Last week I read an article in a free magazine by Fred Rau, an internationally known motorcycle journalist, where he described a recent trip from Bike Week at Daytona to California, his home is in Hemet. More than once Fred has empathized his preference for taking back roads over the highway. In this article Fred tells how he stopped along the back roads of Texas and how he met local folks who had lost most of their business to the new Interstate and how they are getting along now. The details are not important but Fred again explained his preference for riding a motorcycle at an opportunity to meet people and to enjoy their company.
While I read his article in Friction Zone I became immersed in his world because it is how I am as well. I wanted to email him and invite myself along on his next ride. Although I ride to work daily on my motorcycle and I am seemingly in a hurry, I still enjoy not having to be someplace and taking my time on occasion. And I enjoy meeting people and just talking or listening to them.
Case in point was our trip to Europe in ’06. I was able to spend some time with locals and discuss world matters with them and to get to know their individual past, always an interest to me.
Last week Norma asked me if we had the time to go to the Getty Villa this Saturday. Since I have never been there, and since I love the Getty Museum in Brentwood, I wanted to go. And since it was an exhibit of the Aztecs, this year is the 200th anniversary of the Mexican Independence, all the more reason to go.
Arriving shortly after our reservation of 2:30 PM in Malibu, we climbed the stairs to view the exhibit and others as well. Of course it was a great opportunity for me to learn about my wife’s heritage, and to see such a striking venue; the gardens are worth the trip alone. Anyway we ended up staying until asked to leave because they were closing.
Off to Malibu for dinner at a wonderful Italian Restaurant run by a fellow from Sicily, the Lamb was fantastic and we stayed for coffee and dessert.
With the day still not over yet we drove through the pacific palisades to the Getty Museum to see the Leonardo Da Vinci exhibit. Did you know he was born in Vinci, Tuscany? Is that why his name is like that?
While there, and while at the Getty Villa, I noticed and spoke with many of the staff. Mostly I discussed the artwork or the exhibits. But just before we were asked to leave the Getty, I struck up a conversation with one of the staff who was watching a painting by Leonardo. In the three or four minutes we talked I learned he was going to move to Provence France in 15 months with his girlfriend, he had received a settlement for about $30K, he and I shared beliefs in the plight of the youth today, he told Wally that he needs to learn a second language, he works six days a week and believes in working for a living, oh the list goes on and on.
My point is that there are opportunities everywhere to meet and get to know people all around us every day. You don’t need a motorcycle to get out to do it, strike up a conversation with the clerk at the store or with the waiter at the restaurant; I did today at Giovanni’s in Malibu.
In the Pink Floyd song “Keep Talking” from the CD A Momentary Lapse of Reason, Steven Hawking’s voice over regards the fact that talking is what separates us from the animals and to “Keep Talking”. Thank you Steven, and thank you David Gilmour.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
Suspension Tuning for Beemers
It all started when I first learned how to ride a motorcycle.
My first bike was a Honda dual sport, it was only a 450 but it rode well and gave me many hours of joy and lots of miles all over Europe. I was a little sad when I blew it up trying to make it a better bike than Honda originally designed it to be.
My next motorcycle was a two wheel rocket. Originally built by Kawasaki and dubbed the Mach IV, my H2 750 triple became my favorite motorcycle ever, even after I blew it up and I modified it to my liking. Mostly in pursuit of the best.
Now I ride a BMW that was designed for highway use. It is the basic sport-touring model that all others are judged by. It has its flaws, and being a BMW those flaws are expensive to work around, but it performs very well and has met all my expectations for its size and weight class. And I think it is the best looking motorcycle ever built, and not just because it is blue.
From day one, I have always felt I was short-changed when it comes to the handling department. I have seen the best riders drag their knees going around corners and if I even get close to laying the bike into a wicked turn, I chicken out. I have realized that I am just not that good of a rider.
That is until I met Randy from In-house.
I couldn’t expect much from my Honda. It was a dual sport that didn’t do well on or off the road.
I made the changes to my Kawasaki that the experts recommended. It really improved the bike and its handling but I still had trouble with it in turns.
I had a Suzuki 750 water buffalo that I ran off the road more than once because it couldn’t handle for shit. I didn’t even try with that old mule.
But when I came to realize that my BMW would be mine for a long time, I took the advice of a local racer I knew and I installed custom suspension.
I am a little embarrassed to tell how much that cost but when I was looking into the choices, my buddy Ted Porter at the Beemer shop in Scotts Valley told me the same thing I have heard from everybody. “You will not be disappointed!”
I was.
Ted promised me that all I have to do is bolt this suspension on and my bike would magically become the best it could be. Why not? I will just send you all my hard earned money and magic will happen.
The outcome of the Ted Porter magic was to have a nicer ride, granted, but I still could not make my bike handle any better than any of my earlier motorcycles.
That new Ducati Multistrada 1200 is starting to look real good about now.
So a few weeks ago I get this email from Ducati Newport Beach announcing that Randy from In-house will be there to tune suspension. …Call for an appointment.
So I call and without having to beg I get an appointment for my BMW.
When I met Randy, I felt I knew him from somewhere before. I hadn’t really; he just gave this warm feeling of friendship and acceptance. After having been snubbed by every BMW dealership I have ever been to, the guys at Ducati Newport Beach and Randy have made me feel welcome regardless of the kind of bike I ride.
So Randy loads my bike into the stand and makes several preliminary measurements for the static bike. All the while he is asking me how I ride and what do I expect. He asks me to jump on and he makes the needed measurements for my weight and riding style.
When he is done measuring, he kindly asks me to climb off and he starts to crank up my preload on the rear shock. I am dumbfounded, Ted Porter told me that these shocks were custom for my weight and to ride with the rear preload backed off all the way. You see sports fans, this is custom suspension designed just for me and Randy was changing what I was told would be my baseline.
I watched and listened as Randy made adjustments to both front and rear shocks, the Beemer suspension does not have front forks like all the others out there. Instead it has a kind of automobile suspension with a shock. The fork tubes are only a guide for the front wheel. Randy talks and works and I listened. Then he asked me to test it because he wasn’t sure it being a Beemer and all.
So I don my helmet and go for a little ride.
All through my first test ride the information Randy gave me is going round and round inside my head. The bike didn’t feel any different; I thought it would be a little rougher with the rear spring set so high. Randy told me that the rear end tends to sit down in the turns and that makes the bike come out of a turn a little high. In other words the bike will not follow your intended track in a turn and instead it would open the turn up and require a larger turning radius. So that is why he cranked it up so much.
There is this little turn from Coast Highway onto Superior in Newport that is almost a 180 to the right if you are going north bound. I thought it would be perfect for a test of the handling characteristics for my newly tuned bike.
I drop the gearbox down to second gear and make the turn.
And…she swings a little wide…no difference.
I don’t know, I guess I am just not that good of a rider.
Up the hill, the bike feels great.
Three right turns and I am back at the dealer, I pull up to Randy and he comes over to see me.
I flip my face shield up and Randy is smiling. “Well?” He asks.
I tell him it feels much the same, no difference. I sit there saddened by the realization that all this was for nothing. But Randy leans down to reach up under my front fairing and with a look in his eyes of complete joy he does something in less than two seconds and says to me to try it again.
I was convinced he didn’t do anything. I was not really sure but I felt like this could go on for days and I would have to give in and tell him it was great. “Thanks Randy, you really made my bike handle great!”
Off I go, down Newport Boulevard and up the Coast Highway.
Here comes Superior. Drop it down to second gear and…a…round…the…corner…we…go!
What just happened there? I made it without the normal pull to the outside of the turn.
What the…?
What did he do?
Magic!
My first bike was a Honda dual sport, it was only a 450 but it rode well and gave me many hours of joy and lots of miles all over Europe. I was a little sad when I blew it up trying to make it a better bike than Honda originally designed it to be.
My next motorcycle was a two wheel rocket. Originally built by Kawasaki and dubbed the Mach IV, my H2 750 triple became my favorite motorcycle ever, even after I blew it up and I modified it to my liking. Mostly in pursuit of the best.
Now I ride a BMW that was designed for highway use. It is the basic sport-touring model that all others are judged by. It has its flaws, and being a BMW those flaws are expensive to work around, but it performs very well and has met all my expectations for its size and weight class. And I think it is the best looking motorcycle ever built, and not just because it is blue.
From day one, I have always felt I was short-changed when it comes to the handling department. I have seen the best riders drag their knees going around corners and if I even get close to laying the bike into a wicked turn, I chicken out. I have realized that I am just not that good of a rider.
That is until I met Randy from In-house.
I couldn’t expect much from my Honda. It was a dual sport that didn’t do well on or off the road.
I made the changes to my Kawasaki that the experts recommended. It really improved the bike and its handling but I still had trouble with it in turns.
I had a Suzuki 750 water buffalo that I ran off the road more than once because it couldn’t handle for shit. I didn’t even try with that old mule.
But when I came to realize that my BMW would be mine for a long time, I took the advice of a local racer I knew and I installed custom suspension.
I am a little embarrassed to tell how much that cost but when I was looking into the choices, my buddy Ted Porter at the Beemer shop in Scotts Valley told me the same thing I have heard from everybody. “You will not be disappointed!”
I was.
Ted promised me that all I have to do is bolt this suspension on and my bike would magically become the best it could be. Why not? I will just send you all my hard earned money and magic will happen.
The outcome of the Ted Porter magic was to have a nicer ride, granted, but I still could not make my bike handle any better than any of my earlier motorcycles.
That new Ducati Multistrada 1200 is starting to look real good about now.
So a few weeks ago I get this email from Ducati Newport Beach announcing that Randy from In-house will be there to tune suspension. …Call for an appointment.
So I call and without having to beg I get an appointment for my BMW.
When I met Randy, I felt I knew him from somewhere before. I hadn’t really; he just gave this warm feeling of friendship and acceptance. After having been snubbed by every BMW dealership I have ever been to, the guys at Ducati Newport Beach and Randy have made me feel welcome regardless of the kind of bike I ride.
So Randy loads my bike into the stand and makes several preliminary measurements for the static bike. All the while he is asking me how I ride and what do I expect. He asks me to jump on and he makes the needed measurements for my weight and riding style.
When he is done measuring, he kindly asks me to climb off and he starts to crank up my preload on the rear shock. I am dumbfounded, Ted Porter told me that these shocks were custom for my weight and to ride with the rear preload backed off all the way. You see sports fans, this is custom suspension designed just for me and Randy was changing what I was told would be my baseline.
I watched and listened as Randy made adjustments to both front and rear shocks, the Beemer suspension does not have front forks like all the others out there. Instead it has a kind of automobile suspension with a shock. The fork tubes are only a guide for the front wheel. Randy talks and works and I listened. Then he asked me to test it because he wasn’t sure it being a Beemer and all.
So I don my helmet and go for a little ride.
All through my first test ride the information Randy gave me is going round and round inside my head. The bike didn’t feel any different; I thought it would be a little rougher with the rear spring set so high. Randy told me that the rear end tends to sit down in the turns and that makes the bike come out of a turn a little high. In other words the bike will not follow your intended track in a turn and instead it would open the turn up and require a larger turning radius. So that is why he cranked it up so much.
There is this little turn from Coast Highway onto Superior in Newport that is almost a 180 to the right if you are going north bound. I thought it would be perfect for a test of the handling characteristics for my newly tuned bike.
I drop the gearbox down to second gear and make the turn.
And…she swings a little wide…no difference.
I don’t know, I guess I am just not that good of a rider.
Up the hill, the bike feels great.
Three right turns and I am back at the dealer, I pull up to Randy and he comes over to see me.
I flip my face shield up and Randy is smiling. “Well?” He asks.
I tell him it feels much the same, no difference. I sit there saddened by the realization that all this was for nothing. But Randy leans down to reach up under my front fairing and with a look in his eyes of complete joy he does something in less than two seconds and says to me to try it again.
I was convinced he didn’t do anything. I was not really sure but I felt like this could go on for days and I would have to give in and tell him it was great. “Thanks Randy, you really made my bike handle great!”
Off I go, down Newport Boulevard and up the Coast Highway.
Here comes Superior. Drop it down to second gear and…a…round…the…corner…we…go!
What just happened there? I made it without the normal pull to the outside of the turn.
What the…?
What did he do?
Magic!
Magic
I looked into what he adjusted later. I was confused because I didn’t think he did anything. I thought he was screwing with my mind. But I checked under the front fairing and I found that the front shock has a collar at its base for dampening. I am sure Randy had made a minor adjustment of that collar. When Randy was making his primary adjustments he commented on the fact that the suspension I have was very responsive to his adjustments. He was very impressed with the way my system works. Judging by what Randy told me, I believe by adjusting the dampening on the front the height in the rear is no longer affected by the suspension being pumped up while the bike is in a turn.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Championship
If you were looking for two words that totally describe the Southern California region, those two words would be: Beach Boulevard. Imagine a sunny day as you ride your motorcycle along the beach, checking out the beach goers lugging umbrellas, volleyballs, and suntan lotion across Pacific Coast Highway, in sandals and beach towels as they are headed for the beach. Most are young boys and girls, minus the umbrellas, with surfboards and wet suits going for a few hours of good old Southern California surfing. It kind of makes you think of the Beach Boys’ tune Surfing USA.
Connecting the folks who are not fortunate enough to live in one of the beach communities like Huntington Beach, self proclaimed Surf City, is Beach Boulevard. A little over twenty miles from one end to the other, Beach Boulevard is the main thoroughfare for beach goers for miles around. At the north end of Beach is the little town of La Habra, California. Officially nestled in Orange County, La Habra is a foothill village that shares two area codes because it is right on the border of everything, and it is a part of nothing.
I used to work for a little sandwich maker in La Habra and drive a delivery truck throughout the San Gabriel Valley. Monday through Saturday, I hauled sandwiches for Ropa, a mom and pop outfit that was on the verge of going out of business, mostly because the new owners had taken too much from the little company and it was not staying afloat any longer. They did make good sandwiches though.
If you drive to the north end of Beach Blvd, it dead ends into Whittier blvd. When you arrive at the intersection you would notice that the highways change numbers and directions. It can be a little confusing for someone who is not familiar with the region but if you just hang in there and jog a little east, to the right of Beach Blvd, you can find a connecting road that will take you to Hacienda Heights and the San Gabriel Valley. The road is appropriately named Hacienda Road and as I just checked it out on Google Streets, it still appears as it did in 1977.
Why 1977? Because that was when I took the 6 mile trip across the mountains, actually they are just hills, on my homemade café racer. I have been telling you a little about my Kawasaki 750 triple and how I had rebuilt it mostly from the ground up to be the bike I always wanted, well Kawasaki had released their Z1, a four cylinder super bike that was supposed kick ass on my mere 750 two stroke scooter (in perspective). I felt a little intimidated by the Z1 from the articles I had read about the newer model but I felt my bike had a little advantage after all the mods I had done on it.
So there I was, crossing into Hacienda Heights and I looked in my mirror and recognized a Z1 passing everything to eventually pass me, I felt. Something clicked in my little brain. I thought to myself, there is NO WAY this guy is going to pass me.
I pulled in the clutch and kicked it down two gears, clunk clunk.
I cranked it on and up-shifted, clunk.
I kept on the throttle and as I accelerated I was watching in my mirror, good, he couldn’t keep up, he would have to really try just to catch me. Remember now this is a much more powerful bike coming up behind me and I wasn’t going to let him pass.
I was passing everything in sight, on this little two lane road.
As I crested the pass I checked again and the guy was trying but he wasn’t gaining any more, good I thought.
Down the other side I checked the speed. The highest reading on my speedometer is 120. I had pegged it. The tachometer’s maximum is 12,000 RPM. It too was pegged.
Let me tell you a little about 2-stroke motors. There is no red line. Trust me, there is no red line on a two stroke engine, it will turn as fast as you push it to.
So there I was going down the hill into Hacienda Heights over 120 MPH and the road was opening up before me. I thought I must slow down soon because there are people all around. But I was hell bent on losing this guy. It was about then that I realized something was wrong. I was only in Fourth gear?!?
Blam, I kicked it up into 5th and I disappeared from the Z1 completely. What a rush.
I got onto the 60 freeway westbound and I got the Hell out of there, I was really afraid of cops now, I still don’t know how I did it without getting caught. I don’t think I slowed down until I got to El Monte.
But that guy on that Z1?
Who cares!
Connecting the folks who are not fortunate enough to live in one of the beach communities like Huntington Beach, self proclaimed Surf City, is Beach Boulevard. A little over twenty miles from one end to the other, Beach Boulevard is the main thoroughfare for beach goers for miles around. At the north end of Beach is the little town of La Habra, California. Officially nestled in Orange County, La Habra is a foothill village that shares two area codes because it is right on the border of everything, and it is a part of nothing.
I used to work for a little sandwich maker in La Habra and drive a delivery truck throughout the San Gabriel Valley. Monday through Saturday, I hauled sandwiches for Ropa, a mom and pop outfit that was on the verge of going out of business, mostly because the new owners had taken too much from the little company and it was not staying afloat any longer. They did make good sandwiches though.
If you drive to the north end of Beach Blvd, it dead ends into Whittier blvd. When you arrive at the intersection you would notice that the highways change numbers and directions. It can be a little confusing for someone who is not familiar with the region but if you just hang in there and jog a little east, to the right of Beach Blvd, you can find a connecting road that will take you to Hacienda Heights and the San Gabriel Valley. The road is appropriately named Hacienda Road and as I just checked it out on Google Streets, it still appears as it did in 1977.
Why 1977? Because that was when I took the 6 mile trip across the mountains, actually they are just hills, on my homemade café racer. I have been telling you a little about my Kawasaki 750 triple and how I had rebuilt it mostly from the ground up to be the bike I always wanted, well Kawasaki had released their Z1, a four cylinder super bike that was supposed kick ass on my mere 750 two stroke scooter (in perspective). I felt a little intimidated by the Z1 from the articles I had read about the newer model but I felt my bike had a little advantage after all the mods I had done on it.
So there I was, crossing into Hacienda Heights and I looked in my mirror and recognized a Z1 passing everything to eventually pass me, I felt. Something clicked in my little brain. I thought to myself, there is NO WAY this guy is going to pass me.
I pulled in the clutch and kicked it down two gears, clunk clunk.
I cranked it on and up-shifted, clunk.
I kept on the throttle and as I accelerated I was watching in my mirror, good, he couldn’t keep up, he would have to really try just to catch me. Remember now this is a much more powerful bike coming up behind me and I wasn’t going to let him pass.
I was passing everything in sight, on this little two lane road.
As I crested the pass I checked again and the guy was trying but he wasn’t gaining any more, good I thought.
Down the other side I checked the speed. The highest reading on my speedometer is 120. I had pegged it. The tachometer’s maximum is 12,000 RPM. It too was pegged.
Let me tell you a little about 2-stroke motors. There is no red line. Trust me, there is no red line on a two stroke engine, it will turn as fast as you push it to.
So there I was going down the hill into Hacienda Heights over 120 MPH and the road was opening up before me. I thought I must slow down soon because there are people all around. But I was hell bent on losing this guy. It was about then that I realized something was wrong. I was only in Fourth gear?!?
Blam, I kicked it up into 5th and I disappeared from the Z1 completely. What a rush.
I got onto the 60 freeway westbound and I got the Hell out of there, I was really afraid of cops now, I still don’t know how I did it without getting caught. I don’t think I slowed down until I got to El Monte.
But that guy on that Z1?
Who cares!
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Pantera
I used to have a buddy that I drag raced with. His name is Bob Cejka. Bob had a couple of Dodge Hemi's and all the bucks-up gear to go along with it. He lives on the hill in Palos Verdes and has all the toys including a Pantera.
Bob and I would race almost every week. I spent lots of time up at his place working on the cars and other social events that included eating and drinking.
Well one day I was up at Bob's with nothing to do, the weather was typical for Southern California, sunny and warm. He tossed me the keys to the Pantera and a credit card and said, "Why don't you go and fill the tank for me?"
Shit! I took it for a ride.
Palos Verdes Drive East is mostly switch back turns that rises and falls through one of the wealthiest areas near my home. Driving a Pantera on those roads was indescribable!
Imagine an Italian sports car powered by one of the most powerful Ford engines, the 351 Cleveland. Now consider that it is a mid-engine design and you can imagine what a sensation it was to drive.
I was so thrilled I didn't even need to cruise past any of my "low lands" friends. It was enough just for me to take it down to San Pedro and fill it up with gas and head back to Bob's.
When I got back I figured I was done for the day. I thanked the God of Internal Combustion Engines (Bob) and threw my leg over my Suzuki 750 Waterpumper and headed for home.
I got three turns from Bob’s house and ran off the road into a drainage ditch. Ouch, that hurt. Not just my leg but my pride hurt too much too. I forgot that the bike I rode couldn’t handle as well as Bob’s Pantera.
Lesson learned, I hope.
Bob and I would race almost every week. I spent lots of time up at his place working on the cars and other social events that included eating and drinking.
Well one day I was up at Bob's with nothing to do, the weather was typical for Southern California, sunny and warm. He tossed me the keys to the Pantera and a credit card and said, "Why don't you go and fill the tank for me?"
Shit! I took it for a ride.
Palos Verdes Drive East is mostly switch back turns that rises and falls through one of the wealthiest areas near my home. Driving a Pantera on those roads was indescribable!
Imagine an Italian sports car powered by one of the most powerful Ford engines, the 351 Cleveland. Now consider that it is a mid-engine design and you can imagine what a sensation it was to drive.
I was so thrilled I didn't even need to cruise past any of my "low lands" friends. It was enough just for me to take it down to San Pedro and fill it up with gas and head back to Bob's.
When I got back I figured I was done for the day. I thanked the God of Internal Combustion Engines (Bob) and threw my leg over my Suzuki 750 Waterpumper and headed for home.
I got three turns from Bob’s house and ran off the road into a drainage ditch. Ouch, that hurt. Not just my leg but my pride hurt too much too. I forgot that the bike I rode couldn’t handle as well as Bob’s Pantera.
Lesson learned, I hope.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
The Kawasaki Rule, Circa 1972
If it can go faster than anything on the road, it is a Kawasaki.
If it is a Kawasaki, it will go fast for about 8,000 miles, and then it will die.
If it is a Kawasaki, you can only go straight, when you come to a turn you must slow down or die.
Who made up these rules? They did…Kawasaki.
In 1969 Kawasaki released the Mach III. It was a 500cc, three cylinders, two-stroke motorcycle that had to be updated with a heavier frame after its debut because the original design was prone to wheelies. Officially, the bike was called the H1. The Mach III was only a prelude to the Mach IV, a 750cc version of the same bike that was known as one of the first superbikes of the ‘70s.
The Mach IV, or H2, had its own flaws over and above that of the Mach III. First off was its steering wobble at high speeds. In 1973 they added two steering dampeners, one hydraulic and one pure friction. I had a ’72 and all the mounting holes were cast into the steering head for the equipment and after I had my first experience at 120 miles per hour of losing complete control I ran out and bought the equipment that was included in the later versions.
Part and parcel to the bike’s inability to maintain control of its steering was its lack of stability when leaning into a turn. Today, motorcycle design teams know all the geometry factors and crank out a significantly predictable product, but back in the early ‘70s, it was all something new to the Japanese. If you go back to the chapter titled “Bullshit,” it was there that I mentioned our discussions that included motorcycle issues of this nature (in other terms of course). It was there that I became informed of the design flaws Kawasaki was burdened with and possible solutions.
So when I was faced with the complete rebuild of my dead Kawasaki, and believe me I had no other thoughts than to rebuild that blown engine based on my roots of resurrecting that Honda twin in Germany, I decided to go all out and make the bike exactly what I wanted. So it is here that I will try to list all the items I had issues with at that time.
The engine
Hindsight is 20:20, right. If I knew then what I know now I would have…
…Put premix oil in my gasoline.
I averaged 8,000 miles on each engine rebuild. Fortunately, it was easy enough to replace a piston and rings. Pop the tank off and pull the heads starting with the outside working towards the middle. This time though I needed to replace the crankshaft, weld up the holes in the case, and rebuild the engine.
I spoke with the local Kawasaki mechanic at the Honda, Yamaha, Kawasaki dealer and Chevron gas station there in Mountain Home at great length about the repairs I needed to do to get my bike back up and running. He recommended a welder who would do the needed repairs to the crankcase so I pulled it all apart and brought to the welding shop and one week later they had my case repaired.
Ordinarily I would have refrained from such a repair to something so critical but in this case I believe the repairs they did with the TIG welder and a slab of copper to back up the repair proved to withstand the test of time. As the welder’s wife explained it to me when I dropped the aluminum case off at their shop, they clamped a thick slab of copper to the backside of the hole in the case as a backup to the repairs to be made. Copper because they could weld right up to it and it would not fuse together. Then they assembled the two halves and torqued the cases together so when they weld they would not warp.
Ah success, they did an excellent job and the rest of the repairs to the engine were expensive as far as parts go but simple as far as labor goes. I spent over $200 for a new crankshaft, because the broken connecting rod was part of the pressed together assembly and rod replacement was not feasible in Idaho. I put a new set of jugs (cylinders), pistons, rings, and a gasket and seal kit to finish the engine’s overhaul.
Since I was going to all the trouble of rebuilding the motor, why not get a set of expansion chambers? This was Jim Stobo’s Idea but I liked it. I chose the black pipes with glass pack silencers and a power range of 6000 RPM and up. Two-stroke engines do not have a camshaft, valves, or lifters. You can’t just replace the cam and get better performance. Instead, two-stroke engines benefit the most from porting the jugs and from the exhaust system. Expansion chambers are the way to do it with the least amount of modifications. Based on the idea that backpressure is timed for the exhaust port in its design of length v diameter of the pipe. When the previous pulse of the exhaust reaches the narrow end of the pipe, it is time for the piston to clear the exhaust port and viola, instant power. For free!
While the engine was being repaired I had to get and perform the modifications I wanted to bring the bike up to my standards.
Suspension
Trick shocks and forks were not available back then. There were no books about suspension tuning of your sport bike. Shocks were made for cars and adapted to motorcycles. Geometry was a high school subject, not a part of motorcycle design. However, I had made it a point to collect magazine articles on everything I owned or rode and the consensus of the “experts who wrote those magazine articles was that the factory swing arm bushings were inferior, also the swing arm was too short for the bike to handle well in turns, and the bike lacked in steering dampers.
All of these design deficits were the reason the bike was only good for going straight, stop light to stop light was the term used back then, and the reason for the tendency for it to wobble at high speeds. Once I was traveling about 120 MPH on one of the isolated roads in southern Idaho when the handlebars became more like a propeller on an airplane. My hands were just a blur as the front tire wobbled back and forth uncontrollably. As I slowed it got worse. Then my training kicked in, I guess I was a little slow on the uptake.
“When you encounter a high-speed wobble, don’t try to control it, your efforts will only make it worse. Instead push on the handlebars, and it will come out of the wobble.”
They told me that if I try to adjust my speed, the wobble would worsen. And it did.
So…
…I opened my hands and pushed on the handlebars.
And…
…The wobble stopped.
I slowed down and pulled over for a cigarette. While I was calming down on the side of the road I realized that I had to do something about that. I ordered the parts from Kawasaki as soon as I got back. 10 days later I had my steering dampers but until then I tried to keep the bike under 120.
Back in Germany, when Calvin sent his Honda CR250M to himself, he had cut the frame with a tubing cutter and when it arrived he machined some pins that would fit inside the tubes he cut, then he welded the pins and frame to reassemble his bike.
Putting it together for myself, I mail-ordered a swing arm bushing kit from a magazine ad that assured the reader that this would replace the factory bushings and eliminate the tendency for the swing arm to become unstable while in turns. I removed the swing arm and had the tubes cut with a large tubing cutter and I hauled all the parts down to a local machine shop to have pins made.
Convincing the machinist was the most difficult part. He was the first of many individuals I needed to convince as I modified my motorcycle, one part at a time. We agreed that the pins he was to make were to add 2 ½” to the length of the swing arm. A local welder made the final installation after the pins were ready.
This also meant I needed to add 5” to the chain, but that was handled after I got the bike back together later.
Stopping Power
In 1974 the idea of disk brakes with holes in the rotors was novel and questionable. The magazine articles stated increased stopping performance, so I wanted it. While the bike was down, I took the rotor to the local machine shop, where I had the pins made and he referred me to a shop in Boise for several reasons.
In Boise, I had a long conversation with the machinist. He was more than reluctant to drill my brake rotor; he really didn’t want the liability of my killing myself. I showed him photographs and magazine articles that stated the enhanced braking merely from drilling the rotors. I had to draw the design on a blueprint, only in white. So I returned with the blueprint and all the specifications I had wanted. I thank my high school drafting teacher for my ability to make that drawing.
One week later I handed over the $20 bill and the machinist explained that he should have charged me $50 because not only was it difficult laying out the design, the rotor was extra hard material and he had to use special drill bits. Whatever, I had my brake rotor and I was elated.
Final Assembly
It took forever to get everything together, pay all the bills, and put everything in its place but when I kicked that bike over with all the stuff I had done I was in heaven.
There is nothing like the sound of a two-stroke motorcycle engine, and Kawasaki had it in threes.
The expansion chambers were the biggest change I made. I could rely on having power under my throttle almost in any gear before. Now I had a different monster between my legs. Now I had nothing below 6,000 RPM. I would have to crank and wait for the speed to bring the revs up to the power band. But when it did, it did!
I had me a wheelie monster now. I had to be careful with the throttle over that 6,000 minimum.
Next, I needed a better seat, a new paint job, clip-on handlebars, rear sets, and if I could find one a fairing.
All of that is to come…
If it is a Kawasaki, it will go fast for about 8,000 miles, and then it will die.
If it is a Kawasaki, you can only go straight, when you come to a turn you must slow down or die.
Who made up these rules? They did…Kawasaki.
In 1969 Kawasaki released the Mach III. It was a 500cc, three cylinders, two-stroke motorcycle that had to be updated with a heavier frame after its debut because the original design was prone to wheelies. Officially, the bike was called the H1. The Mach III was only a prelude to the Mach IV, a 750cc version of the same bike that was known as one of the first superbikes of the ‘70s.
The Mach IV, or H2, had its own flaws over and above that of the Mach III. First off was its steering wobble at high speeds. In 1973 they added two steering dampeners, one hydraulic and one pure friction. I had a ’72 and all the mounting holes were cast into the steering head for the equipment and after I had my first experience at 120 miles per hour of losing complete control I ran out and bought the equipment that was included in the later versions.
Part and parcel to the bike’s inability to maintain control of its steering was its lack of stability when leaning into a turn. Today, motorcycle design teams know all the geometry factors and crank out a significantly predictable product, but back in the early ‘70s, it was all something new to the Japanese. If you go back to the chapter titled “Bullshit,” it was there that I mentioned our discussions that included motorcycle issues of this nature (in other terms of course). It was there that I became informed of the design flaws Kawasaki was burdened with and possible solutions.
So when I was faced with the complete rebuild of my dead Kawasaki, and believe me I had no other thoughts than to rebuild that blown engine based on my roots of resurrecting that Honda twin in Germany, I decided to go all out and make the bike exactly what I wanted. So it is here that I will try to list all the items I had issues with at that time.
The engine
Hindsight is 20:20, right. If I knew then what I know now I would have…
…Put premix oil in my gasoline.
I averaged 8,000 miles on each engine rebuild. Fortunately, it was easy enough to replace a piston and rings. Pop the tank off and pull the heads starting with the outside working towards the middle. This time though I needed to replace the crankshaft, weld up the holes in the case, and rebuild the engine.
I spoke with the local Kawasaki mechanic at the Honda, Yamaha, Kawasaki dealer and Chevron gas station there in Mountain Home at great length about the repairs I needed to do to get my bike back up and running. He recommended a welder who would do the needed repairs to the crankcase so I pulled it all apart and brought to the welding shop and one week later they had my case repaired.
Ordinarily I would have refrained from such a repair to something so critical but in this case I believe the repairs they did with the TIG welder and a slab of copper to back up the repair proved to withstand the test of time. As the welder’s wife explained it to me when I dropped the aluminum case off at their shop, they clamped a thick slab of copper to the backside of the hole in the case as a backup to the repairs to be made. Copper because they could weld right up to it and it would not fuse together. Then they assembled the two halves and torqued the cases together so when they weld they would not warp.
Ah success, they did an excellent job and the rest of the repairs to the engine were expensive as far as parts go but simple as far as labor goes. I spent over $200 for a new crankshaft, because the broken connecting rod was part of the pressed together assembly and rod replacement was not feasible in Idaho. I put a new set of jugs (cylinders), pistons, rings, and a gasket and seal kit to finish the engine’s overhaul.
Since I was going to all the trouble of rebuilding the motor, why not get a set of expansion chambers? This was Jim Stobo’s Idea but I liked it. I chose the black pipes with glass pack silencers and a power range of 6000 RPM and up. Two-stroke engines do not have a camshaft, valves, or lifters. You can’t just replace the cam and get better performance. Instead, two-stroke engines benefit the most from porting the jugs and from the exhaust system. Expansion chambers are the way to do it with the least amount of modifications. Based on the idea that backpressure is timed for the exhaust port in its design of length v diameter of the pipe. When the previous pulse of the exhaust reaches the narrow end of the pipe, it is time for the piston to clear the exhaust port and viola, instant power. For free!
While the engine was being repaired I had to get and perform the modifications I wanted to bring the bike up to my standards.
Suspension
Trick shocks and forks were not available back then. There were no books about suspension tuning of your sport bike. Shocks were made for cars and adapted to motorcycles. Geometry was a high school subject, not a part of motorcycle design. However, I had made it a point to collect magazine articles on everything I owned or rode and the consensus of the “experts who wrote those magazine articles was that the factory swing arm bushings were inferior, also the swing arm was too short for the bike to handle well in turns, and the bike lacked in steering dampers.
All of these design deficits were the reason the bike was only good for going straight, stop light to stop light was the term used back then, and the reason for the tendency for it to wobble at high speeds. Once I was traveling about 120 MPH on one of the isolated roads in southern Idaho when the handlebars became more like a propeller on an airplane. My hands were just a blur as the front tire wobbled back and forth uncontrollably. As I slowed it got worse. Then my training kicked in, I guess I was a little slow on the uptake.
“When you encounter a high-speed wobble, don’t try to control it, your efforts will only make it worse. Instead push on the handlebars, and it will come out of the wobble.”
They told me that if I try to adjust my speed, the wobble would worsen. And it did.
So…
…I opened my hands and pushed on the handlebars.
And…
…The wobble stopped.
I slowed down and pulled over for a cigarette. While I was calming down on the side of the road I realized that I had to do something about that. I ordered the parts from Kawasaki as soon as I got back. 10 days later I had my steering dampers but until then I tried to keep the bike under 120.
Back in Germany, when Calvin sent his Honda CR250M to himself, he had cut the frame with a tubing cutter and when it arrived he machined some pins that would fit inside the tubes he cut, then he welded the pins and frame to reassemble his bike.
Putting it together for myself, I mail-ordered a swing arm bushing kit from a magazine ad that assured the reader that this would replace the factory bushings and eliminate the tendency for the swing arm to become unstable while in turns. I removed the swing arm and had the tubes cut with a large tubing cutter and I hauled all the parts down to a local machine shop to have pins made.
Convincing the machinist was the most difficult part. He was the first of many individuals I needed to convince as I modified my motorcycle, one part at a time. We agreed that the pins he was to make were to add 2 ½” to the length of the swing arm. A local welder made the final installation after the pins were ready.
This also meant I needed to add 5” to the chain, but that was handled after I got the bike back together later.
Stopping Power
In 1974 the idea of disk brakes with holes in the rotors was novel and questionable. The magazine articles stated increased stopping performance, so I wanted it. While the bike was down, I took the rotor to the local machine shop, where I had the pins made and he referred me to a shop in Boise for several reasons.
In Boise, I had a long conversation with the machinist. He was more than reluctant to drill my brake rotor; he really didn’t want the liability of my killing myself. I showed him photographs and magazine articles that stated the enhanced braking merely from drilling the rotors. I had to draw the design on a blueprint, only in white. So I returned with the blueprint and all the specifications I had wanted. I thank my high school drafting teacher for my ability to make that drawing.
One week later I handed over the $20 bill and the machinist explained that he should have charged me $50 because not only was it difficult laying out the design, the rotor was extra hard material and he had to use special drill bits. Whatever, I had my brake rotor and I was elated.
Final Assembly
It took forever to get everything together, pay all the bills, and put everything in its place but when I kicked that bike over with all the stuff I had done I was in heaven.
There is nothing like the sound of a two-stroke motorcycle engine, and Kawasaki had it in threes.
The expansion chambers were the biggest change I made. I could rely on having power under my throttle almost in any gear before. Now I had a different monster between my legs. Now I had nothing below 6,000 RPM. I would have to crank and wait for the speed to bring the revs up to the power band. But when it did, it did!
I had me a wheelie monster now. I had to be careful with the throttle over that 6,000 minimum.
Next, I needed a better seat, a new paint job, clip-on handlebars, rear sets, and if I could find one a fairing.
All of that is to come…
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
My Kawasaki
“What do you mean you want another $150?” I asked in astonishment. I had just signed the paperwork at the bank where I was taking over payments of the Kawasaki. “I remember the ad I saw in the barracks of our squadron, it said $850 or take over payments.”
“No! The price of the bike is $850, if you take over payments you still owe $150.” My newfound friend who just turned his coat red and became my #1 enemy was taking a stand in front of the banker who just made me the proud owner of a 1972 750 Kawasaki H2, Mach IV motorcycle.
“Shit!” I thought. I am always getting screwed. I didn’t have any more money because I spent it all on those Mikuni Carburetors that resulted in the demise of my Honda. The Honda twin, that followed me all the way to Idaho from West Germany. How could I get out of this one and still have the bike? Just pay the man.
“How about if I pay you when I get paid at the end of the month?” I asked, realizing I was on shaky ground.
“OK,” He said. “You don’t look like you are going anywhere, I guess I can trust you.”
I got the key from him and rode back to the barracks. I was so happy to have the bike it only took two minutes for me to forget that I still owed almost a full paycheck for the bike. The first thing I did when I parked the bike was to go upstairs to my room and get some tools. I went right back down and I pulled the hard cases that came with the bike off. These things were hard fiberglass with chicken shit little lids. The style was ’60s Nuevo; with little keyed twist locks in the top of each lid. I just couldn’t ride anything with this kind of saddlebags on it and they were coming off right away.
And into the dumpster they went.
The Kawasaki Triple was a two-stroke machine. That means oil is injected into the motor by a pump. Kawasaki thought they had the world by the tail when they replaced the traditional method of pre-mixing oil and gasoline in the tank with an injection pump and oil reservoir. This system was called injecto-lube. And it left a lot to be desired. I stuck with the system as any good die-hard should, but it was the reason I had so many troubles with my Kawasaki.
Ask my cousin Paul some time about the trip to Lovelock Nevada he and his dad did one Fourth of July weekend to rescue me from the desert. Remember Paul? It was the day Evil Knievel jumped the Snake River Canyon in Twin Falls Idaho.
But I am getting ahead of myself now.
Having a powerful and quick machine like that allowed me to make a lot of friends and to get out on my own while stationed in Idaho. My favorite trip was the same one I took that first day on my Honda when I smoked the motor. I would leave the base and head south on a back road to the Snake River, about 10 miles south of the air base. There was a road that followed the river east that would wind with the river through a very exotic area of the desert. I would go past a part where water would seep out of the face of the rocks in the canyon wall. It was called Thousand Falls.
Idaho is in volcano country, there are various places that exhibit evidence of underground rivers created by the flow of lava, I don’t know how long ago, beneath the desert floor. We had parties in some radical places, one of which was inside a cave hollowed out by the flow of lava. Someone made a ladder that was about 25 feet long, they dropped it into one of those caverns and we all climbed down to the party, complete with huge bond fire and kegs of beer.
It was in the middle of the night, as most parties are, and I wanted to venture into the cave as far as we could go. Flashlights were dug up and off we went, south because we could see the end of the cave north. We were probably about half mile into it when someone said lets turn off our flashlights. Whoa. did it ever get dark in there. It hurt my eyeballs.
Anyway, the river flowed underground for hundreds of miles, I rode up to the top of the canyon on that side and it was just dry desert up there. The river flowed underground, I would not have believed it if I didn’t see it myself.
Oops, I got off the track there.
I would ride into Twin Falls, the biggest city along the Snake River after it leaves Pocatello, fuel up and take the Interstate home. I never stopped in Jerome again.
So what was so bad about my Kawasaki?
The engine seized up on me on three occasions.
The first time the left cylinder seized while I was just out on my own having a great time. I didn’t know why but my rear tire just locked up and I came to a very abrupt halt in the middle of the road. I figured it out in short order and used the clutch to get it off the road. After the motor cooled down I nursed it home and pulled the motor apart in the frame and replaced the left piston and rings.
It was a simple repair after I was coached by the local Kawasaki mechanic in town, Mountain Home that is. The price of the piston, rings, and gaskets was not very much considering the time and I became a two-stroke mechanic.
The second time it seized it was the center cylinder. I knew right away what was happening and I pulled the clutch in before I lost more than 10 miles per hour. That is excellent reflexes if you are making a comparison here. About like being the quickest draw in the west. This time I pulled the exhaust pipe off to look at the pistons and diagnose the problem on-scene. I really knew what to do, I stopped at the Kawasaki dealer on my way back to the base and viola, and I had it repaired the same day. This time though I had to remove the tank and one of the outside cylinders to get to the center for repairs. No biggie, I just needed an extra head gasket.
The last time I was headed to Modesto to visit my mom for the long Fourth of July weekend. I was traveling at night and had just left Winnemucca Nevada at around midnight. About 10 miles out of town it happened, again the quick reaction saved me from a flat spot on my rear tire. Except I knew something was really wrong here, I could see one of the connecting rods sticking out of the crankcase.
I got it off the highway and fell asleep in the bushes.
In the morning I took another look, yep it was trashed. So I hid the bike in the bushes and I walked out to the road and stuck my thumb out in the direction of California.
“No! The price of the bike is $850, if you take over payments you still owe $150.” My newfound friend who just turned his coat red and became my #1 enemy was taking a stand in front of the banker who just made me the proud owner of a 1972 750 Kawasaki H2, Mach IV motorcycle.
“Shit!” I thought. I am always getting screwed. I didn’t have any more money because I spent it all on those Mikuni Carburetors that resulted in the demise of my Honda. The Honda twin, that followed me all the way to Idaho from West Germany. How could I get out of this one and still have the bike? Just pay the man.
“How about if I pay you when I get paid at the end of the month?” I asked, realizing I was on shaky ground.
“OK,” He said. “You don’t look like you are going anywhere, I guess I can trust you.”
I got the key from him and rode back to the barracks. I was so happy to have the bike it only took two minutes for me to forget that I still owed almost a full paycheck for the bike. The first thing I did when I parked the bike was to go upstairs to my room and get some tools. I went right back down and I pulled the hard cases that came with the bike off. These things were hard fiberglass with chicken shit little lids. The style was ’60s Nuevo; with little keyed twist locks in the top of each lid. I just couldn’t ride anything with this kind of saddlebags on it and they were coming off right away.
And into the dumpster they went.
The Kawasaki Triple was a two-stroke machine. That means oil is injected into the motor by a pump. Kawasaki thought they had the world by the tail when they replaced the traditional method of pre-mixing oil and gasoline in the tank with an injection pump and oil reservoir. This system was called injecto-lube. And it left a lot to be desired. I stuck with the system as any good die-hard should, but it was the reason I had so many troubles with my Kawasaki.
Ask my cousin Paul some time about the trip to Lovelock Nevada he and his dad did one Fourth of July weekend to rescue me from the desert. Remember Paul? It was the day Evil Knievel jumped the Snake River Canyon in Twin Falls Idaho.
But I am getting ahead of myself now.
Having a powerful and quick machine like that allowed me to make a lot of friends and to get out on my own while stationed in Idaho. My favorite trip was the same one I took that first day on my Honda when I smoked the motor. I would leave the base and head south on a back road to the Snake River, about 10 miles south of the air base. There was a road that followed the river east that would wind with the river through a very exotic area of the desert. I would go past a part where water would seep out of the face of the rocks in the canyon wall. It was called Thousand Falls.
Idaho is in volcano country, there are various places that exhibit evidence of underground rivers created by the flow of lava, I don’t know how long ago, beneath the desert floor. We had parties in some radical places, one of which was inside a cave hollowed out by the flow of lava. Someone made a ladder that was about 25 feet long, they dropped it into one of those caverns and we all climbed down to the party, complete with huge bond fire and kegs of beer.
It was in the middle of the night, as most parties are, and I wanted to venture into the cave as far as we could go. Flashlights were dug up and off we went, south because we could see the end of the cave north. We were probably about half mile into it when someone said lets turn off our flashlights. Whoa. did it ever get dark in there. It hurt my eyeballs.
Anyway, the river flowed underground for hundreds of miles, I rode up to the top of the canyon on that side and it was just dry desert up there. The river flowed underground, I would not have believed it if I didn’t see it myself.
Oops, I got off the track there.
I would ride into Twin Falls, the biggest city along the Snake River after it leaves Pocatello, fuel up and take the Interstate home. I never stopped in Jerome again.
So what was so bad about my Kawasaki?
The engine seized up on me on three occasions.
The first time the left cylinder seized while I was just out on my own having a great time. I didn’t know why but my rear tire just locked up and I came to a very abrupt halt in the middle of the road. I figured it out in short order and used the clutch to get it off the road. After the motor cooled down I nursed it home and pulled the motor apart in the frame and replaced the left piston and rings.
It was a simple repair after I was coached by the local Kawasaki mechanic in town, Mountain Home that is. The price of the piston, rings, and gaskets was not very much considering the time and I became a two-stroke mechanic.
The second time it seized it was the center cylinder. I knew right away what was happening and I pulled the clutch in before I lost more than 10 miles per hour. That is excellent reflexes if you are making a comparison here. About like being the quickest draw in the west. This time I pulled the exhaust pipe off to look at the pistons and diagnose the problem on-scene. I really knew what to do, I stopped at the Kawasaki dealer on my way back to the base and viola, and I had it repaired the same day. This time though I had to remove the tank and one of the outside cylinders to get to the center for repairs. No biggie, I just needed an extra head gasket.
The last time I was headed to Modesto to visit my mom for the long Fourth of July weekend. I was traveling at night and had just left Winnemucca Nevada at around midnight. About 10 miles out of town it happened, again the quick reaction saved me from a flat spot on my rear tire. Except I knew something was really wrong here, I could see one of the connecting rods sticking out of the crankcase.
I got it off the highway and fell asleep in the bushes.
In the morning I took another look, yep it was trashed. So I hid the bike in the bushes and I walked out to the road and stuck my thumb out in the direction of California.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Jerome Idaho
On my first Sunday in Idaho I was heading northbound on the Interstate from Twin Falls to Mountain Home where I was stationed in the Air Force. Back then the Interstate that ran through southern Idaho was just a spur of the I-80 so it was referred to as the ‘I-80 North.’ The Honda was running better than it ever did while I was in Germany. I was so happy until the bike started to misfire. I knew something happened, about then the engine almost quit entirely. I was lucky to get it off the Interstate at the Jerome exit and up into town.
It was about 3:00 PM and I was just hoping something was open in town. I saw two older gentlemen sitting in front of the hardware store and so I nursed my broken bike up to them and shut it off. Pulling my helmet off I asked if there was a gas station in town.
“Nope,” One of them said. “Even if we had a gas station it wouldn’t be open on a Sunday.”
I told them that I was stationed at the air base and that I needed to get back even though my bike was broken. It all seemed hopeless, I knew my bike was dead and I was too far from base. Nothing is more hopeless when you just know you are too far from help.
Someone up there must like me because about then a man and his son were just coming by with a moving van, one of those rentals that you drive yourself. Mr. Gonzales and his nine year old son was also looking for gasoline and after a short conversation we agreed to load up my bike and he would take me to Mountain Home to drop me off. Just a short stop for gas up the road a bit. And he was going that way anyway.
Either I was stronger than I am today, of course that’s true, or that bike didn’t weigh so much because we loaded it up easily with the three of us lifting it into the van. I set it up on the center stand and off we went to Mountain Home.
Conversation in the truck was interesting. Cheech and Chong were big back then, Billy and I even saw them live at the Center Star Theatre only two weeks before, and of course I was interested in what some of the things they said meant.
Mr. G wasn’t too sure what “fuchi” means in Spanish; he thought it might be a select dialect or something. He said that “fushee” is an expression of discomfort when one smells something bad. But he said that “K-pesta” is “que puesta” and that means, “What stinks?”
His son thought it was all funny.
I directed him to take the exit for the business route through town, it was the Old Highway 30, and so he could drop me off at the main intersection and continue straight to pick up the Interstate at the north end of town. They dropped me off where Air Base Road runs into the old highway, I urged him to take me out to the base, an added 10 miles and I would give him $10.
“Sorry,” He declined. “We have a long way to go to get to Nampa tonight.”
And off they went still headed north.
I was still ten miles from my new home, I still hadn’t really gotten to know the place much yet and I was expected for work on Monday, my first day of duty here. So, I set my mind and stuck my thumb out hoping for a ride out to the Air Base.
“You headed out to the Base?” The first guy with a pickup truck asked me out the window, I had been there less than five minutes.
“Yeah, my bike blew up in Twin Falls.” I told him. “I need to get out to the base.”
“Well, let’s load’er up.”
“Thanks!”
Is it just the small town, or is everybody so helpful out here? Looking back I recall how I would go out of my way to pick up hitchhikers whenever I could. I loved the company and I wanted to be helpful. Today one would be putting his or her life on the line to stop and help a stranger. What a difference from then to now.
I finally got the bike home and checked it out. I could see holes burnt in the piston through the spark plug hole on the right side cylinder. The mixture on the new carburetors was too lean and the effect was for the top of the pistons to erode and finally burn completely through. I knew I should have fattened up the jets but I didn’t expect it to do this so soon.
Another lesson learned in a long line of expensive lessons in motorcycle maintenance. This one really stuck though; I raced Plymouth Hemis with Bob Cejka for a time from 1977 until they closed the drag strip in Irvine, somewhere about 1980. The lesson I learned along the Interstate in Idaho was key to our success in making the Road Runner perform well and kept us with a very consistent ET.
Back there in the Idaho desert I was thinking, “I don’t want to pull this engine out again and rebuild it all over again.” Plus, I will be without transportation until I rebuilt the engine again and got the carbs jetted right. Wait a minute; I saw a sign for a Kawasaki for sale, one like Steven’s.
I went in and found the bulletin board and sure enough there it was. “1972 Kawasaki 750 Triple for sale. $850 or take over payments.” I wrote down the phone number, got a dime, and called.
“Do, do…you, you…still have the 750?” I stuttered a lot, being afraid I may not be the first.
“Yes, I haven’t sold it yet”
“I’ll take it.” I said.
“Don’t you want to see it?”
“Yeah, when can we do this?”
I was a little over anxious. But that is how I got my first superbike. The bike that I made into a café racer from bullshit I heard back in the FMS Squadron break room with all those BMW, Kawasaki, BSA, and Norton owners. The Japanese scream machine that would take over my life for seven years.
The Honda rotted away. I saw it a few months later; someone had taken parts off it. Anything left in the desert will revert, eventually.
The rust spot is probably still there in front of the barracks.
It was about 3:00 PM and I was just hoping something was open in town. I saw two older gentlemen sitting in front of the hardware store and so I nursed my broken bike up to them and shut it off. Pulling my helmet off I asked if there was a gas station in town.
“Nope,” One of them said. “Even if we had a gas station it wouldn’t be open on a Sunday.”
I told them that I was stationed at the air base and that I needed to get back even though my bike was broken. It all seemed hopeless, I knew my bike was dead and I was too far from base. Nothing is more hopeless when you just know you are too far from help.
Someone up there must like me because about then a man and his son were just coming by with a moving van, one of those rentals that you drive yourself. Mr. Gonzales and his nine year old son was also looking for gasoline and after a short conversation we agreed to load up my bike and he would take me to Mountain Home to drop me off. Just a short stop for gas up the road a bit. And he was going that way anyway.
Either I was stronger than I am today, of course that’s true, or that bike didn’t weigh so much because we loaded it up easily with the three of us lifting it into the van. I set it up on the center stand and off we went to Mountain Home.
Conversation in the truck was interesting. Cheech and Chong were big back then, Billy and I even saw them live at the Center Star Theatre only two weeks before, and of course I was interested in what some of the things they said meant.
Mr. G wasn’t too sure what “fuchi” means in Spanish; he thought it might be a select dialect or something. He said that “fushee” is an expression of discomfort when one smells something bad. But he said that “K-pesta” is “que puesta” and that means, “What stinks?”
His son thought it was all funny.
I directed him to take the exit for the business route through town, it was the Old Highway 30, and so he could drop me off at the main intersection and continue straight to pick up the Interstate at the north end of town. They dropped me off where Air Base Road runs into the old highway, I urged him to take me out to the base, an added 10 miles and I would give him $10.
“Sorry,” He declined. “We have a long way to go to get to Nampa tonight.”
And off they went still headed north.
I was still ten miles from my new home, I still hadn’t really gotten to know the place much yet and I was expected for work on Monday, my first day of duty here. So, I set my mind and stuck my thumb out hoping for a ride out to the Air Base.
“You headed out to the Base?” The first guy with a pickup truck asked me out the window, I had been there less than five minutes.
“Yeah, my bike blew up in Twin Falls.” I told him. “I need to get out to the base.”
“Well, let’s load’er up.”
“Thanks!”
Is it just the small town, or is everybody so helpful out here? Looking back I recall how I would go out of my way to pick up hitchhikers whenever I could. I loved the company and I wanted to be helpful. Today one would be putting his or her life on the line to stop and help a stranger. What a difference from then to now.
I finally got the bike home and checked it out. I could see holes burnt in the piston through the spark plug hole on the right side cylinder. The mixture on the new carburetors was too lean and the effect was for the top of the pistons to erode and finally burn completely through. I knew I should have fattened up the jets but I didn’t expect it to do this so soon.
Another lesson learned in a long line of expensive lessons in motorcycle maintenance. This one really stuck though; I raced Plymouth Hemis with Bob Cejka for a time from 1977 until they closed the drag strip in Irvine, somewhere about 1980. The lesson I learned along the Interstate in Idaho was key to our success in making the Road Runner perform well and kept us with a very consistent ET.
Back there in the Idaho desert I was thinking, “I don’t want to pull this engine out again and rebuild it all over again.” Plus, I will be without transportation until I rebuilt the engine again and got the carbs jetted right. Wait a minute; I saw a sign for a Kawasaki for sale, one like Steven’s.
I went in and found the bulletin board and sure enough there it was. “1972 Kawasaki 750 Triple for sale. $850 or take over payments.” I wrote down the phone number, got a dime, and called.
“Do, do…you, you…still have the 750?” I stuttered a lot, being afraid I may not be the first.
“Yes, I haven’t sold it yet”
“I’ll take it.” I said.
“Don’t you want to see it?”
“Yeah, when can we do this?”
I was a little over anxious. But that is how I got my first superbike. The bike that I made into a café racer from bullshit I heard back in the FMS Squadron break room with all those BMW, Kawasaki, BSA, and Norton owners. The Japanese scream machine that would take over my life for seven years.
The Honda rotted away. I saw it a few months later; someone had taken parts off it. Anything left in the desert will revert, eventually.
The rust spot is probably still there in front of the barracks.
Afterthoughts:
Do you remember “F Troup,” the TV series about how the US Cavalry handled the Indians, if they were cowards?
Larry Storch played Corporal Agarn, the junior partner of Sgt. O’ Rourke. Agarn was a little slow on the uptake.
When I reported in for duty, I had to report to Sgt. Birch. Jack Birch had taken me under his wing when I first arrived in Bitburg; I like to think he had been my guardian angel, or sergeant, since I reported for duty on my first assignment. He was happy to see me and welcomed me to the unit, very warmly in fact.
“Realini, you are the sloppiest Staff Sergeant I have ever seen.” He commented as I was being greeted. I was used to it by then. I was always in trouble for not having my uniform ironed or my hair too long. So I just went in to the break room and sat down to watch the guys play Pinochle.
About 20 minutes later something was bothering me. I got up and went in to the office to find out what he had said to me.
Sgt. Birch looked up and smiled at me.
“What do you mean, Staff Sergeant?” I asked.
“Congratulations!” He was smiling with his hand out for a handshake. “Didn’t you hear? Your promotion just came through.”
I felt like Agarn. Happy, but really dumb.
Larry Storch played Corporal Agarn, the junior partner of Sgt. O’ Rourke. Agarn was a little slow on the uptake.
When I reported in for duty, I had to report to Sgt. Birch. Jack Birch had taken me under his wing when I first arrived in Bitburg; I like to think he had been my guardian angel, or sergeant, since I reported for duty on my first assignment. He was happy to see me and welcomed me to the unit, very warmly in fact.
“Realini, you are the sloppiest Staff Sergeant I have ever seen.” He commented as I was being greeted. I was used to it by then. I was always in trouble for not having my uniform ironed or my hair too long. So I just went in to the break room and sat down to watch the guys play Pinochle.
About 20 minutes later something was bothering me. I got up and went in to the office to find out what he had said to me.
Sgt. Birch looked up and smiled at me.
“What do you mean, Staff Sergeant?” I asked.
“Congratulations!” He was smiling with his hand out for a handshake. “Didn’t you hear? Your promotion just came through.”
I felt like Agarn. Happy, but really dumb.
Monday, January 4, 2010
I Just Want To Ride, Man
The first night after I got in from Frankfurt, Germany, Billy and I drove out to the beach because Bill wanted to go across the US from one coast to the other. So we had to drive all the way out to the beach in South Carolina to get a rightful start. On our way east that night, all Bill wanted to do was tell me about the movies I missed being in Germany. The way it worked, a movie would not make the overseas circuit through military bases until it had finished its circuit here in the States. So of course he wanted to tell me about all the movies I missed.
He kept talking about some movie about a girl with her head spinning around on her neck, or her body, or something? I was too happy just being with an old friend and having someone to talk to, I didn’t give a shit about some movie about exorcism. And I still don’t. I was very emotional at the time, I had just got off the airplane, I needed a drink or something, and it was hot and humid. I had never been on the east coast in summer before and it was something new for me. I hated the four winters I spent in the military, all I wanted was the warmth of California. Now I had too much.
We ended up sleeping in the Red Van on the beach and I got 200 mosquito bites, or so. I was so tired I didn’t care. The inside of the Red Van was so hot and humid I had to get out and get some air. I was tired and needed sleep but I couldn’t sleep in the heat so I ended up walking along the beach by myself just to get out of the hot van. Oh hell, the mosquitoes made it miserable, at least in the van the number of insects was limited. I was miserable and it wasn’t going to get any better for a long time.
To make the long trip short, I will only cover a few highlights of the trip. This is how we got to Idaho. Just as a note here, I could not remember too many of the places we passed through, I thought our second night was Albuquerque but thanks to Billy my memory is reinstated, it was Jackson Mississippi.
After the insect conflict on the beach in South Carolina, we drove to Jackson, Mississippi by way of Atlanta, Georgia. I had never been in the south before and Billy had told me about a guy in a song who had troubles in a bar while traveling through the south. The song ended with the artist’s comment that the next time he goes from Florida to California it will be through Omaha! Being the paranoid freak that I was back then I only had visions of roadhouse brawls and Bill and I nearly escaping with our lives and buckshot dents in the back door of the Red Van.
We got a motel room in Jackson when the mosquito bites were at their peak of itch/scratch. It was still hot and humid so I cut off some jeans and languished in the pool until my fingers wrinkled, it took extra long for that because I was still scratching. I stopped in the motel lobby and got some itch cream to squelch the ones I could reach. I finally got to sleep in the air-conditioned motel room and I still don’t remember getting up the next day.
So it was back on the road again, to paraphrase Willie Nelson. The country we traveled through was lush with trees and grass. I had two years of similar countryside in Europe, but the land was different, there is nothing like Western Europe for travel by car. Going back to my youth in California, the countryside was green and lush only for a few weeks in the spring, mostly the ground cover in California is brown grass studded by green Oak trees, unless you drive through the redwood forest or along the beach.
Mile after mile we traveled from one town to the next. The Mississippi River has always been something I wanted to see. I followed our progress on the map the best I could but it was quite a letdown when we finally passed over the muddy waters on an old rusty bridge. I expected it to be wider with lots of river boats and barges going up river with products for the masses and returning with grains and produce for the big city dwellers and for export. Texas loomed ahead.
For anybody who served in the Air Force, Lackland AFB in San Antonio is home. Billy wanted to visit the Jersey Lily, in Langtry along the Texas-Mexico border, the Rio Grande. This was the home and courthouse of Judge Roy Bean, the Hangin’ Judge, Law West of the Pecos. Therefore, we were going through San Antonio for points west.
We saw a billboard for one of those places you pass on the road when you are going somewhere. It was a cave in central Texas where the road had to swerve to avoid the unstable ground. Anyway the ad looked good. We decided to stop and for only a few dollars got the guided tour through a very well maintained cave with lots of cave architecture.
They had an underground tram, good lighting and when we all looked up to see daylight through a hole in the ceiling; we saw where a saber tooth tiger had scratched the wall trying to escape. They told us the tiger bones were still there and behind us it was true. They also told us that the cave was discovered when they drilled core samples for the highway, and bingo, they found it. On the way out we were treated to a very moving religious moment when they lit up a wall image of the lord.
We stopped in SA for something in a strip mall. I remember the motorcycle shop, it was just a storefront in a strip mall along the frontage road for the loop highway around San Antonio, but they had a rear tire for my Honda and guess what, I wanted it. I had noticed I needed a new rear tire and there it was. Billy said don’t spend your money on that, we need it for the trip. He was right, I bought the tire and we needed the money. That necessitated another stop later at Norton AFB in San Bernardino to get paid.
We made it to Del Rio and on to Langtry with just enough time to see the sunset over the Rio Grande. We of course arrived too late to see the Hangin’ Judge’s bar and courthouse so we climbed the wall and peeked over to see the Jersey Lily and all the holes in the roof and smokestack, that was the wild west. At least I got to see the Pecos and the Rio Grande come together.
On the trip up the western part of Texas we saw a long straight stretch of road ahead. It was about 30 or 40 miles of road that was calling me to ride. I told Billy I wanted to stop and unload my bike so I could ride.
“I just want to ride, man.” I said.
I was itching to be on my scooter again.
Billy was trying to convince me that I didn’t want to.
He said it like it was an insult to ask for help to unload my bike. I think he was envious because he didn’t bring his bike along too.
We didn’t stop, nor did I get to ride my Honda.
So we made it to Carlsbad and we wanted to see the Caverns. The elevator ride down was a rush and I was amazed to see so much food available at the snack bar 754 feet below the desert floor. Wow, I was so impressed to see such concern for the comfort of my fellow humans. I just had to overlook the price of hotdogs that far underground.
Seeing how we were now so close to Alamogordo New Mexico, we had to visit Steven Pundock, he was stationed at Homestead AFB just outside of town. Billy had Steven’s address and we waited only a few hours for him to arrive home from work, what a surprise eh? Come home from work on your Honda 500 four and find two old army buddies waiting for you at home.
Steven’s roommate worked at a theatre in town that was showing a special movie so we all went together to see a very well acclaimed movie of that era. It was right up there with Bob & Carol, Ted & Alice, The Graduate, and Rosemary’s Baby.
I have never seen Steven since, I have regretted not keeping in touch with him, and he did make a big influence in my life. Both Billy and I have tried to contact him, leaving messages, but neither one of us have heard back. I think he lives in Mesquite, Texas now.
After we stopped in San Bernardino for money Billy and I headed back in the wrong direction to see the Ghost Town of Calico, just outside of Barstow. You could almost hear the words of Kenny Rodgers as we read the signs depicting each shack or building. In fact the wording is the same.
Billy and I finally made it to my mom’s house in Modesto late that night. It wasn’t for a few days before we finally made it out to the beach in Pacifica to complete our coast-to-coast trip. What a pleasure to be in the fog of Pacifica as we visited my cousin Paul and his wonderful wife Shelly. We had a blast together and smoked a lot of Lemon Twist Cigarettes, enough to puke a lot.
My mom got remarried while we were there. She waited until I got back from Germany before she married her second husband, Tom. Too bad she didn’t check the police log before she married him. I think it should be the law. Tom was all right I guess, he was a devout Catholic, two hours every Sunday. The rest of the time he spent with a bottle.
Tom tried to keep everything my dad left for me. My father had quite a garage full of tools. Of course my dad told me they would become mine someday. Tom told me that it was too bad because they were his now.
Tom’s father helped build the first Panama Canal. Tom’s father died in the late 1970s and left all his tools from a long career as a Tool and Die maker for his three sons and many grandkids. Tom claimed all that stuff too, the greedy bastard. If you ever want to see what Tom’s father left them, come over and visit sometime, I’d be glad to show you.
That and most of the stuff my dad left me too.
Anyway, Billy delivered me to Mountain Home AFB on the day before I had to report in. Thanks Billy, it was fun; I know you are reading this. When I reported in I also got paid for the time I was off gallivanting around the west. Remember the problems I had with the carburetors on my Honda? I set out for Boise right away and found the local Honda dealer.
Two Mikuni carbs to go please.
I figured I had the system beat. I was trading in those constant velocity factory carbs that would stick on me, and I was getting a couple of the best-upgraded items for my bike available at that time. I couldn’t wait to get back to base and change out those carbs. So with the boxes strapped to the rear seat of my Honda I headed back to the air base.
Wow what a difference. The old Honda twin ran really well. A little trip down to Twin Falls along the Snake River and I was in heaven, maybe I could like Idaho after all. Just me and my Honda, riding through frequent patches of potatoes, looking for what Evil Knievel had left behind.
Happiness comes in small packages. Mikuni carbs come in small packages.
Boy that bike ran good.
That is until I got to Jerome.
That is when I discovered how far out in the sticks Idaho is.
He kept talking about some movie about a girl with her head spinning around on her neck, or her body, or something? I was too happy just being with an old friend and having someone to talk to, I didn’t give a shit about some movie about exorcism. And I still don’t. I was very emotional at the time, I had just got off the airplane, I needed a drink or something, and it was hot and humid. I had never been on the east coast in summer before and it was something new for me. I hated the four winters I spent in the military, all I wanted was the warmth of California. Now I had too much.
We ended up sleeping in the Red Van on the beach and I got 200 mosquito bites, or so. I was so tired I didn’t care. The inside of the Red Van was so hot and humid I had to get out and get some air. I was tired and needed sleep but I couldn’t sleep in the heat so I ended up walking along the beach by myself just to get out of the hot van. Oh hell, the mosquitoes made it miserable, at least in the van the number of insects was limited. I was miserable and it wasn’t going to get any better for a long time.
To make the long trip short, I will only cover a few highlights of the trip. This is how we got to Idaho. Just as a note here, I could not remember too many of the places we passed through, I thought our second night was Albuquerque but thanks to Billy my memory is reinstated, it was Jackson Mississippi.
After the insect conflict on the beach in South Carolina, we drove to Jackson, Mississippi by way of Atlanta, Georgia. I had never been in the south before and Billy had told me about a guy in a song who had troubles in a bar while traveling through the south. The song ended with the artist’s comment that the next time he goes from Florida to California it will be through Omaha! Being the paranoid freak that I was back then I only had visions of roadhouse brawls and Bill and I nearly escaping with our lives and buckshot dents in the back door of the Red Van.
We got a motel room in Jackson when the mosquito bites were at their peak of itch/scratch. It was still hot and humid so I cut off some jeans and languished in the pool until my fingers wrinkled, it took extra long for that because I was still scratching. I stopped in the motel lobby and got some itch cream to squelch the ones I could reach. I finally got to sleep in the air-conditioned motel room and I still don’t remember getting up the next day.
So it was back on the road again, to paraphrase Willie Nelson. The country we traveled through was lush with trees and grass. I had two years of similar countryside in Europe, but the land was different, there is nothing like Western Europe for travel by car. Going back to my youth in California, the countryside was green and lush only for a few weeks in the spring, mostly the ground cover in California is brown grass studded by green Oak trees, unless you drive through the redwood forest or along the beach.
Mile after mile we traveled from one town to the next. The Mississippi River has always been something I wanted to see. I followed our progress on the map the best I could but it was quite a letdown when we finally passed over the muddy waters on an old rusty bridge. I expected it to be wider with lots of river boats and barges going up river with products for the masses and returning with grains and produce for the big city dwellers and for export. Texas loomed ahead.
For anybody who served in the Air Force, Lackland AFB in San Antonio is home. Billy wanted to visit the Jersey Lily, in Langtry along the Texas-Mexico border, the Rio Grande. This was the home and courthouse of Judge Roy Bean, the Hangin’ Judge, Law West of the Pecos. Therefore, we were going through San Antonio for points west.
We saw a billboard for one of those places you pass on the road when you are going somewhere. It was a cave in central Texas where the road had to swerve to avoid the unstable ground. Anyway the ad looked good. We decided to stop and for only a few dollars got the guided tour through a very well maintained cave with lots of cave architecture.
They had an underground tram, good lighting and when we all looked up to see daylight through a hole in the ceiling; we saw where a saber tooth tiger had scratched the wall trying to escape. They told us the tiger bones were still there and behind us it was true. They also told us that the cave was discovered when they drilled core samples for the highway, and bingo, they found it. On the way out we were treated to a very moving religious moment when they lit up a wall image of the lord.
We stopped in SA for something in a strip mall. I remember the motorcycle shop, it was just a storefront in a strip mall along the frontage road for the loop highway around San Antonio, but they had a rear tire for my Honda and guess what, I wanted it. I had noticed I needed a new rear tire and there it was. Billy said don’t spend your money on that, we need it for the trip. He was right, I bought the tire and we needed the money. That necessitated another stop later at Norton AFB in San Bernardino to get paid.
We made it to Del Rio and on to Langtry with just enough time to see the sunset over the Rio Grande. We of course arrived too late to see the Hangin’ Judge’s bar and courthouse so we climbed the wall and peeked over to see the Jersey Lily and all the holes in the roof and smokestack, that was the wild west. At least I got to see the Pecos and the Rio Grande come together.
On the trip up the western part of Texas we saw a long straight stretch of road ahead. It was about 30 or 40 miles of road that was calling me to ride. I told Billy I wanted to stop and unload my bike so I could ride.
“I just want to ride, man.” I said.
I was itching to be on my scooter again.
Billy was trying to convince me that I didn’t want to.
He said it like it was an insult to ask for help to unload my bike. I think he was envious because he didn’t bring his bike along too.
We didn’t stop, nor did I get to ride my Honda.
So we made it to Carlsbad and we wanted to see the Caverns. The elevator ride down was a rush and I was amazed to see so much food available at the snack bar 754 feet below the desert floor. Wow, I was so impressed to see such concern for the comfort of my fellow humans. I just had to overlook the price of hotdogs that far underground.
Seeing how we were now so close to Alamogordo New Mexico, we had to visit Steven Pundock, he was stationed at Homestead AFB just outside of town. Billy had Steven’s address and we waited only a few hours for him to arrive home from work, what a surprise eh? Come home from work on your Honda 500 four and find two old army buddies waiting for you at home.
Steven’s roommate worked at a theatre in town that was showing a special movie so we all went together to see a very well acclaimed movie of that era. It was right up there with Bob & Carol, Ted & Alice, The Graduate, and Rosemary’s Baby.
I have never seen Steven since, I have regretted not keeping in touch with him, and he did make a big influence in my life. Both Billy and I have tried to contact him, leaving messages, but neither one of us have heard back. I think he lives in Mesquite, Texas now.
After we stopped in San Bernardino for money Billy and I headed back in the wrong direction to see the Ghost Town of Calico, just outside of Barstow. You could almost hear the words of Kenny Rodgers as we read the signs depicting each shack or building. In fact the wording is the same.
Billy and I finally made it to my mom’s house in Modesto late that night. It wasn’t for a few days before we finally made it out to the beach in Pacifica to complete our coast-to-coast trip. What a pleasure to be in the fog of Pacifica as we visited my cousin Paul and his wonderful wife Shelly. We had a blast together and smoked a lot of Lemon Twist Cigarettes, enough to puke a lot.
My mom got remarried while we were there. She waited until I got back from Germany before she married her second husband, Tom. Too bad she didn’t check the police log before she married him. I think it should be the law. Tom was all right I guess, he was a devout Catholic, two hours every Sunday. The rest of the time he spent with a bottle.
Tom tried to keep everything my dad left for me. My father had quite a garage full of tools. Of course my dad told me they would become mine someday. Tom told me that it was too bad because they were his now.
Tom’s father helped build the first Panama Canal. Tom’s father died in the late 1970s and left all his tools from a long career as a Tool and Die maker for his three sons and many grandkids. Tom claimed all that stuff too, the greedy bastard. If you ever want to see what Tom’s father left them, come over and visit sometime, I’d be glad to show you.
That and most of the stuff my dad left me too.
Anyway, Billy delivered me to Mountain Home AFB on the day before I had to report in. Thanks Billy, it was fun; I know you are reading this. When I reported in I also got paid for the time I was off gallivanting around the west. Remember the problems I had with the carburetors on my Honda? I set out for Boise right away and found the local Honda dealer.
Two Mikuni carbs to go please.
I figured I had the system beat. I was trading in those constant velocity factory carbs that would stick on me, and I was getting a couple of the best-upgraded items for my bike available at that time. I couldn’t wait to get back to base and change out those carbs. So with the boxes strapped to the rear seat of my Honda I headed back to the air base.
Wow what a difference. The old Honda twin ran really well. A little trip down to Twin Falls along the Snake River and I was in heaven, maybe I could like Idaho after all. Just me and my Honda, riding through frequent patches of potatoes, looking for what Evil Knievel had left behind.
Happiness comes in small packages. Mikuni carbs come in small packages.
Boy that bike ran good.
That is until I got to Jerome.
That is when I discovered how far out in the sticks Idaho is.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Aviano, Italy
It all started as a rumor. Cameron, our cockpit man, told me my orders to transfer to Nellis AFB near Las Vegas were changed, I was now going to Mountain Home AFB, in Mountain Home, Idaho.
No, no no no! It isn’t legal to change my next assignment less than 30 days before my last day.
I went over to the squadron to find somebody to complain. We were TDY, on temporary duty assignment, and the squadron I was referring to was the Tactical Fighter Squadron I was TDY with, not the maintenance squadron of home. Even though I had never been inside the squadron headquarters, I knew I had to do something. I asked around and sure enough, they had a copy for me. My next station is now Mountain Home, Idaho.
I had to get a map to see where it is. Well not so bad, it is still close enough I can go home and visit my mom occasionally. Most were jealous, Mountain Home is a choice assignment. It is a sportsman’s paradise they all told me.
I grew up fishing. I had guns, almost an arsenal. Sportsman’s paradise, eh? I guess I could get along there, but it still irked me that they changed my next base to Idaho.
I know now what happened back then. It was Jack Birch, he had me transferred to his base. He took a liking to me right away back when I first arrived at Bitburg, and now he was reaching out and having me assigned to his current home. Well, I guess it is always nice when you are wanted.
I had to get a letter off to Billy right away.
When I got back to Bitburg I got a letter from Billy.
So I sent Bill a copy of my orders, a power of attorney, and the registration on my bike.
So I got another letter from Billy.
They all laughed at me.
All my roommates, all my motorcycle buddies, even Al Holsenbeck, by boss, thought I was a fool to send Dexter all that stuff.
I left Bitburg on the same bus I arrived in just two years and two months prior. I didn’t look back. I was jet lagged when I arrived. I was just as detached when I left.
I got on a plane in Frankfurt and I flew across the ocean to Charleston South Carolina.
I got off the plane and there was Billy.
He had his red van.
My motorcycle was in the back.
No, no no no! It isn’t legal to change my next assignment less than 30 days before my last day.
I went over to the squadron to find somebody to complain. We were TDY, on temporary duty assignment, and the squadron I was referring to was the Tactical Fighter Squadron I was TDY with, not the maintenance squadron of home. Even though I had never been inside the squadron headquarters, I knew I had to do something. I asked around and sure enough, they had a copy for me. My next station is now Mountain Home, Idaho.
I had to get a map to see where it is. Well not so bad, it is still close enough I can go home and visit my mom occasionally. Most were jealous, Mountain Home is a choice assignment. It is a sportsman’s paradise they all told me.
I grew up fishing. I had guns, almost an arsenal. Sportsman’s paradise, eh? I guess I could get along there, but it still irked me that they changed my next base to Idaho.
I know now what happened back then. It was Jack Birch, he had me transferred to his base. He took a liking to me right away back when I first arrived at Bitburg, and now he was reaching out and having me assigned to his current home. Well, I guess it is always nice when you are wanted.
I had to get a letter off to Billy right away.
Dear Billy,
Them bastards changed me to Mountain Home AFB, Idaho. My new orders are to arrive in Charleston AFB, South Carolina. My motorcycle is going to arrive in New Jersey. Now what am I supposed to do?
Your Buddy,
Joey
When I got back to Bitburg I got a letter from Billy.
Joey,
No problem, just send me a power of attorney, I will pick up your bike in New Jersey and drive down to Charleston and get you. Then we will drive to California together.
Billy
So I sent Bill a copy of my orders, a power of attorney, and the registration on my bike.
So I got another letter from Billy.
Joey,
Thanks a lot sucker. Thanks for the really neat motorcycle.
Billy
They all laughed at me.
All my roommates, all my motorcycle buddies, even Al Holsenbeck, by boss, thought I was a fool to send Dexter all that stuff.
I left Bitburg on the same bus I arrived in just two years and two months prior. I didn’t look back. I was jet lagged when I arrived. I was just as detached when I left.
I got on a plane in Frankfurt and I flew across the ocean to Charleston South Carolina.
I got off the plane and there was Billy.
He had his red van.
My motorcycle was in the back.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Back At Home
The big trip is over. Steven got his bike back with only a few miles added to the odometer, an empty tank, well almost, it was actually not on reserve yet, and I gained a pair of motorcycle goggles but I lost my friend.
I was reassigned to a different load crew, I was now on Al Holsenbeck’s crew with people I didn’t know very well, and none of them were bikers. We now had to move to a new shop location, we lost our revetment near Victor Alert, we now occupied the hanger that used to house the two mix-master helicopters of our rescue unit, I suppose it was either relocated to a different base or they disbanded.
Life had made many changes in the short week we were gone. I had some getting used to.
This was the first time I was disappointed with those kinds of changes. There were many more to come, some of each on either side of the disappointment fence.
I considered myself a veteran motorcycle rider at this point. I could ride the big bikes and I rode two-up all the way back from England. I still hung out with the guys in the motorcycle group, except Calvin was standoffish.
I still rode my Honda around Bitburg, Trier, and the Mosel River a lot. Only a few trips to outlying areas, I never did take a trip to France on it, I regret that now. I still had trouble with the slides sticking on my carburetors, I sometimes had to hold the throttle open and just wait for them to release. On occasion it was embarrassing.
Then the big day came and I got my orders to transfer to Nellis AFB, near Las Vegas, Nevada. I had hoped for Castle AFB in Merced, they had B-52’s my dream to work on. Nellis was OK with me, it was close enough to California I would be happy.
I sent a letter off to Billy Dexter, one of the old timers who had taken me under his wing when I first arrived at Bitburg back in ’72. His nickname was Billy Bolder, from the Mothers’ of Invention album, Billy the Mountain. He denies it but it is how I remember.
Billy wanted to take a leave of absence from his current station in upstate New York to drive across the states with me, since I was going to arrive on the east coast and needed to travel to California. Permanent change of station, the orders I had assigning me to Nellis, included one month of leave, so I could travel. I hadn’t seen my sisters, or most of my family, in over two years. My mom has spent one month with me in my VW touring Europe less than a year before.
The trip with Billy sounded good. We had traveled in his Opel GT together when I went to Spain with before he was reassigned, so I kind of knew what would happen. I hadn’t studied too well in school so Billy was my history and geography teacher now. What the heck lets go!
I rode up to Bremerhaven on my bike and left it with the military agent there to have it shipped to Bayonne, New Jersey. I was accompanied with all my buddies from the motorcycle group, plus a few more who wanted to go for the long ride. One of the guys had a ’64 Chevy that we took that along for the ride home. It was full both ways. Bach rode my Honda for a while on the trip up.
I was very happy to be going home to California. Things were winding down for me in Germany. I wanted to go home in a bad way. I wish I had stayed longer now.
I volunteered to travel to Aviano Italy one more time on a TDY with my loading crew. I loved the place, I had good friends from my motorcycle buddies going at the same time, so I signed a waiver and it was off to Italy in a C-130.
At least things were going my way. That is until I got to Italy. Then the worst thing you could imagine happened to me that didn’t include anybody giving up the ghost.
My orders to Nellis were cancelled!
I was reassigned to a different load crew, I was now on Al Holsenbeck’s crew with people I didn’t know very well, and none of them were bikers. We now had to move to a new shop location, we lost our revetment near Victor Alert, we now occupied the hanger that used to house the two mix-master helicopters of our rescue unit, I suppose it was either relocated to a different base or they disbanded.
Life had made many changes in the short week we were gone. I had some getting used to.
This was the first time I was disappointed with those kinds of changes. There were many more to come, some of each on either side of the disappointment fence.
I considered myself a veteran motorcycle rider at this point. I could ride the big bikes and I rode two-up all the way back from England. I still hung out with the guys in the motorcycle group, except Calvin was standoffish.
I still rode my Honda around Bitburg, Trier, and the Mosel River a lot. Only a few trips to outlying areas, I never did take a trip to France on it, I regret that now. I still had trouble with the slides sticking on my carburetors, I sometimes had to hold the throttle open and just wait for them to release. On occasion it was embarrassing.
Then the big day came and I got my orders to transfer to Nellis AFB, near Las Vegas, Nevada. I had hoped for Castle AFB in Merced, they had B-52’s my dream to work on. Nellis was OK with me, it was close enough to California I would be happy.
I sent a letter off to Billy Dexter, one of the old timers who had taken me under his wing when I first arrived at Bitburg back in ’72. His nickname was Billy Bolder, from the Mothers’ of Invention album, Billy the Mountain. He denies it but it is how I remember.
Billy wanted to take a leave of absence from his current station in upstate New York to drive across the states with me, since I was going to arrive on the east coast and needed to travel to California. Permanent change of station, the orders I had assigning me to Nellis, included one month of leave, so I could travel. I hadn’t seen my sisters, or most of my family, in over two years. My mom has spent one month with me in my VW touring Europe less than a year before.
The trip with Billy sounded good. We had traveled in his Opel GT together when I went to Spain with before he was reassigned, so I kind of knew what would happen. I hadn’t studied too well in school so Billy was my history and geography teacher now. What the heck lets go!
I rode up to Bremerhaven on my bike and left it with the military agent there to have it shipped to Bayonne, New Jersey. I was accompanied with all my buddies from the motorcycle group, plus a few more who wanted to go for the long ride. One of the guys had a ’64 Chevy that we took that along for the ride home. It was full both ways. Bach rode my Honda for a while on the trip up.
I was very happy to be going home to California. Things were winding down for me in Germany. I wanted to go home in a bad way. I wish I had stayed longer now.
I volunteered to travel to Aviano Italy one more time on a TDY with my loading crew. I loved the place, I had good friends from my motorcycle buddies going at the same time, so I signed a waiver and it was off to Italy in a C-130.
At least things were going my way. That is until I got to Italy. Then the worst thing you could imagine happened to me that didn’t include anybody giving up the ghost.
My orders to Nellis were cancelled!
Friday, January 1, 2010
On Borrowed Time, Part Eight; London and Home
Being the veteran, I advised Calvin that the only thing in London for a couple of 22-year-old boys was to hang out at Piccadilly. So we got us a room in a cheap hotel and took the tube to Piccadilly.
“You are going to have to find somewhere else to go, I plan to bring someone back here for the night.” Calvin advised me.
My instant reaction was to close down and withdraw. I had been cut out of the action more than once in the past and I was no stranger to it. My idea was that if we had found a couple of chicks, birds they call them in London, we would come back to our hotel with them together.
I knew better, I felt bad that he was treating me this way but I know the English better than he does.
“You are wrong if you think you will get anybody to come home with you tonight.” I countered.
“What makes you think I can’t get laid?” He continued, with distain in his voice.
I knew Calvin had already made it with one of the WACs back at Bitburg. Not too many of us had, I never did, the pool to pick from was extremely limited. I had a roommate who picked his women from base housing, the married women that is.
Calvin told me the WAC he had dated was strange in an earlier conversation. I knew the girl he was talking about back then, you see there were a grand total of 30 women stationed at Bitburg, in the enlisted quarters that is, everyone knew all of the girls there by reputation. And knowing the girl he had dated, I thought Calvin was a little weird anyway, just because he had gone out with her in the first place.
“We are in London.” I knew I had him, “You will have to be properly introduced.”
I just make an enemy. Was it my negative vibes, my forthright attitude, or was I just right? We spent most of the evening hanging out in Piccadilly and we rode the Underground back to the cheap hotel together.
It was the low spot of our trip. Calvin couldn’t get laid. I lost my friend.
Bummer.
The somber feelings continued all the way back home.
We almost ran out of gas in Belgium, it being the middle of the night, nothing was open. Our planning to make it back was difficult. We did stop in a gas station that was closed and drained an already empty hose into Steven’s gas tank.
Calvin became nervous as we got near the German border. He kept asking if I had gone on the reserve yet. The early motorcycles had a tank valve that selected reserve, an extra half gallon to get you to a gas station when you ran out of gas.
I felt nasty. I told him we were on reserve, but we had not gotten that low yet.
I know he knew I was lying, the numbers just didn’t add up. He kept on me about how did we make it without gas. He never did drop it.
I hate it when I lose a friend.
It always makes me feel like I am all alone in the world.
Why can’t we just have a good time?
Looking back, I think it was the women. Would I have had those problems if we had hooked up that night in London?
Destiny is a funny thing.
What do you believe in?
I believe that regret is painful. What if I didn’t lie to Calvin about the gas? Or what if I didn’t tell him that he couldn’t get laid in London? Regret tells me that everything would have been different. But what really would have happened? Would the outcome really have been different?
I kept my friends throughout my stay in Germany. I still talk to Billy Dexter and Don Mack. But I‘ve lost track of all the others. I tried to contact a few of them. Mostly I get no answer and no call back after I leave a message.
I even went to a Bitburg reunion a few years ago in Branson with my wife Norma. We had a good time but the people were not the ones I had such a good time with back then.
Yes I regret not keeping up with the old gang. I can’t even remember a lot of their names. But it’s too late now.
And that’s why I am writing this. I am opening up my soul to get all this down and in print. I want the world to learn from my mistakes. I hope I can pass this one thought on to at least one person out there.
We are all on borrowed time. None of it belongs to us in the long run. We just move on. But what we leave behind is what matters the most. When I am old and sucking my gums in front of the fireplace I want to feel good about what I have left behind. I value my friends the most but it is expectations that ruin friendships.
I once told a friend when he asked me why I hung around after I saw him do something wrong to someone else, a mutual friend. I told him that friends are those who like you even after they know your faults.
And what about family?
I see them as the friends you don’t get to pick.
Live well, love all, and hang in there when it doesn’t work out.
I will be back with another story soon, from Germany but on a higher note.
I promise.
“You are going to have to find somewhere else to go, I plan to bring someone back here for the night.” Calvin advised me.
My instant reaction was to close down and withdraw. I had been cut out of the action more than once in the past and I was no stranger to it. My idea was that if we had found a couple of chicks, birds they call them in London, we would come back to our hotel with them together.
I knew better, I felt bad that he was treating me this way but I know the English better than he does.
“You are wrong if you think you will get anybody to come home with you tonight.” I countered.
“What makes you think I can’t get laid?” He continued, with distain in his voice.
I knew Calvin had already made it with one of the WACs back at Bitburg. Not too many of us had, I never did, the pool to pick from was extremely limited. I had a roommate who picked his women from base housing, the married women that is.
Calvin told me the WAC he had dated was strange in an earlier conversation. I knew the girl he was talking about back then, you see there were a grand total of 30 women stationed at Bitburg, in the enlisted quarters that is, everyone knew all of the girls there by reputation. And knowing the girl he had dated, I thought Calvin was a little weird anyway, just because he had gone out with her in the first place.
“We are in London.” I knew I had him, “You will have to be properly introduced.”
I just make an enemy. Was it my negative vibes, my forthright attitude, or was I just right? We spent most of the evening hanging out in Piccadilly and we rode the Underground back to the cheap hotel together.
It was the low spot of our trip. Calvin couldn’t get laid. I lost my friend.
Bummer.
The somber feelings continued all the way back home.
We almost ran out of gas in Belgium, it being the middle of the night, nothing was open. Our planning to make it back was difficult. We did stop in a gas station that was closed and drained an already empty hose into Steven’s gas tank.
Calvin became nervous as we got near the German border. He kept asking if I had gone on the reserve yet. The early motorcycles had a tank valve that selected reserve, an extra half gallon to get you to a gas station when you ran out of gas.
I felt nasty. I told him we were on reserve, but we had not gotten that low yet.
I know he knew I was lying, the numbers just didn’t add up. He kept on me about how did we make it without gas. He never did drop it.
I hate it when I lose a friend.
It always makes me feel like I am all alone in the world.
Why can’t we just have a good time?
Looking back, I think it was the women. Would I have had those problems if we had hooked up that night in London?
Destiny is a funny thing.
What do you believe in?
I believe that regret is painful. What if I didn’t lie to Calvin about the gas? Or what if I didn’t tell him that he couldn’t get laid in London? Regret tells me that everything would have been different. But what really would have happened? Would the outcome really have been different?
I kept my friends throughout my stay in Germany. I still talk to Billy Dexter and Don Mack. But I‘ve lost track of all the others. I tried to contact a few of them. Mostly I get no answer and no call back after I leave a message.
I even went to a Bitburg reunion a few years ago in Branson with my wife Norma. We had a good time but the people were not the ones I had such a good time with back then.
Yes I regret not keeping up with the old gang. I can’t even remember a lot of their names. But it’s too late now.
And that’s why I am writing this. I am opening up my soul to get all this down and in print. I want the world to learn from my mistakes. I hope I can pass this one thought on to at least one person out there.
We are all on borrowed time. None of it belongs to us in the long run. We just move on. But what we leave behind is what matters the most. When I am old and sucking my gums in front of the fireplace I want to feel good about what I have left behind. I value my friends the most but it is expectations that ruin friendships.
I once told a friend when he asked me why I hung around after I saw him do something wrong to someone else, a mutual friend. I told him that friends are those who like you even after they know your faults.
And what about family?
I see them as the friends you don’t get to pick.
Live well, love all, and hang in there when it doesn’t work out.
I will be back with another story soon, from Germany but on a higher note.
I promise.
On Borrowed Time, Part Seven; Stonehenge
Science has yet to determine the origins of Stonehenge. To date, each new revelation regarding the “meaning” of the rocks has been a revelation in what they thought they knew about the old meanings. It astonishes me that we can look at something today and determine so much of what we know so little about.
To put things in perspective, the heart was a mystery to man until the first fluid pump was invented, then we “understood” it all.
So what happens next?
When we invent the next level of astro-thingamajig, will we understand Stonehenge?
Stonehenge has always intrigued me, the first reasonings I was exposed to back in the ‘60s, I believe I saw it in Scientific American magazine, explained that the site was a guide to celestial events. The writers of that article explained that an exact copy was built somewhere in the South, but it didn’t work. Why? They assumed that the problem was that it was not built on the same parallel.
Why didn’t they compensate?
This is Science, an exact…I give up!
This left me with the attitude that Scientists don’t really know what they are doing.
So I had to go look for myself.
When Calvin and I left Lakenheath AB in Central England, our nest stop was London, via Stonehenge. What? Via Stonehenge? No way you may say, Stonehenge is on the other side of London. But even though we were riding two-up (that means two people and only one bike) we were on the fastest motorcycle at that time.
Remember Steppenwolf? Born to be wild!
I recall hearing on one of those radio broadcast interviews that the author of that song, Dennis Edmonton, AKA Mars Bonfire, wrote it just after he had gotten his first car, something like a ’62 Comet, and he saw a poster for a Harley-Davidson motorcycle that showed the bike exploding out of a Fourth-of-July bang with a caption something like Born to Be Wild!
So, we had a motorcycle, we had the time, we were in England, we were “Born to Be Wild!”
I started to become worried when we were getting close, I had figured that the site for Stonehenge would be somewhere out in a field, kind of isolated. We were on the main road and getting close, all the signs said so. What was really confusing was that the map showed it on one side of the road and the park entrance on the other.
I could see it just ahead. The road looked like it would run right through the center of the stones.
So there it was, we had arrived and just as the map depicted, the parking lot was on the wrong side of the road. We parked and walked through a tunnel to get to the site.
Who in their right mind would build a road so close to one of the great wonders of the world? Why didn’t they go around and give the site some room? Again, I give up.
So there I stood, amongst the rocks. No, make that stones.
I cold feel the life in them. I had to touch one to feel if it was cold.
Everything in England is cold let me reassure you. Foggy and cold. No wonder they tried to settle the world, no one wanted to stay in this dreary place. Listen to me, I grew up in San Francisco, so I don’t really mean it. Foggy and cold is nice, but the English really do have a beautiful country, some of the landscape is remarkable.
I don’t really know how long we stood there, but the moments are etched in my mind permanently. I wanted to be there when the sun rose over the heel stone. I wanted to taste the essence of this remarkable location.
Calvin had kind of gone off alone. I saw him walking around with his helmet in his hand. It appeared he too was enthralled with this fantastic location and all it means.
I looked at him almost as he looked at me and with a wink of an eye we both knew.
Enough! Lets go to London and party!
To put things in perspective, the heart was a mystery to man until the first fluid pump was invented, then we “understood” it all.
So what happens next?
When we invent the next level of astro-thingamajig, will we understand Stonehenge?
Stonehenge has always intrigued me, the first reasonings I was exposed to back in the ‘60s, I believe I saw it in Scientific American magazine, explained that the site was a guide to celestial events. The writers of that article explained that an exact copy was built somewhere in the South, but it didn’t work. Why? They assumed that the problem was that it was not built on the same parallel.
Why didn’t they compensate?
This is Science, an exact…I give up!
This left me with the attitude that Scientists don’t really know what they are doing.
So I had to go look for myself.
When Calvin and I left Lakenheath AB in Central England, our nest stop was London, via Stonehenge. What? Via Stonehenge? No way you may say, Stonehenge is on the other side of London. But even though we were riding two-up (that means two people and only one bike) we were on the fastest motorcycle at that time.
Remember Steppenwolf? Born to be wild!
I recall hearing on one of those radio broadcast interviews that the author of that song, Dennis Edmonton, AKA Mars Bonfire, wrote it just after he had gotten his first car, something like a ’62 Comet, and he saw a poster for a Harley-Davidson motorcycle that showed the bike exploding out of a Fourth-of-July bang with a caption something like Born to Be Wild!
So, we had a motorcycle, we had the time, we were in England, we were “Born to Be Wild!”
I started to become worried when we were getting close, I had figured that the site for Stonehenge would be somewhere out in a field, kind of isolated. We were on the main road and getting close, all the signs said so. What was really confusing was that the map showed it on one side of the road and the park entrance on the other.
I could see it just ahead. The road looked like it would run right through the center of the stones.
So there it was, we had arrived and just as the map depicted, the parking lot was on the wrong side of the road. We parked and walked through a tunnel to get to the site.
Who in their right mind would build a road so close to one of the great wonders of the world? Why didn’t they go around and give the site some room? Again, I give up.
So there I stood, amongst the rocks. No, make that stones.
I cold feel the life in them. I had to touch one to feel if it was cold.
Everything in England is cold let me reassure you. Foggy and cold. No wonder they tried to settle the world, no one wanted to stay in this dreary place. Listen to me, I grew up in San Francisco, so I don’t really mean it. Foggy and cold is nice, but the English really do have a beautiful country, some of the landscape is remarkable.
I don’t really know how long we stood there, but the moments are etched in my mind permanently. I wanted to be there when the sun rose over the heel stone. I wanted to taste the essence of this remarkable location.
Calvin had kind of gone off alone. I saw him walking around with his helmet in his hand. It appeared he too was enthralled with this fantastic location and all it means.
I looked at him almost as he looked at me and with a wink of an eye we both knew.
Enough! Lets go to London and party!
Sunday, December 27, 2009
On Borrowed Time, Part Six; Chinese Food
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.
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.
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.
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