Since Deano got hit, it was decided that we motorcycle couriers present too much “liability exposure” to the company, and we were asked to start driving cars instead. I thought I could last a little while, but last week I had the “fear and sickness unto death” after meeting an ABC Legal driver in Olympia.

I was serving papers on some official at the State Department of Transportation when I heard someone say, “Hey are you a courier? Me too, I work for ABC.”

I turned to see a thin, sickly little man who was holding out a clammy hand for me to shake. I could see that he desperately wanted to make a connection, two guys working in the same field, talking shop, etc. He had all the classic symptoms of someone who spends all day in his car: pale, translucent skin; sunken eyes; and the physique of a used tissue . His twig-like neck, arms and legs stood out in contrast to a noticeable beer gut, and the front of his Everett Aqua-Sox T-shirt was mottled with used hamburger condiments. He was maybe in his late thirties, but one of those guys who has somehow not accepted the fact that he is nearly bald, and his remaining hair was arranged in an elaborate, wiry mess; resembling the hair-balls that one might find under a dusty couch.

I should have welcomed his acquaintance. After all, this is the personification of my job. This guy could be me someday. I contemplated the familiar stooped posture, one that I had seen in other drivers- a sort of permanent “hunch” at the shoulders from sitting in a bucket seat all day. I thought about his car, probably a battered, filthy Honda Civic, its front seat permanently deformed from the constant heat and pressure of his ass, working on it like some grotesque geologic transformation. The car itself would have been the scene to countless bodily functions; a moist, fermenting nest of dandruff and Burger King wrappers.

I looked again at the outstretched hand of this tortured, lonely soul, and I recoiled in horror. The panic hit me. I stumbled and fell backward, clawing for the glass door, my feet squeaking awkwardly on the fine granite tiles of the lobby floor. I ran, and didn’t stop until I reached the open space of the parking lot. I looked at my own faithful little car, called the dispatcher, and put in my two-weeks-notice.

Le Voyeur, Olympia

Lil Wayne taken into custody; The U.S. news media celebrates an election in a U.S. occupied country, and there was an earthquake in Turkey today.

Kalaloch Beach, 2/19/10

photo by Dagny Ihnot

Almost thirty years have passed since the Falklands War, (or Guerra de las Malvinas if you’re from Buenos Aires), and Britain and Argentina are still beefing over this tiny island chain off of Argentina’s coast. Tensions have been escalating all week in the news, and it’s apparently about oil this time.

…Bring them to me

“The mines can move up to a metre in the soft peat, often coming to the surface”

According to Naomi Klein in The Shock Doctrine, British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher was able to boost her sagging popularity in 1982 by blowing on the “Churchillian war trumpet” and sending a bunch of English troops to defend the Falklands, a remote and unimportant colonial relic. “People briefly let up on chanting ‘Ditch the Bitch’, and shirts with ‘Up Your Junta’ started selling briskly.”

SYTKE5SRJJJG

EPROM software update chip for BMW 325is

A guy named Tim put a new wheel bearing in my car the other day. Tim is a sprightly dude in his 40s who works at a shop called FAME in Redmond, and I’d met him before through some Craigslist parts dealings. He agreed to do the repair while I waited on a Sunday, and I also got a chance to pick his brain about old BMW stuff.

Part of me has always wanted to work in a specialty repair shop like FAME: the lifts, the tools, the buckets full of obscure, worthless fasteners. On the other hand, there are also the toxic materials, the inevitable back injuries, and the shitty pay that forces you to work on your day off, installing some overly inquisitive schmuck’s wheel bearing.  I know I would hate the job after about a year.

While poking around and getting in Tim’s way, I noticed the same black 1980-something Lotus Esprit that I had seen in the shop a year before, sitting in the corner, sulking like a big cat. Something about the car hearkens back to my adolescence; to the time when I still thought James Bond was neat, and I wanted a Chinese throwing star more than anything in the world.  Low, squat, and bristling with sinister power, the Lotus is almost grotesque with its Euro-eighties, wedge-like shape and angular body. Like a big-haired bikini girl poster, the car is both attractive and slightly disgusting.

“Wow, that Lotus has been in here for awhile,” I say, not realizing how annoying that must sound. “Yeah, well. It’s British,” says Tim, dismissively. He’s way more interested in talking about his super-rare, European only, “Executive Series” 1979 BMW 745i. It looks like an eight-hundred-dollar car to me, but Tim proudly tells me about the lineage and history of this primer-colored beater, and that he plans on giving it a $5000 paint job.

The real nugget of wisdom that Tim leaves me with is the probable cause of the transmission issues on my other car. I’ve wanted to rid myself of the other car, but a recurrent problem with the automatic makes it almost impossible to sell. Most of my research so far had pointed to needing a new transmission, and I would sooner drive the car into the Duwamish river than make such an investment. Tim tells me that all I may need to do is replace a chip in the Transmission Control Module, which contains software updates that correct the problem. I bought the little gadget from the helpful bros at BMW Seattle and popped it into my control module like a lego, and the car is now good to go. Still sitting in my driveway though.

The Transmission Control Module is located on the passenger side of the engine compartment, underneath the DME.

With the TCM taken apart, the EPROM chip is in the upper right part of the photo. It looks pretty cool in there.

Wow, I never knew how much I didn’t know about carburetors before I had taken my Mikuni apart a dozen times. Taking the Dr. Dirt out on its eleventeenth “test” ride today, I think I’ve finally reached that zenith of easy starting, smooth idle, and snappy throttle response. It only took a month of troubleshooting. Because I wanted to install the Stage 2 Dynojet kit with my SuperLoud exhaust, I was forced to learn more than I ever cared to know about the subtleties of needle position, jet sizes, and adjustments.

One indispensable aid was this Mikuni troubleshooting guide. Also very helpful was this jetting tips page. I installed the 160 main jet, and after experimenting with the Dynojet needle and having headaches, I actually decided to go back to the stock needle in the stock position. Not surprisingly, the bike idled and started well but was a sleepy toad when I hit the gas. I finally realized that the needle was not my problem, and re-installed the way skinnier and richer-running Dynojet needle from the kit, but using the little plastic spacer-piece from the stock needle. Results: wheelie-o-matic.

In the end, most of my problems were caused by a sticky vacuum assembly and vacuum leaks, which caused the fuel mixture to be too lean. Also, the throttle valve was open too far, which made the bike idle super high, in spite of exterior idle adjustments. These carburetor things are delicate instruments and its amazing to me that they can consistently work at all, given that any piece of dirt or gunk that gets past your fuel or air filter will bring a world of sputtering hurt to your ride. I hope I never have to look at it again.

Not Quite Valentines Scavenger Hunt and Roller Race, Funhouse, 2/13/10

There aren’t a lot of opportunities to play Slayer and De La Soul in the same DJ set. An indoor bicycle race is one of those opportunities.

I thought I would be able to play some super amped-up Bad Brains jams while the sprints were actually happening; but when two beer-soaked bike geeks start spinning out 50 miles an hour on the plywood stage, the record needle starts dancing around like Michael Jackson.

Braided stainless steel brake lines are the thong underwear of a lovely machine like this. I also replaced the brake pads and front caliper for more enjoyable stopping. Here’s a good write up for brake bleeding.

Even a town like Shelton, Washington has its moments. Coming up Highway 101 from Olympia with a filing for Mason County Superior Court, I was struck by the austere beauty of this disheveled, crappy little backwater, with its filthy logging trucks, abandoned mills and the majestic Olympic mountain range along the horizon. It reminded me of my home town of Winthrop, where the smell of tree pulp indicates that you have entered the city limits. An ethereal haze of wood smoke was rising above the trees, like the swan song of a collapsing timber economy, and I knew that somewhere in this town would be a nearly perfect breakfast joint.

I found it in the form of a small diner called Blondie’s, and I ordered a bunch of fried stuff. The diner was packed full of what looked like a VFW convention and their wives, but it was probably just the regular dudes on Tuesday morning. I’m always curious about the way people age in little towns like this, it’s different than in the city. Too much shitty coffee and wood smoke, maybe. It’s like everyone’s face becomes puffy and tired looking before its time; or like some strange genetic modification happened, where human DNA was spliced with the cellular material of a jelly donut and a pack of Winston Lights. Anyway, the conversation is lively and people are full of good humor. Over the speakers, Lita Ford is belting out “Kiss Me Deadly” to the delight of the waitresses. One old guy sitting at the next table is wearing a hammered-out looking trucker’s cap with a message on it, written in big puffy print: “I’M JUST WAITIN’ FOR MY SENIOR DISCOUNT!”.

American Radical

FS Rd. #5510

Ron Brown about to set a land speed record on a 1950 BMW single

I rode down to Tacoma at 6:30 this morning to have breakfast with Ron Brown and some of his friends at a grungy little diner called Fergie’s on McKinley Avenue. Sitting in the presence of these five older guys, who were competitive motorcycle racers in the 1960s and lifelong gearheads, was fantastic. Eating my biscuits and gravy, I listened as the conversation ranged from stock car regulations, midget racing and top-fuel dragsters, to motorcycle trials, supercross, crash stories, and the inadequacies of the Vintage Motorcycle Enthusiast members who were not present.

“I don’t like the way riding gear looks nowadays. I’m sitting there watching this motocross race, and I’m trying to root for this guy because he’s from Poulsbo…. and here he comes around the corner wearing a pair of these ugly fucking clown pants. Jesus.”

“Travis Pastrana- what a jackass. Trying to do a goddamn back-flip in the practice heat. I mean, he could have been the next Ricky Carmichael.”

After breakfast we went to visit Ron’s friend Gene’s shop, which was also a museum of incredible British dirt bikes, trophies, and memorabilia. I was amazed, and also terrified at the thought of ever having to show my BSA project to any of these perfectionists, who casually unveiled one after the other: a perfect Greeves motocross bike, three spotless flat-track race bikes, Ron’s restored BSA scrambler, as well as several custom-fabricated wonders.

Original poster signed by Jim Rice and Dave Aldano: The stars of On Any Sunday!

Gene’s shop fridge

Ron

Ruston Way Waterfront

In my day, “tap that ass” referred to having sex. Apparently, someone in the white house has taken this phrase literally, because the Obama administration has “tapped” G.W., along with Bill Clinton, to coordinate the humanitarian aid to Haitian earthquake victims.

A man who could easily stand trial for hundreds of war crimes and “funds misappropriations” is being put in charge of the humanitarian aid program for Haiti. It’s just weird.

Many newspapers are calling it a shrewd move on Obama’s part, for its “bi-partisanship”. I’m not a political scientist, but I think that Obama is now officially the biggest disappointment for American progressives since Emma Goldman and Jack Reed backed Woodrow Wilson on a no-war platform in 1916.

Bike Messengers are disappearing quicker than icecaps, and pretty soon all that will be left are those Jimmy Johns delivery dudes, and Mark Pilder’s fantastic cornucopia of photos spanning 10 years of athletic-alcoholics in Seattle. We should all go buy a new Dank Bag right now, not only because you can pick your own colors and designs on these incredibly well-made pieces, but also because its a way to keep a local messenger alive for a little while longer.

Corndog, owner/operator of Dank Bags, Seattle, WA

Hoag, circa 1979

“It was only then, after exhausting all other means of demoralizing the public, that he turned seriously to writing. Several years earlier he had given up bikes “because of the stigma.” After a long stint as a motorcycle messenger he stumbled on the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam and thought it necessary to publish his own views. He could, however, only on the condition that he move through the streets of the world in conventional fashion. ‘I felt like a whore,’ he says, ‘but I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life as a delivery boy.’” -Hunter S. Thompson, Hells Angels

Rotor and Cam Chain, Suzuki DR650

While I sit in my garage, obsessing about broken down old machines and listening to Paul Simon, my brother and his friends are living the good life in Berkeley, California. As I look at these photos of their backyard beehive, chicken coop, garden, and coffee roasting set-up, I can only wonder where I went wrong.

Middlefork Road SE off of exit 34, I-90

My dad just sent me some photos from the island of Mindanao, Philippines. That’s him driving the tractor that is literally held together with some fishing line. Mechanical Husbandry is thriving in this part of the world, and everyone loves a nice spit-roasted pig after a long day of turning wrenches at the Honda shop.

As I get older, people become more and more irritating, and the urge to go far, far away into the woods becomes overwhelming.

When I was a lonesome teenager, I had a little dirt bike that would take me away on weekend trips. Up forest service roads, old forgotten fire roads and cattle trails, until civilization was long out of sight, and then I would unroll my cheap sleeping sack and make a camp fire. Coyotes howling in the night. Powdered cocoa. The scent of two-stroke exhaust. The knowledge that if my beater Honda wouldn’t start in the morning, I’d be missing school on Monday, which seemed like a pleasant scenario.

At a certain age (about 17), dirt bikes became incredibly uncool and I traded in all things moto for snowboards and mountain bikes. But recently, after a long hiatus, I decided to buy a beaten-down Suzuki DR650 and relive those memories. I scoured Craigslist for the cheapest deal I could find, so I wasn’t surprised to notice that the bike had some problems as I rode it home.

It wasn’t until we got into my garage, however, that I started to realize the full horror of this bike’s history.

It was filthy and neglected. It was weeping a lot of oil out of the right-side engine case. The forks were blown out with fork oil all over the front end. Plus it had been entirely and hideously spray painted, the gas tank was leaking fuel, and many of the bolts had been “replaced” with SAE sizes rather than metric, which meant that not only would my metric tools not work, but many of the bolts had simply been cross-threaded into the frame by some unbelievable shit-bag of a previous owner. I have cursed this person so many times that I actually have a pretty elaborate image in my mind of what he looks like, how he talks, how much cow shit is on his shoes, etc. He is by no means a mechanical husband, and  I’ve come to hate this man.

First, the fork overhaul. New springs, oil seals, dust seals, and oil.

In order to remove the damper rod bolt for separating the stanchions from the sliders, you’re supposed to use a special tool. Thanks to guru Ron T. Brown, I found out that an air impact wrench on the bolt and a broom handle pushing inside the stanchion works pretty well.

Also avoided a special seal installer tool with some hardware store stuff.

The DR650’s motor has 36 horsepower in its stock form, but it can be persuaded to put out a whopping 40ish hp with an airbox modification, bigger carburetor jets, and a different exhaust. I found a SuperTrapp muffller for cheap on Craigslist and got to work rigging up a new mid pipe section to attach the new muffler to.

By the way, the JB weld that I used to marry these two pipes together did not work, I’ll have to think of something else. The airbox modification is basically to remove a lid on the side,which had already been done to this poor bike, so I was left with the carburetor stuff. Increased the main jet size to 160, changed the needle position as per DynoJet recommendations, and drilled out the plug to access the air mixture screw.

I patched the fuel tank leaks with JB Weld on the outside of the tank, and “Kreem” coat on the inside. Replaced a gasket for the oil leak, adjusted the chain, and replaced a bunch of fasteners with the correct ones. Ready to ride!

Everybody hates unions these days, and nothing is more despicable to people than the British Airways strike, which threatens to upset the Christmas travel plans of a million travelers. No one should be striking during an economic recession, because there are plenty of unemployed people who would totally take those jobs! It’s a potent theme.

I was reading up on the situation for labor leaders in Colombia right now, the most dangerous country in the world to organize workers. Union leaders there are routinely threatened, beaten, disappeared and killed with impunity (by U.S. trained paramilitary psychos), and it’s gotten a lot worse recently. This is ironic, considering our recently-concluded free trade agreement with Colombia:

“An agreement with Colombia is an essential component of our regional strategy to advance free trade within our hemisphere, combat narco-trafficking, build democratic institutions, and promote economic development. In addition to eliminating tariffs, Colombia will remove barriers to trade in services, provide a secure, predictable legal framework for U.S. investors operating in Colombia, provide for effective enforcement of labor and environmental laws, protect intellectual property, and provide an effective system to settle disputes”. -U.S. Trade Representative Rob Portman, 2006

Here in the Northwest, we have a rich history of collective bargaining, like the Everett Massacre in 1916:

“On November 5, 1916, about 300 members of the IWW met at the IWW hall in Seattle and then marched down to the docks where they boarded the steamers Verona and Calista which then headed north to Everett. Verona arrived at Everett before Callista and as they approached the dock in the early afternoon, the Wobblies sang their fight song ”Hold the Fort”. Local business interests, knowing the Wobblies were coming, placed armed vigilantes on the dock and on at least one tugboat in the harbor, Edison, owned by the American Tug Boat Company. As with previous labor demonstrations, the local business had also secured the aid of law enforcement, including the Snohomish County sheriff Donald McRae, who had targeted Wobblies for arbitrary arrests and beatings.” -Wikipedia

This “COP15″  climate summit in Denmark may be the last environmental meeting of its kind in which no one gets killed while protesting. Yet.

I’ve been pretty cynical about the idea that these first-world “leaders” will actually commit to anything that might disturb the standard of living and gluttonous energy consumption that we have enjoyed for the last 150 years. At least things are now getting interesting with the G77 countries threatening to walk out of the negotiations. It’s kind of a laugh/cry moment when you realize that while the rest of world is talking about a 20% emissions reduction by 2020 (of 1990 emissions levels), the U.S. alone is talking about a 20% reduction by 2020 of 2005(!) levels, which is actually a spineless 6% compared to everyone else. And we’ve been the biggest polluter. Read the Guardian article.

I was delighted to have the opportunity to try out a new adhesive product today, Permatex Super Glue Gel.

When my radiator over-flow hose somehow migrated into the path of the radiator fan blades, the hose developed a small laceration which shot out a stream of coolant like a punctured jugular vein. The stream of fluid went right into the spinning fan, which turned the liquid into a mist and promptly broadcast it all over the inside of the engine bay, so that when I opened the hood it looked like an explosion of Mountain Dew had drenched my car. After repairing the errant hose, I needed to make sure it wouldn’t enter the fan’s domain again, so I decided to make a special “retaining clip” to hold it in place. The glue would hold a section of hose which I could slice down the middle, creating a little cradle for the actual hose. Gorilla Glue is my favorite all time adhesive, but it takes a while to set up, and when it dries it expands and resembles crystallized snot, so I was excited to try Super Glue Gel. It seemed like the perfect solution at first, with its thick gooeyness behaving nicely as I pressed my hose-piece into place. I held it for 30 seconds, as per instructions. It wasn’t setting up however, so I went across the street to buy some gorgonzola chicken salad. When I came back 10 minutes later, it was still all gluey, and I pined for my old favorite, the snotty and superior Gorilla Glue.

Super Glue Gel: too expensive, slower set up than regular super glue, never again.

Edip Kemal explains how an electrical relay works in this handy Linda’s-receipt sketch.

So long Treebeard