and lobbed me an underhand soft ball. “TRIUMPH INDEED” was the thought that rattled around in my brain, as I puffed my chest and roared off, leaving a cloud of disdain for my onlookers to smell. Once up in the mountains, it never got above 65 degrees, which as you all know, an air cooled twin just loves. My Bonny makes about 50 ponies, which is not a lot by today’s standards. This means you need to really use the gearbox. The average bikes today are producing 100 + horses and vintage riders have to use every trick to keep up. Acceleration on downhill grades, aggressive downshifting, clutch “feathering” in the corners. It’s tough being the oldest guy out there. Then between Suches and Blairsville, it happened. Steep downhill, hard deceleration into a right hander, a handful of front brake to corner right and 30% back brake to make up the difference and my right toe goes down and keeps going down, no back brake! Holy sh*t stains Batman! I instinctively mash my left toe into the shifter and power shift down from 3rd to 2nd with minimal skid and remarkably make the turn. Back on the side of the road for the second time in a day. Remember, I am ‘master mechanic’ this day (or just lucky). Diagnosis: rear master cylinder, empty like a stripper’s retirement account. The next car that comes by has a pint of # 3 brake fluid and gives me a couple ounces. Hello lady luck. She must sleep with the mechanical gods. Problem is, the master cylinder seal gasket is all torn up. I literally make a new cover gasket for the master out of a folded index card and a knife from my pocket. I’ve cheated the mechanical ‘dysfunction’ gods twice in one day! When done, words cannot describe the elation I feel as I ride off. Cheated the breakdown gods twice, I want to thump my chest and scream to the world “I am a frickin’ mechanical phenom”! I am THE MAN!! If it is broken, I CAN FIX IT. If the national debt were a transmission, I’d balance the sucker in two days! Then reality, as it has a habit of doing, sets in. Remember, the mechanical gods have a way of telling you things. Don’t be too cocky. I make it home, but my garage door won’t open. Key code, car clicker, house button, NOTHIN’! I’ve triumphed twice today. Think I’ll take that one on next weekend. We can park in the driveway this week. Besides, I wouldn’t want to make the mechanical gods think I knew it all; truck is out of warranty, you know. Remember, “Ride fun, ride safe, and when life lets you, ride Full Throttle”. |