Have you ever been hungry?
Have you ever wanted something, you just didn’t know what it was?
Have you ever felt abandoned, lost beyond hope, or like you can never get back home?
I felt this way in England twice now.
The first time was in 1969. I woke on my first day in London on the day they had first landed on the moon. I missed the bus to wherever we were supposed to go that day. I had flown into Heathrow early that morning so I was up all the night before. I knew I had missed something besides the bus. The events that were occurring on the moon were what I had dreamed of all my life. I used to get up early each launch day and watch Walter Cronkite as the likes of Sam Shepard and John Glenn were thrust into space for our bid to reach the moon. Whatever, I am drifting, I felt like shit.
The second time was in 1973. I woke up the morning after we took our little jaunt across the English Channel that included our midnight search for the elusive Lakenheath Air Base. It turned out to be near the town of Brandon, Suffolk, England. I thought it would be by the city of Lakenheath, no? That may be why that first guy sent us in the wrong direction last night.
Anybody who knew me when I was a kid knows that there were certain foods that I just would not eat. Salad, hamburgers, ice cream, cheese, the list goes on. It is not true today. I love all those foods now. The one thing I really didn’t like, as far as a particular genre goes, is Chinese food. We would go to Chinatown each year to see the parade in San Francisco as guests of Tom, the owner of the little store on California and 2nd Avenue. The food they made was really Chinese, and I had a certain distaste for almost anything from there. Except won ton soup, I love war won ton soup.
Well I didn’t feel well to start with, I felt like a stranger in a strange land, and then they all wanted to go for Chinese food. I’m pouring it all out here folks. It was like the last straw that broke the Camel’s back. But, I sucked it all in and went with the flow. I ended up having a great time with all my newfound pals from Lakenheath. It didn’t matter that I was from a different place anymore I now had friends. And I was eating Chinese food.
We all went to see a local motorcycle fiend, just a local bloke who had quite a collection of antique motorcycles. I really got a taste of the dry English humor that day. I actually got to put my hand on the tank of an antique mono-cylinder bike that was actually idling. It was awesome because it idles at 450 RPM, wow.
My best suggestion to anybody who finds themselves somewhere that he or she just doesn’t want to be is to just suck it up. I met some of the most interesting people I have ever encountered just after I changed my attitude about being somewhere I really didn’t want to be.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
On Borrowed Time, Part Five; Lost
I am lost.
We are lost.
I know that there is more than one Air Base in England, but where is Lakenheath? Calvin and I have stopped on many occasions and asked how to get to Lakenheath AB but it seems that each time we follow those directions, we go too far, only to stop and ask again, and again we are told to continue?
It is night time, my biological clock has gone the way of the dodo because we are in a new time zone. I can't even remember which side of the rode to be on. The streets are almost empty and yet when we ask for directions the people are very helpful but the information just doesn't jive?
Have I entered the Twilight Zone?
Oh, I just want to go to sleep and wake up somewhere safe.
One young fellow we stopped to ask said it was that way, pointing in the direction we are travelling. "Just turn left at the white church," He Said.
He was curious though, he asked us how we were doing on the bikes. His friend asked how fast are we were traveling, the speed limit is 55 now, the oil embargo had taken a stronghold and England was hit the worst.
We told him that we compromised, the Norton that Calvin was on would start to vibrate at about 80, and the Kawasaki I was on would just stop vibrating at 80. So it was fine for both of us at 80 MPH. Both of the boys looked surprised, they reminded us that the speed limit is 55 and to watch out for the police. They weren’t police, they were just a couple of kids concerned for our trip.
On we traveled, looking for the white church.
Another 50 miles or so and we stopped to ask someone else. This time I was nearly unconscious so Calvin did all the asking. I was having trouble with the language anyway.
Again, Calvin was upset with the natives. "These people don't know how to give directions," He commented.
"What?" I asked, trying to figure what made him so mad this time.
"We are going in the right direction," He confessed. "It seems that they just don't have any idea as to how far it is to the Air Base. All the directions were good so far, except for that one guy that sent us in the WRONG direction, but I think they just don't tell you how far it is to the damn white church."
Calvin was referring to the first person we asked, who had sent us in the wrong direction. we only went about 50 miles out of our way and that is why we were no longer on the main thoroughfare.
I was so tired I missed the white church. We made it though. Calvin found the right barracks and we crashed somewhere in the vicinity of Lakenheath Air Base, England.
They say it is because I am a Virgo, I was once told I will have the tendency to fall asleep while making love. Whatever it is, I have it. I get groggy and BANG!
I hate it.
We are lost.
I know that there is more than one Air Base in England, but where is Lakenheath? Calvin and I have stopped on many occasions and asked how to get to Lakenheath AB but it seems that each time we follow those directions, we go too far, only to stop and ask again, and again we are told to continue?
It is night time, my biological clock has gone the way of the dodo because we are in a new time zone. I can't even remember which side of the rode to be on. The streets are almost empty and yet when we ask for directions the people are very helpful but the information just doesn't jive?
Have I entered the Twilight Zone?
Oh, I just want to go to sleep and wake up somewhere safe.
One young fellow we stopped to ask said it was that way, pointing in the direction we are travelling. "Just turn left at the white church," He Said.
He was curious though, he asked us how we were doing on the bikes. His friend asked how fast are we were traveling, the speed limit is 55 now, the oil embargo had taken a stronghold and England was hit the worst.
We told him that we compromised, the Norton that Calvin was on would start to vibrate at about 80, and the Kawasaki I was on would just stop vibrating at 80. So it was fine for both of us at 80 MPH. Both of the boys looked surprised, they reminded us that the speed limit is 55 and to watch out for the police. They weren’t police, they were just a couple of kids concerned for our trip.
On we traveled, looking for the white church.
Another 50 miles or so and we stopped to ask someone else. This time I was nearly unconscious so Calvin did all the asking. I was having trouble with the language anyway.
Again, Calvin was upset with the natives. "These people don't know how to give directions," He commented.
"What?" I asked, trying to figure what made him so mad this time.
"We are going in the right direction," He confessed. "It seems that they just don't have any idea as to how far it is to the Air Base. All the directions were good so far, except for that one guy that sent us in the WRONG direction, but I think they just don't tell you how far it is to the damn white church."
Calvin was referring to the first person we asked, who had sent us in the wrong direction. we only went about 50 miles out of our way and that is why we were no longer on the main thoroughfare.
I was so tired I missed the white church. We made it though. Calvin found the right barracks and we crashed somewhere in the vicinity of Lakenheath Air Base, England.
They say it is because I am a Virgo, I was once told I will have the tendency to fall asleep while making love. Whatever it is, I have it. I get groggy and BANG!
I hate it.
Friday, December 25, 2009
On Borrowed Time; Part Four; Blown Fuse
Calvin and I had just got off the ferry from Belgium and are heading for Lakenheath AB in England. We have just been dismissed after a little run in with the border agent and it is difficult trying to remember which side of the road to ride on. So far riding in England is just like the TV series “The Avengers” of the ‘60s. We were in the midst of the first oil embargo, gas is very scarce in Europe, those of us stationed in Germany are allotted gas stamps based on the type of vehicle we own, but civilians were pretty much out of luck, if they could not pay the price of gas, and it was expensive, you either sold your car or you just didn’t go for trips. The end result was that the streets were mostly deserted of traffic.
I just noticed my headlight was out, it had turned dark, and we don’t really know where we were. I just pulled over to the side of the road, on the left that is, and I was about to open the seat of Steven’s Kawasaki to see if the fuse blew.
“Is there something wrong?” Calvin asks me, “Why did you pull over?”
“My headlight is out,” I said, with a little irritation in my voice. I wasn’t mad at Calvin. I had noticed that I was getting a short temper. I had not been taking things in stride like I did when my ’57 Chevy used to give me problems back in Saratoga. I went to high school in Saratoga. California, not the Racetrack town on the east coast. My Saratoga was the home of Paul Masson, a little winery near San Jose.
As I opened the fuse holder I knew I was in for trouble. There was no place I could see where I could go in and buy a fuse. Not even a gas station.
I had been in London once back in 1969, I had just woken up after a grueling flight from Oakland, we had been up all night and coming through Heathrow was a lot like what we had just gone through getting off the ferry. Anyway, I had just woken up to find that Neil Armstrong had just landed on the moon. Now, I was standing on the side of the road and I didn’t see any of those little shops like I did in London, where you could go in and buy auto parts. All we had was a fish and chips takeout. And we were not hungry.
“What are you going to do?” Calvin looked worried. “Where are you going to get a fuse around here, and at this time of night?”
“I know.” I reassured him, “I’ll be right back.” As I entered the fish and chips.
The inside of the shop was quaint. There was nothing fancy about the little shop, in fact it was very plain. I had no idea how long this family who owned shop had been supplying fried fish and potatoes to the locals here, near the port that takes travelers to the mainland. Being on the main road was an advantage I guess, but there was no place to park. There were two benched tables in the shop, against the far wall, not much room for customers to go and eat out. I think most of the clientele were from foot traffic, you know, locals only. As I entered, a very young woman, almost a girl, probably the owner’s daughter, went in the back. I felt that they were protecting her from the stranger who just walked in by having her go behind the wall with the pass-through window for food
“Can I help you?” an older woman asked me, probably the mom, as I did a quick look around the shop, and as I closed the door behind me.
“I was wondering…my motorcycle just broke down…my headlight is out, do you have a little piece of aluminum foil I could use for my fuse?”
Astonishment appeared on the woman’s face. And the man’s face as well, as I looked from her to him and back to her again. I’ll save you the detailed conversation that ensued over the next 20 minutes. I have never had so much trouble trying to get myself understood. Looking back I think it was just culture and not language that was the barrier, we all spoke English, they spoke the Queen’s English, I spoke the American version.
I have been lost in foreign countries before. Everyone tries to help. The language barrier is not really a barrier, even if none of the words are the same between you and the natives. One thing I have noticed in my travels though, everyone is helpful. It seems that today your neighbors hate you. It seems that getting to work is harder and harder each day because everyone want to outdo you, almost on every level. But when you are a stranger in a different land people notice you and are kind to you. My wife Norma and I were stranded in Watts one Friday evening. we were out of gas and my battery of my truck was dead. But the people who lived there, one of the toughest neighborhoods in California, were not just kind, they wanted to help me in any way they could. And they did.
Both that family who ran that fish and chips and I got an education that night. I learned that the English call it tin foil. They learned that it really is aluminum. I learned that they say “al-U-mini-um,” They learned that you could wrap a fuse in it and get on you way in an emergency.
Even the young girl, the daughter, helped with the translation.
The man went upstairs to their kitchen to fetch the foil.
I went out to greet Calvin with my trophy, held out as a peace offering.
He got the idea when I got the Kawasaki running with its headlight again. I don’t think I shut up about my little adventure to the fish and chips store for quite a long time. I tried to tell him about the girl I met inside, but he just wanted to get going. I don’t blame him, he waited outside, watching the motorcycles for what seemed an eternity I am sure.
Again, we are back to our travels, the blown fuse is behind us now, in more ways than one.
Our next adventure would be to find the Air Base in Lakenheath.
You wouldn’t think the English could lose something that big.
I just noticed my headlight was out, it had turned dark, and we don’t really know where we were. I just pulled over to the side of the road, on the left that is, and I was about to open the seat of Steven’s Kawasaki to see if the fuse blew.
“Is there something wrong?” Calvin asks me, “Why did you pull over?”
“My headlight is out,” I said, with a little irritation in my voice. I wasn’t mad at Calvin. I had noticed that I was getting a short temper. I had not been taking things in stride like I did when my ’57 Chevy used to give me problems back in Saratoga. I went to high school in Saratoga. California, not the Racetrack town on the east coast. My Saratoga was the home of Paul Masson, a little winery near San Jose.
As I opened the fuse holder I knew I was in for trouble. There was no place I could see where I could go in and buy a fuse. Not even a gas station.
I had been in London once back in 1969, I had just woken up after a grueling flight from Oakland, we had been up all night and coming through Heathrow was a lot like what we had just gone through getting off the ferry. Anyway, I had just woken up to find that Neil Armstrong had just landed on the moon. Now, I was standing on the side of the road and I didn’t see any of those little shops like I did in London, where you could go in and buy auto parts. All we had was a fish and chips takeout. And we were not hungry.
“What are you going to do?” Calvin looked worried. “Where are you going to get a fuse around here, and at this time of night?”
“I know.” I reassured him, “I’ll be right back.” As I entered the fish and chips.
The inside of the shop was quaint. There was nothing fancy about the little shop, in fact it was very plain. I had no idea how long this family who owned shop had been supplying fried fish and potatoes to the locals here, near the port that takes travelers to the mainland. Being on the main road was an advantage I guess, but there was no place to park. There were two benched tables in the shop, against the far wall, not much room for customers to go and eat out. I think most of the clientele were from foot traffic, you know, locals only. As I entered, a very young woman, almost a girl, probably the owner’s daughter, went in the back. I felt that they were protecting her from the stranger who just walked in by having her go behind the wall with the pass-through window for food
“Can I help you?” an older woman asked me, probably the mom, as I did a quick look around the shop, and as I closed the door behind me.
“I was wondering…my motorcycle just broke down…my headlight is out, do you have a little piece of aluminum foil I could use for my fuse?”
Astonishment appeared on the woman’s face. And the man’s face as well, as I looked from her to him and back to her again. I’ll save you the detailed conversation that ensued over the next 20 minutes. I have never had so much trouble trying to get myself understood. Looking back I think it was just culture and not language that was the barrier, we all spoke English, they spoke the Queen’s English, I spoke the American version.
I have been lost in foreign countries before. Everyone tries to help. The language barrier is not really a barrier, even if none of the words are the same between you and the natives. One thing I have noticed in my travels though, everyone is helpful. It seems that today your neighbors hate you. It seems that getting to work is harder and harder each day because everyone want to outdo you, almost on every level. But when you are a stranger in a different land people notice you and are kind to you. My wife Norma and I were stranded in Watts one Friday evening. we were out of gas and my battery of my truck was dead. But the people who lived there, one of the toughest neighborhoods in California, were not just kind, they wanted to help me in any way they could. And they did.
Both that family who ran that fish and chips and I got an education that night. I learned that the English call it tin foil. They learned that it really is aluminum. I learned that they say “al-U-mini-um,” They learned that you could wrap a fuse in it and get on you way in an emergency.
Even the young girl, the daughter, helped with the translation.
The man went upstairs to their kitchen to fetch the foil.
I went out to greet Calvin with my trophy, held out as a peace offering.
He got the idea when I got the Kawasaki running with its headlight again. I don’t think I shut up about my little adventure to the fish and chips store for quite a long time. I tried to tell him about the girl I met inside, but he just wanted to get going. I don’t blame him, he waited outside, watching the motorcycles for what seemed an eternity I am sure.
Again, we are back to our travels, the blown fuse is behind us now, in more ways than one.
Our next adventure would be to find the Air Base in Lakenheath.
You wouldn’t think the English could lose something that big.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
On Borrowed Time; Part Three; English Channel Crossing
Its off to England on borrowed motorcycles, Calvin and I just left Bitburg AB and are heading to Lakenheath AB in England to return Mike’s Norton 850 after he left it with Calvin to make repairs on his ailing motor that had broken down on his trip to Germany and the Nürburgring.
I was riding Steven’s ’73 Kawasaki 750 triple, one of the first superbikes of the ‘70s. Kawasaki made four versions of the triple in 1973 ranging from a little more than a moped with their 250, a handsome 350, their wild and crazy 500 also known as the Mach III (this one was best known for its ability to pull wheelies at any time), and of course the H2 model, AKA Mach IV, detuned from its original 72 horsepower for ’73 at only 71 horsepower generated from its 3 cylinder, oil injected, two stroke, air cooled, awesome screamer of a motor. There are several YouTube videos available to see how this bike rides but the one titled “Kawasaki H2 Ride” gives the best feel for the bike and when I watch it I yearn for my old bike back. Yes, when I returned to the states I bought one for myself.
Google map shows the trip via the roads available today as 435 miles, in 7 hours and 21 minutes. Just like the trip from LA to San Francisco with two exceptions. First is the Chunnel via the train under the English Channel, from Calais to Folkestone. The other exception is the toll road in England. In 1973, just after the first oil embargo, there were no toll roads and the only way across the channel was to take the ferry, unless you fly or swim. Those two alternates were out so we went to Oostende, in Belgium, and boarded the ferry.
Riding a motorcycle onto a ferry is a piece of cake. I take the ferry in Newport Beach often just to get to Balboa Island; I just like the boat trip even though it is less than a mile across the bay. On that little ferry I park to the side and they park cars next to me, motorcycles are small enough to not affect the deck space on the ferry. Getting aboard one of the huge ferries used to cross the English Channel in service during the ‘70s was another thing. We parked Steven’s Kawasaki and Mike’s Norton side by side on the drive through car deck and climbed the steps to the lounge deck to watch the sunset as we pulled out from the port.
Our arrival in England was where the true adventure starts. The first hurdle was getting through immigration and customs. Being stationed in Europe military personnel are issued a DD form 80. The form 80 is your written permission to cross borders anywhere in the free state of Western Europe. Back then you couldn’t get into East Germany with it, that was verboten.
Calvin and I showed our form 80’s to the immigration and customs agent as we left the ferryboat and it appeared to us that this guy was from the Twilight Zone or something. I think he was the only immigration or customs agent who had never heard of a form 80. Looking back now, I think he was just acting, I hope so anyway. After we identified ourselves properly, he acted like we didn’t have the correct paperwork or something. I ended up reading the clauses that gave us permission to travel on the form as long as we identified ourselves with military ID cards to him. It was so weird.
During our negotiations to enter England, I offered the Twilight Zone Border Crossing agent my passport. It has been my experience with all of the border crossing agents so far that passports were unacceptable for travel because we were military personnel. Showing his distaste for my forthright attitude, and since Calvin was on a Norton motorcycle, made in dear old England, I was dismissed with a sneer as the agent turned his attention to Calvin.
WARNING: If you are a Norton, Triumph, or BSA owner, or if you just have the appreciation for these motorcycles, or if you are British or English, please understand that the next part of this story is not the opinion of the author. The opinions expressed herein are the opinions of others; this is merely a factual tale of people I have known. I am using this event in order to build my story from fact and the opinion is included here as it occurred.
PLEASE DO NOT SEND ME HATE MAIL; I LIKE NORTON MOTORCYLCES. REALLY I DO.
“Now here is a real motorcycle,” as the agent addressed Calvin, “How do you like this fine English motorcycle young man?”
“It is a piece of shit,” Calvin responded, “I would much rather be riding that Kawasaki,” As he pointed my way.
I figured we were sunk. How can you be so rude to a customs agent, I thought. I really figured he was going to detain us. And the trip has gone so well so far.
The custom agent sneered again, as he tossed our papers to us. He moved up to the next car in line. To my disbelief, we were through and in England.
“Why did you say that?” I asked Calvin.
“That guy is a jerk,” he responded, “I didn’t like the way he treated you. And I think he was giving us a hard time over the papers.”
As we started our bikes and moved out I was thinking that we were lucky to get through that without being busted for being rude in the face of an Englishman.
Calvin explained it further to me later. He was upset because the English are so proud of their products and their motorcycles are no exception. He felt that English bikes are nowhere near the quality as Japanese two-wheel products are.
“I merely told him how I felt at the time,” Calvin explained to me.
So now we are in England, on the left side of the street. It seems so strange. I found myself really concentrating on which lane to ride in because the reference of the steering wheel was not available on the bike.
Another strange thing is that the road was empty. I felt we were in an episode of The Avengers, remember the ‘60s era English TV show about the two secret agents, there was never any traffic on the streets, nor was there any other people on the sidewalks, or in any of the train stations or the likes. Weird.
Another strange thing is I don’t see my headlight; the street is dark in front of me.
Oh shit.
I was riding Steven’s ’73 Kawasaki 750 triple, one of the first superbikes of the ‘70s. Kawasaki made four versions of the triple in 1973 ranging from a little more than a moped with their 250, a handsome 350, their wild and crazy 500 also known as the Mach III (this one was best known for its ability to pull wheelies at any time), and of course the H2 model, AKA Mach IV, detuned from its original 72 horsepower for ’73 at only 71 horsepower generated from its 3 cylinder, oil injected, two stroke, air cooled, awesome screamer of a motor. There are several YouTube videos available to see how this bike rides but the one titled “Kawasaki H2 Ride” gives the best feel for the bike and when I watch it I yearn for my old bike back. Yes, when I returned to the states I bought one for myself.
Google map shows the trip via the roads available today as 435 miles, in 7 hours and 21 minutes. Just like the trip from LA to San Francisco with two exceptions. First is the Chunnel via the train under the English Channel, from Calais to Folkestone. The other exception is the toll road in England. In 1973, just after the first oil embargo, there were no toll roads and the only way across the channel was to take the ferry, unless you fly or swim. Those two alternates were out so we went to Oostende, in Belgium, and boarded the ferry.
Riding a motorcycle onto a ferry is a piece of cake. I take the ferry in Newport Beach often just to get to Balboa Island; I just like the boat trip even though it is less than a mile across the bay. On that little ferry I park to the side and they park cars next to me, motorcycles are small enough to not affect the deck space on the ferry. Getting aboard one of the huge ferries used to cross the English Channel in service during the ‘70s was another thing. We parked Steven’s Kawasaki and Mike’s Norton side by side on the drive through car deck and climbed the steps to the lounge deck to watch the sunset as we pulled out from the port.
Our arrival in England was where the true adventure starts. The first hurdle was getting through immigration and customs. Being stationed in Europe military personnel are issued a DD form 80. The form 80 is your written permission to cross borders anywhere in the free state of Western Europe. Back then you couldn’t get into East Germany with it, that was verboten.
Calvin and I showed our form 80’s to the immigration and customs agent as we left the ferryboat and it appeared to us that this guy was from the Twilight Zone or something. I think he was the only immigration or customs agent who had never heard of a form 80. Looking back now, I think he was just acting, I hope so anyway. After we identified ourselves properly, he acted like we didn’t have the correct paperwork or something. I ended up reading the clauses that gave us permission to travel on the form as long as we identified ourselves with military ID cards to him. It was so weird.
During our negotiations to enter England, I offered the Twilight Zone Border Crossing agent my passport. It has been my experience with all of the border crossing agents so far that passports were unacceptable for travel because we were military personnel. Showing his distaste for my forthright attitude, and since Calvin was on a Norton motorcycle, made in dear old England, I was dismissed with a sneer as the agent turned his attention to Calvin.
WARNING: If you are a Norton, Triumph, or BSA owner, or if you just have the appreciation for these motorcycles, or if you are British or English, please understand that the next part of this story is not the opinion of the author. The opinions expressed herein are the opinions of others; this is merely a factual tale of people I have known. I am using this event in order to build my story from fact and the opinion is included here as it occurred.
PLEASE DO NOT SEND ME HATE MAIL; I LIKE NORTON MOTORCYLCES. REALLY I DO.
“Now here is a real motorcycle,” as the agent addressed Calvin, “How do you like this fine English motorcycle young man?”
“It is a piece of shit,” Calvin responded, “I would much rather be riding that Kawasaki,” As he pointed my way.
I figured we were sunk. How can you be so rude to a customs agent, I thought. I really figured he was going to detain us. And the trip has gone so well so far.
The custom agent sneered again, as he tossed our papers to us. He moved up to the next car in line. To my disbelief, we were through and in England.
“Why did you say that?” I asked Calvin.
“That guy is a jerk,” he responded, “I didn’t like the way he treated you. And I think he was giving us a hard time over the papers.”
As we started our bikes and moved out I was thinking that we were lucky to get through that without being busted for being rude in the face of an Englishman.
Calvin explained it further to me later. He was upset because the English are so proud of their products and their motorcycles are no exception. He felt that English bikes are nowhere near the quality as Japanese two-wheel products are.
“I merely told him how I felt at the time,” Calvin explained to me.
So now we are in England, on the left side of the street. It seems so strange. I found myself really concentrating on which lane to ride in because the reference of the steering wheel was not available on the bike.
Another strange thing is that the road was empty. I felt we were in an episode of The Avengers, remember the ‘60s era English TV show about the two secret agents, there was never any traffic on the streets, nor was there any other people on the sidewalks, or in any of the train stations or the likes. Weird.
Another strange thing is I don’t see my headlight; the street is dark in front of me.
Oh shit.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
On Borrowed Time; Part Two; Setting the Pace
I have been as far north as Copenhagen and as far south as Rome, I have been into France and Belgium, Monaco, Luxembourg, Liechtenstein, Andorra, Spain, but most of my travels throughout West Germany were in my 1961 VW with the sliding vinyl top. The car is gone now; it had outlived its usefulness. Insurance is an expensive proposition in Germany, but for the most part my little VW couldn’t pass the annual safety check any longer. So I packaged up the motor and sent it to myself in California. Then I junked the rest.
Oh yeah, I had to pay DM40, about $20, to have it removed from the road.
After I retired my car, and after I spent the time to resurrect my newly acquired dead Honda motorcycle, I did the rest of my traveling in Germany on my motorcycle, over many varied road conditions and through some hazardous weather, I survived it all. When I rode, I didn’t have any fancy leathers or motorcycle boots, my only gear was a slightly used orange and black shoei helmet, a flight jacket and a pair of Air Force gloves.
Once Steven and I rode south to Ramstein AB, near the French border to see some old friends we went to tech school with, and we were so cold when we got there we tried to thaw our hands in the sinks at the barracks with warm water. It was so painful; I could only describe it as a brain freeze of the hand. Times two, plus two feet!
Then there was the time I had one of my roommates on the back of my bike for a short trip to the base housing when to my surprise the throttle stuck open; we ended up doing an awesome wheelie with him hanging off the back, his butt less than a foot off the pavement as he was holding onto the license plate frame. After we went down, some fellow started yelling at me for doing a stupid stunt like that. I was lying on the ground with the motorcycle on my leg, begging for help to get it off of me. I asked him if he really thought I had done that on purpose. Duah!
“Help me get this thing off me please,” I asked him after he calmed down.
Three days later I checked myself in to the hospital when I could not walk and the wound on my right knee had turned green. That one really hurt when they had to scrub the crap out of my knee using a fingernail brush. I think I was being punished for having a motorcycle accident. In retrospect, I should have told the medic I had fallen down the stairs.
Now I have the chance to ride a motorcycle to England and cross the English Channel on the ferryboat. What do I have to do to get ready? First I had to put my papers in for the time off, in the military it’s called ‘leave’. We were planning on taking one week of leave to make the trip with a little sightseeing on the way back. We would need cash, cold weather gear, gas stamps, aw heck lets just go and don’t worry about taking the right stuff.
The parts came in from Mike, the owner of the Norton, and Calvin made the needed repairs to his bike. We had to test ride it of course and so we made several trips together around the Eiffel area of Germany. One of my favorite trips was south to Trier and the Mosel River, turn northeast and cruise up to Koblenz along the river canyon lined mostly with grapes the locals were growing for the wine from that region. Then ride back to Bitburg through the hills of Germany. There was an Autobahn that was good for part of the way back but the best part of the return ride was through the switchbacks that would rise and descend very lush hills through farmland that has been fertile for thousands of years.
Riding with Calvin was always interesting because if he sensed anything wrong with the bike he was on, he would stop along side of the road and check it out or make repairs right there if needed. I learned a lot about how to be aware of what you are riding and how to look for problems before they become serious. Stopping along the side of the road in Germany is commonplace. It was normal to see a family sedan parked in the most picturesque and precarious places and the family out of the car having a picnic lunch. Some times you had to react fast to avoid hitting the parked BMW or Mercedes.
The roads along the Mosel River were very well maintained, as are all the roads in Germany. The city streets were well lit at night, the rule was to drive in the city with just your parking lights. Outside the city, the overhead orange glow lights would disappear and you turned on your headlights to light your way, some cars had multiple spot lights mounted on the front grill that came on with the flick of the high beam lever on the steering column. One of the guys I hung with rode a BMW R75; at night he would always lead the pack because when he hit his high beams it was like daylight had taken over. In addition, to guide your way at night, the roads were lined with little white signs marked with reflectors. They were nicknamed “cognac poles.” I figure it was because if you had too much cognac the poles ceased to function for those who followed behind you.
The German road crews had large machines to wash the cognac poles and as you approached one as it was working you could hear the machine performing its task. They were mostly a hazard in the daytime because it blocked the roadway.
There were lots of other hazards to avoid in Germany besides parked sedans and cognac pole washers. It was common to find farm tractors with little reflective triangles warning of their presence, hugging the right shoulder, that would move at a blaring 8 klicks, about 5MPH. Everyone knows that there was no speed limit on the Autobahn, but on all other roads it was 100 klicks, 60 MPH. Everywhere you went the main thoroughfare was considered the “priority road” and side road traffic had to yield. On some roads there were lane restrictions and speed limits for minimum speed.
All in all, once you got used to driving in Germany, it was a great pleasure. Wake up America, our roads are scrap compared to those in Europe. My opinion, the Swiss have the best.
However, the best part was that I was in Germany and each and every village was picturesque. My favorite was the “onion” domed churches; you could see the dome on the tower of the church in each town from far away. Anyone who is more familiar with them is welcome to comment or give input as to what religion it was or why they used that particular “onion” shape.
The big day came and we got ready to leave for merry old England. Being military people and since we were so young, what we packed fit into a bag less than one cubic foot. Toothbrush, toothpaste, a change of underwear, maybe a shirt, and the rest we carried on our back. No need for saddle bags for our trip. Riding side by side, Calvin and I were off on our adventure that would include massive language barriers (in England?), obnoxious border agents, getting lost the hard way, and even a little time among the rocks of Stonehenge and Soho.
Oh yeah, I had to pay DM40, about $20, to have it removed from the road.
After I retired my car, and after I spent the time to resurrect my newly acquired dead Honda motorcycle, I did the rest of my traveling in Germany on my motorcycle, over many varied road conditions and through some hazardous weather, I survived it all. When I rode, I didn’t have any fancy leathers or motorcycle boots, my only gear was a slightly used orange and black shoei helmet, a flight jacket and a pair of Air Force gloves.
Once Steven and I rode south to Ramstein AB, near the French border to see some old friends we went to tech school with, and we were so cold when we got there we tried to thaw our hands in the sinks at the barracks with warm water. It was so painful; I could only describe it as a brain freeze of the hand. Times two, plus two feet!
Then there was the time I had one of my roommates on the back of my bike for a short trip to the base housing when to my surprise the throttle stuck open; we ended up doing an awesome wheelie with him hanging off the back, his butt less than a foot off the pavement as he was holding onto the license plate frame. After we went down, some fellow started yelling at me for doing a stupid stunt like that. I was lying on the ground with the motorcycle on my leg, begging for help to get it off of me. I asked him if he really thought I had done that on purpose. Duah!
“Help me get this thing off me please,” I asked him after he calmed down.
Three days later I checked myself in to the hospital when I could not walk and the wound on my right knee had turned green. That one really hurt when they had to scrub the crap out of my knee using a fingernail brush. I think I was being punished for having a motorcycle accident. In retrospect, I should have told the medic I had fallen down the stairs.
Now I have the chance to ride a motorcycle to England and cross the English Channel on the ferryboat. What do I have to do to get ready? First I had to put my papers in for the time off, in the military it’s called ‘leave’. We were planning on taking one week of leave to make the trip with a little sightseeing on the way back. We would need cash, cold weather gear, gas stamps, aw heck lets just go and don’t worry about taking the right stuff.
The parts came in from Mike, the owner of the Norton, and Calvin made the needed repairs to his bike. We had to test ride it of course and so we made several trips together around the Eiffel area of Germany. One of my favorite trips was south to Trier and the Mosel River, turn northeast and cruise up to Koblenz along the river canyon lined mostly with grapes the locals were growing for the wine from that region. Then ride back to Bitburg through the hills of Germany. There was an Autobahn that was good for part of the way back but the best part of the return ride was through the switchbacks that would rise and descend very lush hills through farmland that has been fertile for thousands of years.
Riding with Calvin was always interesting because if he sensed anything wrong with the bike he was on, he would stop along side of the road and check it out or make repairs right there if needed. I learned a lot about how to be aware of what you are riding and how to look for problems before they become serious. Stopping along the side of the road in Germany is commonplace. It was normal to see a family sedan parked in the most picturesque and precarious places and the family out of the car having a picnic lunch. Some times you had to react fast to avoid hitting the parked BMW or Mercedes.
The roads along the Mosel River were very well maintained, as are all the roads in Germany. The city streets were well lit at night, the rule was to drive in the city with just your parking lights. Outside the city, the overhead orange glow lights would disappear and you turned on your headlights to light your way, some cars had multiple spot lights mounted on the front grill that came on with the flick of the high beam lever on the steering column. One of the guys I hung with rode a BMW R75; at night he would always lead the pack because when he hit his high beams it was like daylight had taken over. In addition, to guide your way at night, the roads were lined with little white signs marked with reflectors. They were nicknamed “cognac poles.” I figure it was because if you had too much cognac the poles ceased to function for those who followed behind you.
The German road crews had large machines to wash the cognac poles and as you approached one as it was working you could hear the machine performing its task. They were mostly a hazard in the daytime because it blocked the roadway.
There were lots of other hazards to avoid in Germany besides parked sedans and cognac pole washers. It was common to find farm tractors with little reflective triangles warning of their presence, hugging the right shoulder, that would move at a blaring 8 klicks, about 5MPH. Everyone knows that there was no speed limit on the Autobahn, but on all other roads it was 100 klicks, 60 MPH. Everywhere you went the main thoroughfare was considered the “priority road” and side road traffic had to yield. On some roads there were lane restrictions and speed limits for minimum speed.
All in all, once you got used to driving in Germany, it was a great pleasure. Wake up America, our roads are scrap compared to those in Europe. My opinion, the Swiss have the best.
However, the best part was that I was in Germany and each and every village was picturesque. My favorite was the “onion” domed churches; you could see the dome on the tower of the church in each town from far away. Anyone who is more familiar with them is welcome to comment or give input as to what religion it was or why they used that particular “onion” shape.
The big day came and we got ready to leave for merry old England. Being military people and since we were so young, what we packed fit into a bag less than one cubic foot. Toothbrush, toothpaste, a change of underwear, maybe a shirt, and the rest we carried on our back. No need for saddle bags for our trip. Riding side by side, Calvin and I were off on our adventure that would include massive language barriers (in England?), obnoxious border agents, getting lost the hard way, and even a little time among the rocks of Stonehenge and Soho.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
On Borrowed Time Part 1; I'll Go!
I remember that it was a Sunday evening. I had just walked over to the FMS barracks to see what was going on with my motorcycle buddies. There were more people there that night than we had ever had before. I asked Steven what was going on, there was two motorcycles there that I was not familiar with. A Norton and a Triumph, English bikes that had brought two blokes over from Lakenheath AB in England.
Mike and Pete were over from England to join in the festivities at the Nürburgring, that weekend there was a fantasticlly large motorcycle race and people had come from all over the world to see it. Mike’s Norton had problems while they were at the track and so he and Pete rode over to Bitburg AB to see if they could find help from one of us Americans. Calvin took a look and after pulling one of the side covers off pronounced it fixable if he had the parts but that Mike should not try to ride it home or he would probablly lose the engine.
Here is the link to the racetrack if you want to check it out:
http://www.nurburgring.org.uk/
There was a dilemma though of how to get the bike back to them. It was easy enough for Mike to ride with Pete on the Triumph but how to get the bike back to them in England? I volunteered to ride over with Calvin who sounded like he was willing to fix the bike after Mike sent him the parts and ride it to Lakenheath to return it. It seemed awkward though for Calvin to ride on the back of my 450 all the way home.
In the back of my mind I thought I heard Steven volunteer to ride over on his Kawasaki. Steven’s bike was the first Japanese Superbike and could easily handle the trip. A lot better than my little dual sport scooter anyway.
“No,” Calvin was trying to tell me I had it wrong.
“What, Did I hear you correctly Calvin?” I asked as I turned my eyes to Steven.
“Did you say I could use your bike?” I asked Steven.
“Oh sure,” he said, in his shy and humble accent, I can still hear the tone in his voice today, “You are welcome to use my bike if you go with Calvin.”
Here is where the camera zooms in on my face in disbelief. Steven was going to let me use his motorcycle even though the Air Force made a big deal since one of our mates had an accident on a borrowed motorcycle. It was verboten to ride someone else’s bike. Now Steven was going to let me ride all the way to England and back, a one-week trip, on his Super Kawasaki 750.
WOW!
I could not wait.
Mike and Pete were over from England to join in the festivities at the Nürburgring, that weekend there was a fantasticlly large motorcycle race and people had come from all over the world to see it. Mike’s Norton had problems while they were at the track and so he and Pete rode over to Bitburg AB to see if they could find help from one of us Americans. Calvin took a look and after pulling one of the side covers off pronounced it fixable if he had the parts but that Mike should not try to ride it home or he would probablly lose the engine.
Here is the link to the racetrack if you want to check it out:
http://www.nurburgring.org.uk/
There was a dilemma though of how to get the bike back to them. It was easy enough for Mike to ride with Pete on the Triumph but how to get the bike back to them in England? I volunteered to ride over with Calvin who sounded like he was willing to fix the bike after Mike sent him the parts and ride it to Lakenheath to return it. It seemed awkward though for Calvin to ride on the back of my 450 all the way home.
In the back of my mind I thought I heard Steven volunteer to ride over on his Kawasaki. Steven’s bike was the first Japanese Superbike and could easily handle the trip. A lot better than my little dual sport scooter anyway.
“No,” Calvin was trying to tell me I had it wrong.
“What, Did I hear you correctly Calvin?” I asked as I turned my eyes to Steven.
“Did you say I could use your bike?” I asked Steven.
“Oh sure,” he said, in his shy and humble accent, I can still hear the tone in his voice today, “You are welcome to use my bike if you go with Calvin.”
Here is where the camera zooms in on my face in disbelief. Steven was going to let me use his motorcycle even though the Air Force made a big deal since one of our mates had an accident on a borrowed motorcycle. It was verboten to ride someone else’s bike. Now Steven was going to let me ride all the way to England and back, a one-week trip, on his Super Kawasaki 750.
WOW!
I could not wait.
A Note To You
Thank you for following my blog. I believe it is time to clue you in on where I intend this blog to go, and what I want to accomplish in writing my story.
I have always wanted to write a book. I started several, and they just didn’t go where I had planned. The outlines I started looked good, but my writing was off because I sounded too dogmatic. This is a technical blog; I want to show insight into some of the technology as I tell my stories. The technology I can vouch for. The stories are how I remember them, no guarantee there.
When I was deep into my undergraduate studies I became literate as an author and I discovered that I have a sort of flair in telling stories with the written word. I never thought I could have fun in an English class but writing has changed all that. I have since then promised myself to write a book. This blog is the start of that book, I am jazzed about how it is going because it is what I wanted it to be: entertaining and informative.
Thus, this blog took form from my idea to tell my adventures in Europe on the motorcycles and how I built a café racer when I returned to the states. In the chapters to come I hope to tell how Calvin and I took a little motorcycle ride across the English Channel on the ferry and how we discovered adventure of a different kind in England. I plan to explain how I managed to blow up the motor in the Honda and graduate to the first superbike from Japan and then how I modified that and became a terror of the streets, so bad I was told: “I want you out of town by tomorrow morning” by local law enforcement while visiting Don Mack in Eugene, Oregon.
So, as they used to say, “Don’t touch that dial.”
Love to all
Joe
P.S. Thanks to Gail White, my English teacher who helped me make the transition.
I have always wanted to write a book. I started several, and they just didn’t go where I had planned. The outlines I started looked good, but my writing was off because I sounded too dogmatic. This is a technical blog; I want to show insight into some of the technology as I tell my stories. The technology I can vouch for. The stories are how I remember them, no guarantee there.
When I was deep into my undergraduate studies I became literate as an author and I discovered that I have a sort of flair in telling stories with the written word. I never thought I could have fun in an English class but writing has changed all that. I have since then promised myself to write a book. This blog is the start of that book, I am jazzed about how it is going because it is what I wanted it to be: entertaining and informative.
Thus, this blog took form from my idea to tell my adventures in Europe on the motorcycles and how I built a café racer when I returned to the states. In the chapters to come I hope to tell how Calvin and I took a little motorcycle ride across the English Channel on the ferry and how we discovered adventure of a different kind in England. I plan to explain how I managed to blow up the motor in the Honda and graduate to the first superbike from Japan and then how I modified that and became a terror of the streets, so bad I was told: “I want you out of town by tomorrow morning” by local law enforcement while visiting Don Mack in Eugene, Oregon.
So, as they used to say, “Don’t touch that dial.”
Love to all
Joe
P.S. Thanks to Gail White, my English teacher who helped me make the transition.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Black Ice
I found myself looking forward to hanging out with my motorcycle buddies after work each day. We would meet up in the break room over at the FMS (Field Maintenance Squadron) barracks. Neither Steven nor I were members of the FMS but it became our hangout because that was where motorcycle-ese was spoken. Some nights we would venture out for a ride together.
My daily routine would start each day by getting up early and having breakfast across the street from our barracks. It was exactly 252 steps to the enlisted man’s chow hall; that is from my room to the front door of the chow hall. If you were in just about any other service you would call Air Force food “from heaven” but if you had to eat it every day it soon became mundane and sometimes it was better to go to the Base Exchange snack bar and microwave some cardboard pizza. However, breakfast was always good. I could eat breakfast there three times a day if I had to.
After breakfast I would start up my Honda 450 and ride up the hill to the flight line, show my line badge to the guard at the gate and ride on through to our shop. My ride would go past the hidden Command Center on the left, as I took a little S-curve to the right then to the left. The road would straighten out somewhat and I would cross the flight line. As I passed by the 22nd and the 53rd Tactical Fighter Squadrons I knew I was going in the right direction.
As I got close to running out of flight line, I had to climb up the next hill leading to the Zulu and Victor Alert areas, and I would turn left just before the gate to Victor Alert as I coasted into our shop area. All this was on access roads as the taxiway was reserved for military vehicles and war birds. Except for a few places where we would cheat a little.
I always tried to arrive early after that notorious day when Jack Burch, our NCO In Charge of our maintenance shop, pulled me aside and quizzed me about getting to work on time.
“But I got here at 0800 Sarge,” I responded to his initial question of punctuality. I showed him my watch that read 8:03 AM.
Then he gave me a lecture about arriving early and having a cup of coffee, being relaxed and ready to turn to without being “late.” He told me everyone else does it, in an attempt to use peer pressure. I didn’t tell him that peer pressure doesn’t work on me, I grew up in a large city and I almost never succumbed to the pressures of doing what everyone else was doing.
But the reason it worked on me was that it had been only three years since I lost my father and even though he didn’t look anything like my dad, I would have listened to anything he said just on the father image he projected. Sgt. Burch was to influence many things in the years to come for me. I realized that he was the person who pulled strings with the Air Force to have me stationed in Idaho with him after my orders were cut for me to go to Nellis AFB in Las Vegas, YEAH! It was my disappointment when the change came through canceling my gambling trip.
I guess we are getting too involved here so I will narrate back to the issues at hand, Black Ice.
My first encounter with the stuff was on my motorcycle early one morning. Any of you see what is coming? Yep, I slowed to take that little s-turn in front of the command post and BINGO; I slid right off the road into the bushes and my embarrassment. Actually I just went straight but it was a slide, as my brakes didn’t work for beans, on the ice.
Lesson learned for me. Watch out for black ice. Never try to lean into a turn when the road is wet or icy. Take turns slowly. I really tried to laugh it off that cold winter morning, out there in the little briar patch next to the command post. It wasn’t working. I was just trying to justify my actions. I was being stupid and there was nothing I could change about the past.
Not too long later I was hanging out with the guys and we all wanted to head over to Speicher Bahnhof for a little Saturday evening entertainment and maybe a couple of Bitburger Pils. If you were stationed at Bitburg you know where it was, around the backside of the airbase, close to the real town of Bitburg that went by the name of Spicer. And Bahnhof is the train station. Well this was a little gasthouse along side the road as you pass the cutoff for the train station.
The evening turned into night and we eventually had to head back to the base. And guess what was all over the road? Yep, black ice.
All over the place.
Can you imagine a gang of motorcycle riders all riding along in a pack with their feet on the ground? There we were, Steven on his Kawasaki triple, me on my Honda twin, Bach on his Triumph, there was even a BMW R75 and a Norton twin. All of us had our feet out trying not to become a statistic.
I even got mine into second gear a couple of times.
What a thrill ride. Frozen feet and all; warming them up on the tarmac.
My daily routine would start each day by getting up early and having breakfast across the street from our barracks. It was exactly 252 steps to the enlisted man’s chow hall; that is from my room to the front door of the chow hall. If you were in just about any other service you would call Air Force food “from heaven” but if you had to eat it every day it soon became mundane and sometimes it was better to go to the Base Exchange snack bar and microwave some cardboard pizza. However, breakfast was always good. I could eat breakfast there three times a day if I had to.
After breakfast I would start up my Honda 450 and ride up the hill to the flight line, show my line badge to the guard at the gate and ride on through to our shop. My ride would go past the hidden Command Center on the left, as I took a little S-curve to the right then to the left. The road would straighten out somewhat and I would cross the flight line. As I passed by the 22nd and the 53rd Tactical Fighter Squadrons I knew I was going in the right direction.
As I got close to running out of flight line, I had to climb up the next hill leading to the Zulu and Victor Alert areas, and I would turn left just before the gate to Victor Alert as I coasted into our shop area. All this was on access roads as the taxiway was reserved for military vehicles and war birds. Except for a few places where we would cheat a little.
I always tried to arrive early after that notorious day when Jack Burch, our NCO In Charge of our maintenance shop, pulled me aside and quizzed me about getting to work on time.
“But I got here at 0800 Sarge,” I responded to his initial question of punctuality. I showed him my watch that read 8:03 AM.
Then he gave me a lecture about arriving early and having a cup of coffee, being relaxed and ready to turn to without being “late.” He told me everyone else does it, in an attempt to use peer pressure. I didn’t tell him that peer pressure doesn’t work on me, I grew up in a large city and I almost never succumbed to the pressures of doing what everyone else was doing.
But the reason it worked on me was that it had been only three years since I lost my father and even though he didn’t look anything like my dad, I would have listened to anything he said just on the father image he projected. Sgt. Burch was to influence many things in the years to come for me. I realized that he was the person who pulled strings with the Air Force to have me stationed in Idaho with him after my orders were cut for me to go to Nellis AFB in Las Vegas, YEAH! It was my disappointment when the change came through canceling my gambling trip.
I guess we are getting too involved here so I will narrate back to the issues at hand, Black Ice.
My first encounter with the stuff was on my motorcycle early one morning. Any of you see what is coming? Yep, I slowed to take that little s-turn in front of the command post and BINGO; I slid right off the road into the bushes and my embarrassment. Actually I just went straight but it was a slide, as my brakes didn’t work for beans, on the ice.
Lesson learned for me. Watch out for black ice. Never try to lean into a turn when the road is wet or icy. Take turns slowly. I really tried to laugh it off that cold winter morning, out there in the little briar patch next to the command post. It wasn’t working. I was just trying to justify my actions. I was being stupid and there was nothing I could change about the past.
Not too long later I was hanging out with the guys and we all wanted to head over to Speicher Bahnhof for a little Saturday evening entertainment and maybe a couple of Bitburger Pils. If you were stationed at Bitburg you know where it was, around the backside of the airbase, close to the real town of Bitburg that went by the name of Spicer. And Bahnhof is the train station. Well this was a little gasthouse along side the road as you pass the cutoff for the train station.
The evening turned into night and we eventually had to head back to the base. And guess what was all over the road? Yep, black ice.
All over the place.
Can you imagine a gang of motorcycle riders all riding along in a pack with their feet on the ground? There we were, Steven on his Kawasaki triple, me on my Honda twin, Bach on his Triumph, there was even a BMW R75 and a Norton twin. All of us had our feet out trying not to become a statistic.
I even got mine into second gear a couple of times.
What a thrill ride. Frozen feet and all; warming them up on the tarmac.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
From Rags to Riches
It took two or three times of removing the engine from the frame on that old Honda Twin but I finally made it to the road. As with anything mechanical, whenever there is too much stress on something and you make repairs, that which was stressed becomes sensitive.
What did I learn from that?
Don’t put undue stresses on the weakest link. It will break down again.
Does that mean that it will never be the same again? Yeah, unless you design around it. I work on very large and intricate machinery today. The cranes I maintain have to lift heavy loads over people’s heads and it must make repeated lifts over and over again without a rest. Some of our cranes don’t get any down time for several days. So when something breaks or cracks we design a repair around it. This involves fabricating supports or replacing parts with stronger materials.
It is not unlike racing. The first cars and bikes used for racing were mostly stock until something wore out or broke prematurely. The racing crew or engine builders would have a new part machined out of billet or start over and design a new part that would not show weaknesses under such stresses. Today there is nothing similar in design between a production automobile and those used by NASCAR or found on the drag strip. That is not necessarily true for motorcycles if you have seen the new 1000RR models.
What about that little Honda twin I rebuilt back in Germany in 1973? What was stressed too much that needed to be either replaced or well cared for?
The carburetors were my main problem. If it wasn’t for the constant velocity carburetors that Honda chose for that motor I might still have that bike today. They gave me lots of trouble and I was always pulling them off the engine and trying to unstick the slides.
CV (Constant velocity) carburetors have a choke butterfly and a throttle butterfly just like any other carburetor but they have one major difference from those found elsewhere. That difference is the slides. The slides are operated by vacuum over gravity in such a way as to balance at a point where the venturi of the carburetor is automatically adjusted for the right amount of air flow for any given throttle setting based on the load of the engine. It is a wonderful idea and can be found on lots of Japanese and English motorcycles and cars.
My slides were sticky. I cleaned and cleaned, I honed the bores the slides rode in, I buffed the slide pistons, but there were times that the slides would just not move off the idle spot.
How did I stress them too much?
I don’t know but in trying to get them to work they became very touchy and I found myself waiting for the slides to rise more than once, just so I could get going. Other than that my Honda was a workhorse. I not only became a part of the motorcycle scene at Bitburg AB, but I got to travel throughout Europe on the weekends.
I was on top of the world so to speak. I had the freedom of Steppenwolf; I was Born to be Wild!
I had a sleeping bag and gas stamps so I could go where I wanted to and Munich (Munchen) was my favorite. On one such trip I decided to try for Nuremberg (Nurnburg) from Munich. I found myself in a parking lot. Don’t think the Autobahn is always 100+ MPH for I have been stuck. In Germany it is against the law to pass on the right and I had never heard of lane splitting. Then, along came three Germans on BMWs right between the cars.
One on them slowed to my speed and waved me to join them.
“Come along” he urged, “Come along.”
“Don’t be stuck with the autos, you are on a motorcycle.” He urged me.
I could almost hear his accent just in the way he waved me to join up.
I did, but I was very uncomfortable in doing so at first. I thought it is their country and what the hell we are all in this together. Right?
Then it hit me.
I was not like these other guys.
They looked so comfortable on their BMWs, riding between the cars like this on the Autobahn. I was so uncomfortable on my Honda. I had been in the saddle for over 24 hours, except for a few hours in a rest stop (Restplatz) sleeping on the ground, and my butt hurt.
That is when I decided I needed to modify my saddle and get rid of that weak spot.
Thanks to my sister Carol who later helped me make a custom seat.
I guess it is no surprise that now I ride a BMW RT model with a very large and wide saddle.
What did I learn from that?
Don’t put undue stresses on the weakest link. It will break down again.
Does that mean that it will never be the same again? Yeah, unless you design around it. I work on very large and intricate machinery today. The cranes I maintain have to lift heavy loads over people’s heads and it must make repeated lifts over and over again without a rest. Some of our cranes don’t get any down time for several days. So when something breaks or cracks we design a repair around it. This involves fabricating supports or replacing parts with stronger materials.
It is not unlike racing. The first cars and bikes used for racing were mostly stock until something wore out or broke prematurely. The racing crew or engine builders would have a new part machined out of billet or start over and design a new part that would not show weaknesses under such stresses. Today there is nothing similar in design between a production automobile and those used by NASCAR or found on the drag strip. That is not necessarily true for motorcycles if you have seen the new 1000RR models.
What about that little Honda twin I rebuilt back in Germany in 1973? What was stressed too much that needed to be either replaced or well cared for?
The carburetors were my main problem. If it wasn’t for the constant velocity carburetors that Honda chose for that motor I might still have that bike today. They gave me lots of trouble and I was always pulling them off the engine and trying to unstick the slides.
CV (Constant velocity) carburetors have a choke butterfly and a throttle butterfly just like any other carburetor but they have one major difference from those found elsewhere. That difference is the slides. The slides are operated by vacuum over gravity in such a way as to balance at a point where the venturi of the carburetor is automatically adjusted for the right amount of air flow for any given throttle setting based on the load of the engine. It is a wonderful idea and can be found on lots of Japanese and English motorcycles and cars.
My slides were sticky. I cleaned and cleaned, I honed the bores the slides rode in, I buffed the slide pistons, but there were times that the slides would just not move off the idle spot.
How did I stress them too much?
I don’t know but in trying to get them to work they became very touchy and I found myself waiting for the slides to rise more than once, just so I could get going. Other than that my Honda was a workhorse. I not only became a part of the motorcycle scene at Bitburg AB, but I got to travel throughout Europe on the weekends.
I was on top of the world so to speak. I had the freedom of Steppenwolf; I was Born to be Wild!
I had a sleeping bag and gas stamps so I could go where I wanted to and Munich (Munchen) was my favorite. On one such trip I decided to try for Nuremberg (Nurnburg) from Munich. I found myself in a parking lot. Don’t think the Autobahn is always 100+ MPH for I have been stuck. In Germany it is against the law to pass on the right and I had never heard of lane splitting. Then, along came three Germans on BMWs right between the cars.
One on them slowed to my speed and waved me to join them.
“Come along” he urged, “Come along.”
“Don’t be stuck with the autos, you are on a motorcycle.” He urged me.
I could almost hear his accent just in the way he waved me to join up.
I did, but I was very uncomfortable in doing so at first. I thought it is their country and what the hell we are all in this together. Right?
Then it hit me.
I was not like these other guys.
They looked so comfortable on their BMWs, riding between the cars like this on the Autobahn. I was so uncomfortable on my Honda. I had been in the saddle for over 24 hours, except for a few hours in a rest stop (Restplatz) sleeping on the ground, and my butt hurt.
That is when I decided I needed to modify my saddle and get rid of that weak spot.
Thanks to my sister Carol who later helped me make a custom seat.
I guess it is no surprise that now I ride a BMW RT model with a very large and wide saddle.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Bullshit
Just before I arrived for my assignment at Bitburg AFB the three fighter squadrons of the 36th Tactical Fighter Wing reorganized their ground crews. The new system put all the enlisted maintenance and repair personnel into several large group squadrons, instead of each fighter squadron having its own crews. This meant that I was unfamiliar with the residual stigma of being a part of a flying squadron, or not being a part of the correct squadron.
Our loading shops were still divided between two separate shops, one would only work on the air intercept equipment of the F4E that belonged to the 525th Tactical Fighter Squadron. The other shop, where I was assigned, worked on all of the F4D’s belonging to the 22nd and 53rd Tactical Fighter Squadrons. I didn’t care which shop I worked in. Good thing because we merged with the air intercept shop and my crew had to certify on the E models anyway.
Barracks life was something different for me, I didn’t attend a University nor did I live in a dorm so getting used to it was a little weird. A note of fact though is that I was assigned an end room and I had to share it with five others. Not that it was any different from a 2 or 3 man room, it’s just that my roommates and I were considered “Nerds” or “weirdoes” by all the normal service personnel in our squadron.
What is that than 6 strikes against me, or just 5?
I eventually became accustomed to life in the barracks. I had a VW and that generates a lot of friends even if you are weird. Our squadron had a recreation room that had a pool table and a beer machine. Just think, you could get yourself a Schlitz for 25 cents just about anytime day or night.
My roommates and I built ourselves a very nice social area where we had a self-service bar, Voss had a killer stereo, and I supplied the transportation on occasion. Some times John Breeve would come down on Saturday nights and we would reload shotgun shells until the wee hours of the morning, getting ready for the skeet range on Sunday morning. Some time ask me about the shitpaper wads we made.
Being associated with other bikers on base I became friends with a biker bunch from Calvin’s squadron. They didn’t have the luxury recreation room with pool table and beer machine like we did, but they had a nice warm place to work on motorcycles.
Better eh? Yes!
And it facilitated a place for lots and lots of bullshit.
What kind of bullshit you may ask? I got my first taste of Café Racers and Café Racing. I learned that BMW’s were the smoothest bikes on earth even if the transmission clunked. I heard stories of just about every kind of biking adventures on motorcycles. We would have balancing contests on our bikes while stopped, and I don’t mean on the center stand either. I really loved hanging out with the guys and all that bullshit. I think I may have even lived down the fact that I was a Nerd-Weirdo that everyone in my squadron thought I was.
So are motorcycles the reason I am not a nerd anymore, or am I just a nerd with a motorcycle?
It’s kind of like the philosophical question about the tree that falls and nobody hears it.
The tree still fell.
Whatever. That room was the birthplace for most of my ideas for the rest of my life when it comes to motorcycles. I got my idea to build a café racer out of my Kawasaki 750 triple, from bullshit in that room. I got my idea to put an excessive number of fog lights on my BMW, from bullshit in that room. I wanted, and later I bought, a Suzuki 750 water buffalo, from bullshit in that room. I met two blokes from England who were stranded in Germany in that room, not bullshit, and my adventure of how Calvin and I returned their Norton 850 Interstate to them in England was born in that room.
Naw, I am not a nerd.
But if you like bullshit, read on.
Our loading shops were still divided between two separate shops, one would only work on the air intercept equipment of the F4E that belonged to the 525th Tactical Fighter Squadron. The other shop, where I was assigned, worked on all of the F4D’s belonging to the 22nd and 53rd Tactical Fighter Squadrons. I didn’t care which shop I worked in. Good thing because we merged with the air intercept shop and my crew had to certify on the E models anyway.
Barracks life was something different for me, I didn’t attend a University nor did I live in a dorm so getting used to it was a little weird. A note of fact though is that I was assigned an end room and I had to share it with five others. Not that it was any different from a 2 or 3 man room, it’s just that my roommates and I were considered “Nerds” or “weirdoes” by all the normal service personnel in our squadron.
What is that than 6 strikes against me, or just 5?
I eventually became accustomed to life in the barracks. I had a VW and that generates a lot of friends even if you are weird. Our squadron had a recreation room that had a pool table and a beer machine. Just think, you could get yourself a Schlitz for 25 cents just about anytime day or night.
My roommates and I built ourselves a very nice social area where we had a self-service bar, Voss had a killer stereo, and I supplied the transportation on occasion. Some times John Breeve would come down on Saturday nights and we would reload shotgun shells until the wee hours of the morning, getting ready for the skeet range on Sunday morning. Some time ask me about the shitpaper wads we made.
Being associated with other bikers on base I became friends with a biker bunch from Calvin’s squadron. They didn’t have the luxury recreation room with pool table and beer machine like we did, but they had a nice warm place to work on motorcycles.
Better eh? Yes!
And it facilitated a place for lots and lots of bullshit.
What kind of bullshit you may ask? I got my first taste of Café Racers and Café Racing. I learned that BMW’s were the smoothest bikes on earth even if the transmission clunked. I heard stories of just about every kind of biking adventures on motorcycles. We would have balancing contests on our bikes while stopped, and I don’t mean on the center stand either. I really loved hanging out with the guys and all that bullshit. I think I may have even lived down the fact that I was a Nerd-Weirdo that everyone in my squadron thought I was.
So are motorcycles the reason I am not a nerd anymore, or am I just a nerd with a motorcycle?
It’s kind of like the philosophical question about the tree that falls and nobody hears it.
The tree still fell.
Whatever. That room was the birthplace for most of my ideas for the rest of my life when it comes to motorcycles. I got my idea to build a café racer out of my Kawasaki 750 triple, from bullshit in that room. I got my idea to put an excessive number of fog lights on my BMW, from bullshit in that room. I wanted, and later I bought, a Suzuki 750 water buffalo, from bullshit in that room. I met two blokes from England who were stranded in Germany in that room, not bullshit, and my adventure of how Calvin and I returned their Norton 850 Interstate to them in England was born in that room.
Naw, I am not a nerd.
But if you like bullshit, read on.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Frustration
You ever really try to fit a square peg into a round hole?
It is possible you know. Sometimes a knife helps to whittle the peg down. Sometimes it helps to just pound the peg in place with a hammer. It is all child’s play, however you get that peg into the wrong hole.
In motorcycle assembly, it just doesn’t work that way.
I followed every direction from the manual to put that motor back together. I did it several times, each step, because it was not only confusing but I was squarepegging it.
With lots of help from Calvin, lots of moral support from my roommates and my buddy Steven, it all came together finally and it was ready to reinstall the motor in the frame. The most memorable of it all was the smell of the RTV silicone sealant we used as a sealer for the case.
I have always thought that for everything I do I learn something new. Looking back I think I gained a sense of care that I have forever used to put things together. Except when I am squarepegging of course; nobody is perfect.
I learned perseverance when I worked on transmissions, but that was much later in my career as a mechanic.
To wrap this up, the bike didn’t run right off. I had to pull the motor apart again to make things right. I will blame old age for not being able to remember why I had to pull the motor out and tear it down again. Remember I am bareing all here, I really don’t remember why.
I do remember cross threading a spark plug. I walked all over the city of Bitburg looking for a Tap to rethread the hole. I learned several terms for tap and die that day in German. I ended up ordering the taps (it was a three tap kit) to make the repair from one of the hardware stores.
I remember the clerk was really helpful and so he got the order from me even though he thought the taps were too pricey. I had to wait over a week for the taps to come in. I didn’t want to wait that long without being able to ride. But in this case, Calvin came through for me, he cleaned up the threads with an old spark plug and the bike ran good once I got both spark plugs in.
Those taps are still in my toolbox.
I never squarepegged a spark plug again.
So I graduated from motocross to street rider.
It is possible you know. Sometimes a knife helps to whittle the peg down. Sometimes it helps to just pound the peg in place with a hammer. It is all child’s play, however you get that peg into the wrong hole.
In motorcycle assembly, it just doesn’t work that way.
I followed every direction from the manual to put that motor back together. I did it several times, each step, because it was not only confusing but I was squarepegging it.
With lots of help from Calvin, lots of moral support from my roommates and my buddy Steven, it all came together finally and it was ready to reinstall the motor in the frame. The most memorable of it all was the smell of the RTV silicone sealant we used as a sealer for the case.
I have always thought that for everything I do I learn something new. Looking back I think I gained a sense of care that I have forever used to put things together. Except when I am squarepegging of course; nobody is perfect.
I learned perseverance when I worked on transmissions, but that was much later in my career as a mechanic.
To wrap this up, the bike didn’t run right off. I had to pull the motor apart again to make things right. I will blame old age for not being able to remember why I had to pull the motor out and tear it down again. Remember I am bareing all here, I really don’t remember why.
I do remember cross threading a spark plug. I walked all over the city of Bitburg looking for a Tap to rethread the hole. I learned several terms for tap and die that day in German. I ended up ordering the taps (it was a three tap kit) to make the repair from one of the hardware stores.I remember the clerk was really helpful and so he got the order from me even though he thought the taps were too pricey. I had to wait over a week for the taps to come in. I didn’t want to wait that long without being able to ride. But in this case, Calvin came through for me, he cleaned up the threads with an old spark plug and the bike ran good once I got both spark plugs in.
Those taps are still in my toolbox.
I never squarepegged a spark plug again.
So I graduated from motocross to street rider.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
The Tear Down
My introduction to motorcycle ownership started with the complete rebuilding of a dead motorcycle. The Honda CL450 had been “more than” just “around the block” so to speak. It was a very well cared for source of enjoyment for my good friend and coworker, Steven Pundock. Since we have already discussed the importance of which state you hail from in the Military, Steven was from Cape May, New Jersey, thank you Billy for that information. He used the bike daily as transportation to get to and from our shop on the flight line where we worked on F4D model fighter aircraft.Steven sold the Honda 450 twin when he upgraded to what was the world’s fastest motorcycle, at least in his eyes it was. I am referring to the Kawasaki triple he bought, it was a 750 cc two-stroke monster referred to as a Mach IV. The Honda was sold to a mutual friend who used the motorcycle to commute on and off base to a nearby home [If you were there you may remember the situation, if not just leave a comment and your email and I will elaborate further because there is another story that goes with the fellow but this is not the correct venue for such stories]. That is he used it to commute off base until he blew it up.
The bike was parked across the street from our barracks with all the other motorcycles for enlisted men. I was propositioned to buy the bike and fix it up. All three of them, Calvin, Steven and the unspeakable owner of the blown motorcycle were urging me to buy it and fix it up. Calvin said he would help me with the mechanical parts and since he was from California and he was a motorcycle mechanic I went ahead and bought the bike to fix it up.
I was scared though. They had removed one of the spark plugs and you could look right down into the cylinder and if the light was just right you could see a part of the piston with the rings. I was still learning to be a mechanic but I knew that you should not be able to see the rings or the grooves in the piston for the rings. That meant there was severe damage to the motor.I don’t recall how but I obtained a manual on the bike from somewhere, probably it came with the bike, most of us bought the manual when we bought anything mechanical back then. So there I was during my time off, wrenches and screwdrivers in hand and I was removing the motor from my new bike.
New? NOT!
So I hauled the motor up the stairs to my barracks room and I started tearing it down. I was excited because I was getting started into new territory. Let me take this moment to mention that I had always considered myself as a mechanic and I have enjoyed tinkering with cars and anything mechanical but this was my first complete rebuild. It definitely was not the slant six I rebuilt in high school auto shop. The book came in handy with things like how to separate the chain links and remove the timing chain, on this model it ran between the two cylinders and from the crankshaft to the cylinder head and over two cams past several idlers and it had a friction tensioner.
This was more than just a motor rebuild because the transmission came apart with the engine, something I didn’t have to do in auto shop. Now I had to keep tract of things like multi-disc oil-bath clutch plates, transmission gears and shifter shaft, and little brackets and fittings for the control cables.With help I had it torn down and all the parts in boxes and bags, labeled and cataloged. Calvin helped me with the inspection of all the parts and ordering from the bone yard in California. The rebuild kit came from a mail order supply house. But I knew that when everything came in the mail I would be riding my own motorcycle.
I hope I don’t kill myself; my mother would never let me live it down.
Motocross
Motocross?
Me?
I was kicked off the playground for being uncoordinated in hop scotch. I was always first out in dodge ball. I was the last one picked for sides in baseball or football. I was told I was too clumsy to play with others when I was a kid, even by my best friend. I never rode a motorcycle before. And now, you want me to ride motocross?
Calvin had bought one of the first Honda CR250M motocross bikes, a full-on race machine built for competition. It was Honda’s first look into becoming a competitor in racing and this fool had bought a brand new bike from Honda, stripped it down, cut the frame into two pieces, and mailed it to himself in Germany. Is he a fool? Now he wants me to learn to ride on his bike. Calvin said that if I break it I had to fix it. As if I didn’t already have enough pressure.
I saw it but it was hard for me to believe. Calvin was from LA, a different part of California but he was still from my home state. When you are in the military, anybody from your home state is instantly a friend. But he seemed weird. He was about my height, 5’ 11”, or so he seemed in my eyes. He was probably only 5’ 9” or so but he was thin. I’ll bet Calvin only weighed 110 lbs. Calvin rode a bicycle to and from work because, as he says: “It’s got two wheels!” A little close to my heart or at least it will soon be.
It was hard for me to believe that anybody would take a brand new anything and cut it up into pieces and mail it to himself. But, he is a welder and he knows what he is doing, I think. Calvin showed me the pins he had someone in the machine shop make him. They were just a length of cold rolled steel machined into pins that fit inside the cut tubes of his frame. His idea was to drop the pins in place and weld the frame up around the pins. I went with him that cold Saturday morning, to the welding shop, and I watched him set up the welder. His plan was to reconnect the frame with a type of welding called TIG welding (Tungsten Inert Gas).
For those of you who don’t know, TIG welding is one of the hardest types to perform. It consists of having an electrode made of Tungsten that is surrounded by a shroud that provides an inert gas atmosphere. TIG welding is a lot like the old style of welding using an acetylene torch and select metal rod, the torch makes puddles in the metal and you drip the joining molten metal into the puddle by holding the welding rod over the hot torch. But in TIG welding, a form of arc welding, the welder uses rod made from some alloy, stainless steel, or aluminum and the heat is controlled by a foot pedal. Oh hell, that must take a lot of coordination.
Calvin said he was going to weld 4130. Today, that cold Saturday morning, I am going to learn about alloy steel too. 4130 steel tubing is lighter than aluminum of the same strength and it is much stronger for the same size. That means Honda did their homework when they designed that racing bike. That also means Calvin must be a pretty good welder, he definitely had the confidence. So I put on a spare welding helmet and I watched over Calvin’s shoulder as he meticulously dropped little molten balls of alloy steel into his work to rejoin two sections of frame. Frame that I thought would never be the same. Little did I know, those welds were stronger than the rest of the frame.
In retrospect, I was concerned as we rode that little devil of a motorcycle all around that motocross course just off base. Calvin would inspect his welds every once in a while until he was satisfied that they were good. But they held up under some great stresses as we pulled endless wheelies. We made jumps, not over busses, but we did jump across small obstacles like mud ditches, wood debris and whatever. Steven, Calvin and I all had a great time on that Honda 250, I learned to do stunts and I just had a great time on the weekend with my two friends.
But I am getting ahead of myself; I was still sitting on a time bomb, ticking away. The fuse was set to go off the minute the parts arrived to rebuild my Honda twin.
Me?
I was kicked off the playground for being uncoordinated in hop scotch. I was always first out in dodge ball. I was the last one picked for sides in baseball or football. I was told I was too clumsy to play with others when I was a kid, even by my best friend. I never rode a motorcycle before. And now, you want me to ride motocross?
Calvin had bought one of the first Honda CR250M motocross bikes, a full-on race machine built for competition. It was Honda’s first look into becoming a competitor in racing and this fool had bought a brand new bike from Honda, stripped it down, cut the frame into two pieces, and mailed it to himself in Germany. Is he a fool? Now he wants me to learn to ride on his bike. Calvin said that if I break it I had to fix it. As if I didn’t already have enough pressure.
I saw it but it was hard for me to believe. Calvin was from LA, a different part of California but he was still from my home state. When you are in the military, anybody from your home state is instantly a friend. But he seemed weird. He was about my height, 5’ 11”, or so he seemed in my eyes. He was probably only 5’ 9” or so but he was thin. I’ll bet Calvin only weighed 110 lbs. Calvin rode a bicycle to and from work because, as he says: “It’s got two wheels!” A little close to my heart or at least it will soon be.
It was hard for me to believe that anybody would take a brand new anything and cut it up into pieces and mail it to himself. But, he is a welder and he knows what he is doing, I think. Calvin showed me the pins he had someone in the machine shop make him. They were just a length of cold rolled steel machined into pins that fit inside the cut tubes of his frame. His idea was to drop the pins in place and weld the frame up around the pins. I went with him that cold Saturday morning, to the welding shop, and I watched him set up the welder. His plan was to reconnect the frame with a type of welding called TIG welding (Tungsten Inert Gas).
For those of you who don’t know, TIG welding is one of the hardest types to perform. It consists of having an electrode made of Tungsten that is surrounded by a shroud that provides an inert gas atmosphere. TIG welding is a lot like the old style of welding using an acetylene torch and select metal rod, the torch makes puddles in the metal and you drip the joining molten metal into the puddle by holding the welding rod over the hot torch. But in TIG welding, a form of arc welding, the welder uses rod made from some alloy, stainless steel, or aluminum and the heat is controlled by a foot pedal. Oh hell, that must take a lot of coordination.
Calvin said he was going to weld 4130. Today, that cold Saturday morning, I am going to learn about alloy steel too. 4130 steel tubing is lighter than aluminum of the same strength and it is much stronger for the same size. That means Honda did their homework when they designed that racing bike. That also means Calvin must be a pretty good welder, he definitely had the confidence. So I put on a spare welding helmet and I watched over Calvin’s shoulder as he meticulously dropped little molten balls of alloy steel into his work to rejoin two sections of frame. Frame that I thought would never be the same. Little did I know, those welds were stronger than the rest of the frame.
In retrospect, I was concerned as we rode that little devil of a motorcycle all around that motocross course just off base. Calvin would inspect his welds every once in a while until he was satisfied that they were good. But they held up under some great stresses as we pulled endless wheelies. We made jumps, not over busses, but we did jump across small obstacles like mud ditches, wood debris and whatever. Steven, Calvin and I all had a great time on that Honda 250, I learned to do stunts and I just had a great time on the weekend with my two friends.
But I am getting ahead of myself; I was still sitting on a time bomb, ticking away. The fuse was set to go off the minute the parts arrived to rebuild my Honda twin.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Mother
Mother.
How did my mother influence my motorcycle riding?
What didn’t she influence in my life would be a shorter subject.
We all try to impress our mothers, don’t we boys? Well, my mother was not impressed, at least by me. In high school I borrowed a piston and connecting rod that fit a 283 Chevy V8 to impress my mom. I was driving a Toyota Corona, one of the first to be imported to the United States in 1966. My dad had died recently and I was trying to keep the little Toyota running. Mom would ask me why do I work on that car so much? So I borrowed this piston and connecting rod from a friend at school and when I got home I came into the house brandishing the parts and I said:
“Hey Mom, I found what was wrong with the Toyota!”
She flipped. “Go put that thing back in, right now!” She said.
I laughed for at least a week, I still get a kick out of it when I recall how I tricked my mom into believing I could even take such a thing out of the car.
So here is was in Europe, owner of a broken motorcycle, and in dire need of parts for my bike. Call Mom? I don’t think so.
I went through several motorcycle magazines and found ads for used parts. My buddy Steven helped a little, but he was a far cry from being a qualified motorcycle mechanic. We all worked on airplanes, but to know what you are doing when it comes to putting together a motorcycle takes a certain amount of familiarity and flair.
Cheers to all who do.
A mutual friend, one of the welders on the base, was not only from California, as I am, but he was a great motorcycle mechanic. Calvin was his name and he was the spark that got me started. Calvin showed me what to look for while rebuilding the bike. He helped me contact the motorcycle bone yard somewhere in Southern California and order the hard parts I needed to get the old 450 back together. I also ordered the gasket set and the new pistons and rings I would need.
Calvin was a welder and his solution for my exhaust was to have my mom go down to the nearest auto parts store and get me a pair of glass packs and he would weld them onto my original pipes.
Whoa there Calvin, did you say my Mother?
I just spent one month in my ‘61 Volkswagen riding all over Europe with her. We had a great time together even though I could not impress her. Now you want me to call her and ask her to get motorcycle parts?
OK I will do it. I got on the phone and I called her, I figured the truth was better than telling her it was for my VW. “The guy at the parts store would tell her they would not fit a 1961 Volkswagen and why didn’t I just get a new muffler, after all I was in Germany, isn’t that where they make the damn stuff,” I mulled it over in my head.
“Mom, can you go down to the nearest auto parts store and get me two glass packs and send them to me in Germany?” “Please”
“What do you want?” She asked.
“Just go to Grand Auto and tell them you want…
…they are for my motorcycle.”
I braced, then she caught on and I will never be the same again.
20 minutes of trans-Atlantic and trans-continental conversation about how I should not be on a motorcycle. I told her I was 21 and I am old enough to make those decisions myself. I think I gained a few years during that conversation. The upshot of the conversation was that she would do it. Hurdle passed.
You ever shoot ducks? You have to shoot in front of where you think the duck will be when your shot arrives. Or you don’t eat. It is called leading the bird.
I was leading the bird by ordering everything I needed all at once, then as parts arrive I could get to work on putting my future together.
Meanwhile, Calvin had shipped his brand new Honda CR250M to himself from California and his parts had just arrived. We were going to weld the frame back together and go riding. It looks like I am going to learn to ride Motocross before I even get my bike back together.
Yee-Ha!
How did my mother influence my motorcycle riding?
What didn’t she influence in my life would be a shorter subject.
We all try to impress our mothers, don’t we boys? Well, my mother was not impressed, at least by me. In high school I borrowed a piston and connecting rod that fit a 283 Chevy V8 to impress my mom. I was driving a Toyota Corona, one of the first to be imported to the United States in 1966. My dad had died recently and I was trying to keep the little Toyota running. Mom would ask me why do I work on that car so much? So I borrowed this piston and connecting rod from a friend at school and when I got home I came into the house brandishing the parts and I said:
“Hey Mom, I found what was wrong with the Toyota!”
She flipped. “Go put that thing back in, right now!” She said.
I laughed for at least a week, I still get a kick out of it when I recall how I tricked my mom into believing I could even take such a thing out of the car.
So here is was in Europe, owner of a broken motorcycle, and in dire need of parts for my bike. Call Mom? I don’t think so.
I went through several motorcycle magazines and found ads for used parts. My buddy Steven helped a little, but he was a far cry from being a qualified motorcycle mechanic. We all worked on airplanes, but to know what you are doing when it comes to putting together a motorcycle takes a certain amount of familiarity and flair.
Cheers to all who do.
A mutual friend, one of the welders on the base, was not only from California, as I am, but he was a great motorcycle mechanic. Calvin was his name and he was the spark that got me started. Calvin showed me what to look for while rebuilding the bike. He helped me contact the motorcycle bone yard somewhere in Southern California and order the hard parts I needed to get the old 450 back together. I also ordered the gasket set and the new pistons and rings I would need.
Calvin was a welder and his solution for my exhaust was to have my mom go down to the nearest auto parts store and get me a pair of glass packs and he would weld them onto my original pipes.
Whoa there Calvin, did you say my Mother?
I just spent one month in my ‘61 Volkswagen riding all over Europe with her. We had a great time together even though I could not impress her. Now you want me to call her and ask her to get motorcycle parts?
OK I will do it. I got on the phone and I called her, I figured the truth was better than telling her it was for my VW. “The guy at the parts store would tell her they would not fit a 1961 Volkswagen and why didn’t I just get a new muffler, after all I was in Germany, isn’t that where they make the damn stuff,” I mulled it over in my head.
“Mom, can you go down to the nearest auto parts store and get me two glass packs and send them to me in Germany?” “Please”
“What do you want?” She asked.
“Just go to Grand Auto and tell them you want…
…they are for my motorcycle.”
I braced, then she caught on and I will never be the same again.
20 minutes of trans-Atlantic and trans-continental conversation about how I should not be on a motorcycle. I told her I was 21 and I am old enough to make those decisions myself. I think I gained a few years during that conversation. The upshot of the conversation was that she would do it. Hurdle passed.
You ever shoot ducks? You have to shoot in front of where you think the duck will be when your shot arrives. Or you don’t eat. It is called leading the bird.
I was leading the bird by ordering everything I needed all at once, then as parts arrive I could get to work on putting my future together.
Meanwhile, Calvin had shipped his brand new Honda CR250M to himself from California and his parts had just arrived. We were going to weld the frame back together and go riding. It looks like I am going to learn to ride Motocross before I even get my bike back together.
Yee-Ha!
In The Begining
My first motorcycle was a Honda CL450. Honda built this bike as a kind of a cross between a street bike and an off-road bike that was good for neither function. The Honda 450 was also available in the CB450 version that was definitely a street bike. However suited this machine was, it was small enough for me to learn to ride on and big enough to keep me out of trouble. It gave me the opportunity to travel throughout Western Europe in the early 1970’s and it gave me a new perspective on life, something I was in dire need of.
I was stationed in Germany while serving my country during the Vietnam War during the early part of the 1970’s. I was working as a mechanic on the famed F4D and F4E Phantom II fighters stationed at Bitburg Air Force Base, near Bitburg Germany. We provided NATO support for the protection of Western Europe during the cold war. Just after I left Germany for the States the 525th Tactical Fighter Squadron upgraded to the F15. So the only aircraft I worked on at that time was the F4 variety. One of my friends and coworkers, Steven Pundock, was an avid rider and he was the original owner of the Honda. I accompanied Steven when he ordered a new 1973 Kawasaki 750 from the motorcycle dealer in downtown Bitburg and I remember how dedicated he was to getting the world's fastest motorcycle. Since I was new to the world of motorcycling I did not know the difference between any of the models other than the definitive Harley-Davidson and the Honda. I still recall hearing the slogan: You meet the nicest people on a Honda.
I got my introduction to Kawasaki and I was astonished that there was no choice of color as Steven ordered the bike in English and as the dealer relayed his information as he ordered the bike over the phone in German. Gold? That was the only color? Later when I owned a Kawasaki 750 myself, I became very accustomed to the color scheme of blue for ’72 and gold for ’73. There were other particularities but the color was the most obvious. Steven sold the Honda to one of our mutual friends when his new Kawasaki 750 arrived from Japan; he was not in need of owning two motorcycles. Steven always took very good care of his possessions and the Honda was no exception. Cassick, the fellow who bought Steven's Honda, sorry I cannot recall his first name, had demolished the motor and was looking for some sucker to buy the expired Honda. So there I was, the sucker that ended up buying his first motorcycle, in pieces. And I didn’t even know how to ride.
Welcome
Hi and welcome to my blog on motorcycling. This site is dedicated to providing stories from my past as well as I can remember them. All are based on my experiences as a motorcycle owner, rider, and mechanic. I will make no promises other than I will try to make the posts interesting and informative. There are a lot of articles and magazines dedicated to motorcycling and I hope to make this one as simple as possible, rich in history, and I will strive to make my writing as creative as it can be without stretching the truth.
I would also like to acknowledge Billy Dexter, who reminds me constantly how it really was. Bill is the one responsible for correcting my mistakes and therefore he deserves the credit (as in movie credits) as an editor of this blog.
I would also like to acknowledge Billy Dexter, who reminds me constantly how it really was. Bill is the one responsible for correcting my mistakes and therefore he deserves the credit (as in movie credits) as an editor of this blog.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
