In other news.. it seems that Daniel Ellsberg, the man that exposed the Pentagon Papers, testified for the defense of a non-violent war protestor, Patricia Imani from Olympia, in Pierce County District Court last month. Her crime was stepping into the Interstate freeway to block a “Stryker fighting vehicle” from returning to Fort Lewis. Sounds scary.

In spite of testimony from the man who could be described as Wikileaks‘ badass grandpa, a jury of Imani’s peers was too slack-jawed and witless to do anything but find her guilty, and she will receive community service.

Shearer said when he was trying to promote the film, he tried to underwrite a commercial spot on NPR, and executives told him that the content in his documentary was too inflammatory. NPR sucks.

I find it refreshing when I check out my favorite LSAT-tutor site and find Steve Schwartz, a New York based LSAT instructor, going way off-topic and blasting off about downtown Manhattan’s proposed Islamic Center near the World Trade Center site. The way he can angrily deflate the arguments of Newt Gingrich, but still tie it into the “language of the LSAT”, is seamless.

“In summary, ‘extremists want to build more mosques, so if the people in question weren’t extremists, they wouldn’t want to build more mosques.’

Evidence: Extremist -> Want to build mosques

(Flawed) Conclusion: Not extremist -> Not want to build mosques

This is the inverse of the original statement. Statements are logically equivalent to theircontrapositives, not their inverses or converses.”

Thank you, Steve.

Even has matching helmet and body armour, built ouf of wood on a steel frame.

Credit goes to Justin Harder, you can see the pixel cup in his flickr stream.

*This post was removed earlier this year for insurance reasons. Now I don’t care anymore and I’m reposting it.*

It’s one of the most shameful and humiliating feelings: fuming and cursing about the traffic obstruction on the road up ahead, only to find out later that the obstruction was caused by a friend and co-worker who is lying on the pavement, traumatized and broken.

The first thing I saw this morning was a news video of a mother going into labor in the middle of all the earthquake rubble in Haiti. She’s young, she hasn’t had food or water for a week, she faints, gets taken to a hospital by the news crew, and the doctors barely save the child. I’m still thinking about that baby as I put on my riding gear for work, preparing for another day of dodging traffic.

Haiti is far away, and it’s going to be a beautiful day in Seattle to ride a motorcycle.

Riding down Lakeview towards Eastlake at about 9:00 AM, I hear the dispatcher chirp me on the radio. “Meet me at third and Lenora. ASAP.”

It’s typical to RV (rendezvous) at an intersection and exchange deliveries, but Third and Lenora is unusual because we don’t have any clients nearby, and it isn’t a handy spot for jumping on the freeway. Still, ASAP means as soon as possible, so I downshift and accelerate, maneuver through the traffic on Stewart, then poach a little bike lane before hitting a red light at Westlake.

By the time I reach Third avenue and Stewart and hang a right, I can see a huge clusterfuck up ahead of emergency lights, idling buses, cursing commuters and a cop re-directing traffic back onto Virginia. I can’t see what the problem is. As I’m looking around for an opening to zip through, one of the the bus drivers yells through his window, which I can barely hear over the Suzuki’s exhaust noise:

“A car hit a motorcycle up there!”

It actually takes me a second to get it, and then my stomach kind of flops over. It’s somebody on my crew. I realize that I will have to go around, via First avenue to Blanchard to Third, and I fumble for the clutch lever, wondering if its Lee, or Dean.

When I finally jump off the bike at Third and Lenora, I run up into the middle of a swarm of paramedics and firemen, surrounded by a group of scabby and disheveled gawkers from the assisted living building, and a sidewalk full of everyday people hoping to get a glimpse of blood or guts, something to talk about later by the office water dispenser. There is a cop directing traffic, and other cops filling out paperwork. There is a front bumper from a car lying in the middle of the road, and just beyond that I can see Dean’s colorful SV650 on its side, with numerous parts broken off, lying around like severed appendages. Crouching next to the bike there is a hooded, punk-rocker looking guy, rifling through Dean’s messenger bag. It’s Art, our dispatcher. I run up to him and ask what can I do, is Dean OK.

“Fucked up, right? Dean’s OK, he’s in the ambulance already. He’s talking. Sounds like his hip is broken. Here, grab this rush to Bellevue, then go pick up a Dubs to T-Mobile, one-hour.” Art hands me a large manila envelope, and then continues gathering up the debris that has broken off of the bike: a turn signal, a passenger peg, a chunk of fairing. A guy runs up to us from the sidewalk audience with something in his hand.

“Hey, this came off of there too.” It’s one of Dean’s weird, homemade frame-savers.

Just like that, it’s time to get back to work, even though it feels like the city should stop for a few minutes and observe a moment of quiet. For some reason, my mind drifts back to that Haitian baby, and I almost start to cry for a second.

Later we will find out that Dean is up at Harborview with a broken pelvis, but no other major damage.  As I’m getting back on my bike to hurry down to Dubs, a FedEx driver walks up to me and asks,

“Was that a friend of yours? Is he OK?”

“It’s my co-worker. He’s going to be OK it sounds like.”

He shakes his head, “Motorcycle courier, huh? I guess that’s not too uncommon for you guys, huh?”

“I guess.”

Very custom, very expensive full exhaust to match the Keihin CR carbs

Frame bracing patterned after the CR racing bikes, by Hightower at Twinline Motorcycles

Custom rearsets and modified shift lever by Hightower

The new oxygen sensor made the fault code go away, but didn’t fix the car. The problem was another sensor, the mysterious mass air flow:

“Listen to the cry of a woman in labor at the hour of giving birth – look at the dying man’s struggle at his last extremity, and then tell me whether something that begins and ends thus could be intended for enjoyment. (Soren Kierkegaard)”

This procedure is beautifully described here, by the tireless philanthropists at Pelican Parts. I keep meaning to buy some stuff from them for all the free info I pilfer from their website. Anyway, after learning how to ask my car what was wrong today, I received the message “1221″ which means “faulty oxygen sensor.” Having a set of spark plugs that look like salt-encrusted undersea treasures probably isn’t helping either. Tomorrow I’ll buy a $90.00 oxygen sensor and see if my problem goes away.

When problems like this happen, my creativity and resourcefulness will stem from two factors: cheapness, and laziness. I had ruled out fuel pump and fuel filter because of the problem’s strange consistency, so I hoped for clogged fuel injectors. I dumped some SeaFoam into the tank, hoping for a miracle. It didn’t help, so I poured some SeaFoam directly into the car’s brake booster hose, which sucked it right into the manifold, and then I sprayed my favorite fix-all, PB Blaster, into the throttle body while the car was running. None of that stuff helped and I was nearly out of the really-cheap, really-easy ideas. My only hope was that a clogged air filter was causing my problems, so I endeavored to clean and re-oil my re-usable Dinan cold-air-intake air filter.

As per the instructions on a K&N Air Filter Recharge Kit:

1. Pre-Cleaning: Tap the element to dislodge any loose dirt, then gently brush with a soft brush.

2.  Spray on cleaner liberally, and then let the filter sit for 10 minutes. The K&N stuff has something called Disodium Metasilicate, that is irritating and poisonous, and also cleans really well. It may be possible to make a good DIY air filter cleaner with other stuff.

3. Rinse-off. Rinse with low pressure tap water from the inside out, until all the soap is gone. Apparently, using compressed air to clean an air filter of this type is a bad idea

4. Let it sit and dry out.

5. Lightly spray with the air filter oil. From what I read on the forums, people spray too much oil on the filter, which leads to problems with the MAF sensor, which is expensive.

On a side note, the filter cleaning helped but did not solve my problem. MAF sensor? Idle control valve? Throttle position sensor? Stay tuned.

“The attached photos of Multicab Candidates are of a 4×4 Suzuki down the road, very similar to the one that we have here at the farm, although perhaps a little older, since this one has manual locking front hubs. It’s sitting outside of a truck repair shop, and I ventured in the other day to ask about it, since I’m gravitating toward this type of unit to salvage parts from for my tractor. Nearly every other vehicle here is one of these things, either 4×2 or 4×4 and I’d never have to worry about finding parts right around here, or someone who knows exactly how to work on it. Some have a box or a passenger cover with seats on the rear. Anyway, this one has a bad knock in the engine and was brought to this shop 3 years ago, to await someone’s budget for the repairs I guess. It turns out that it actually belongs to the local government unit comparable in the US to the County! So, it may be an endless circuit of pursuit trying to find out if I can acquire it cheaply, or, as luck might have it, Edna would know someone who will know someone who for perhaps a few hundred pesos discreetly slipped to them will figure out a way for me to get it for a song, as long as I never want to license it again a drive it around on the roads! Tomorrow we’re going to visit our second local political figure in pursuit of this very scheme! This type of vehicle is a major jump for me, since from the beginning I’ve wanted to slack off with the easiest-to-assemble unit possible, hence the immediate liking of the “Farmette” with it’s single steer wheel in the front. Not only have I adopted having a 2-wheeled front end, but I’m going to go with the way-radical idea of putting on the 4×4 front drive from one of the Suzuki’s. You see, they have exposed front axles (sort of like front wheel drive axles look like) coming out of the independently mounted differential up there, struts and lower arms, along with radius rods thrown in for good interest. I’m going to ditch the struts and add some sort of extra, solid cross member to tie it all together, which will then have a central pivot to the frame. The photo “Tractor_Frnt_End” shows a really simple attachment. So I’ll have a 4×4 tractor just made from one of the most ubiquitous vehicles around here. The other slight glitch in my idea with this one is that in order to also have PTO (Power Take Off, i.e. power taken off of the drive train system for rotating other implements) I have to add this in between the engine and tranny, in effect dis-engaging them from each other and having a belt go off to another shaft, but still be able to handle all of the torque going into the transmission. AND, I want it to be able to do something like have the engine on with the tractor stopped, but driving the sprayer pump attached to the PTO. It gets a little complicated, but that’s what is making it interesting, too.”

Right on Dad.

Riding the old airhead over North Cascades Pass to Winthrop was going to be epic, but I wasn’t looking forward to the sleeping arrangement that had been made. It was at a house that belonged to an old friend of my mom’s, who would be out of town for the weekend. His self-appointed nickname was “Kimo”, which meant “big boss” or something in Hawaiian.

This was a dude I had hated when I was a kid. I knew he had played some despicable role in my parent’s divorce; he was a lecher, mean to children, an alcoholic, and a big-shot Methow Valley real estate guy.

In spite of the beautiful scenery along the ride and the quiet purr of the BMW, I couldn’t help but think about how I might be able to defile “Kimo’s” house while I was there. I could steal something, pee on something, maybe just eat all of the pickled items I could find in the pantry.

When I arrived, I found a beautiful little cabin that looked like a Swiss mountain chalet. There were carved wooden animals, an emerald green meadow, stained glass windows, and strange little figurines of pigs dressed up as chefs in the kitchen.

Maybe I had misjudged Kimo. I thought I remembered him as being an intolerable racist, and yet there were Toni Morrison novels on the shelf. There were also Buddhist knick-knacks, something that looked like a lute hanging on the wall, historical photos of the Methow Valley, and a collection of ancient farm implements. Was he possibly more complex than the obnoxious cretin I remembered as a kid?

Breakfast the next morning was at the Duck Brand Cantina in downtown Winthrop, where my mom, myself, and a dozen old friends were gathering before a wedding later in the day. The sun was shining on the patio section, the coffee was brilliantly strong, and we barely had a chance to sit down in between all the hugs that were going around. As I thought to myself how much I had missed all of these people from my childhood, I heard a hushed rumor going around one of the tables. I saw it reach my mom, and her eyes opened very wide as she turned to me.

“Kimo’s dead. He had a heart attack yesterday,” she said. We sat and looked at each other, bewildered.

Kimo as a young downhill ski-bum Later that afternoon we talked quietly about Kimo, as a delightful quartet played some Vivaldi on the grass, and the wedding of Sy and Laura was absolutely perfect.

America I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing.
America two dollars and twenty-seven cents January 17, 1956.
I can’t stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb
I don’t feel good don’t bother me.
I won’t write my poem till I’m in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I’m sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don’t think he’ll come back it’s sinister.
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke?
I’m trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I’m doing.
America the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven’t read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for
murder.
America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid and I’m not sorry.
I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet.
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
My mind is made up there’s going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Marx.
My psychoanalyst thinks I’m perfectly right.
I won’t say the Lord’s Prayer.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America I still haven’t told you what you did to Uncle Max after he came over
from Russia.

I’m addressing you.
Are you going to let our emotional life be run by Time Magazine?
I’m obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore.
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It’s always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen are serious. Movie
producers are serious. Everybody’s serious but me.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.

Asia is rising against me.
I haven’t got a chinaman’s chance.
I’d better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of two joints of marijuana millions of genitals
an unpublishable private literature that goes 1400 miles and hour and
twentyfivethousand mental institutions.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of underpriviliged who live in
my flowerpots under the light of five hundred suns.
I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers is the next to go.
My ambition is to be President despite the fact that I’m a Catholic.

America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?
I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as individual as his
automobiles more so they’re all different sexes
America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500 down on your old strophe
America free Tom Mooney
America save the Spanish Loyalists
America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die
America I am the Scottsboro boys.
America when I was seven momma took me to Communist Cell meetings they
sold us garbanzos a handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the
speeches were free everybody was angelic and sentimental about the
workers it was all so sincere you have no idea what a good thing the party
was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand old man a real mensch Mother
Bloor made me cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody must have
been a spy.
America you don’re really want to go to war.
America it’s them bad Russians.
Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen. And them Russians.
The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia’s power mad. She wants to take
our cars from out our garages.
Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Reader’s Digest. her wants our
auto plants in Siberia. Him big bureaucracy running our fillingstations.
That no good. Ugh. Him makes Indians learn read. Him need big black niggers.
Hah. Her make us all work sixteen hours a day. Help.
America this is quite serious.
America this is the impression I get from looking in the television set.
America is this correct?
I’d better get right down to the job.
It’s true I don’t want to join the Army or turn lathes in precision parts
factories, I’m nearsighted and psychopathic anyway.
America I’m putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.

Woke up from a nap today with a strange feeling of boredom and longing. Maybe that’s what they call “melancholy”. I poured myself some Maker’s Mark and started looking at Sacha Peet’s blog, where I found a photo of my old Gixxer, before it got stolen. 

photo by Sacha Peet

Twinline customer’s Suzuki GS1000Ed’s Yamaha XS650
Hightower’s Kawasaki GPZ550Honda CB200Mitchell’s Kawasaki KZ400Honda CB160 Vintage Racers

Reading George Orwell’s diary, I’m always impressed by the scope of his interests: bird watching, and ridiculing fascism. Turnip planting, and colonial history. I’m always the most impressed when he combines two seemingly unrelated subjects with a seamless transition, like

“I suppose it is possible that the war, i.e. the diminution of traffic, tends to increase bird life in inner London.”

Whenever I try to do that, it comes out with an artless clunkiness that Orwell would have hated:

“My car blew up in Redmond today. One of the coolant-hose fittings on the ‘auxiliary thermostat’ broke, spraying hot, green coolant all over everything in the engine compartment, much like the 90,000-page Afghan War Diary that gushed out of Wikileaks this week.”

Actually that’s kind of an interesting allusion. Anyway, I was able to remove both coolant hoses and loop them into each other using a 5/8″ vacuum-hose connector, fill and bleed the radiator, and drove home without overheating.

Auxiliary thermostat removed from underside of cold-air-intake (or airbox)

Coolant loopBleeding the coolant system with the large plastic bleed screw

There’s an amazing moment on a camping trip, usually on the third day, when you become totally okay with living out of a backpack. The skills that you’ve acquired in your regular life are meaningless; what is important is how strong the instant coffee is, and how the trout are biting this morning. You forget about the ticks, fatigue, and no-toilet-paper, and notice the butterflies.

“First Look: Brammo Empulse
The electric motorcycle takes another important step forward.

By Kevin Cameron

July 2010

Brammo, Inc., makers of the Enertia commuter bike we reviewed a few months ago, has announced that it has broken through “the dual barriers” of electric-motorcycle range and speed with a new model called the Empulse. The company states that this machine has the capability to sustain (not merely to reach) 100 mph and will be offered in three versions.

Brammo learned from customers that range is a number-one concern of electric-bike users, who would also like greater speed capability; a genuine 60-mile range seemed to be the magic number. So, the company will offer three Empulse models with 60-, 80- and 100-mile ranges, corresponding to batteries of 6-, 8- and 10-kwh. The higher speed will enable these machines to handle freeway conditions with assurance.

Originally, Brammo felt it would be unable to fully develop these heightened performance capabilities in prototype form until some time next year, but a conversation with CEO Craig Bramscher revealed that batteries built to Brammo specs have proven possible to produce more cheaply and sooner than anticipated. This will allow the company to offer the new models ahead of schedule.

Quoting from the Brammo press release, “Estimated MSRP for the Empulse trio when deliveries start next year are: Empulse Sixty $9995, Empulse Eighty $11,995, and Empulse One Hundred $13,995. All three models will be eligible for Federal and State tax incentives. For example, the Empulse One Hundred may cost as little as $7000 in certain states after Federal and State incentives.”

The power to reach 100 mph is not the challenge; we know that 20-hp 50cc GP bikes used to peak at 120 mph. The issue is to control motor temperature at steady high power, which is necessary to prevent its rising to the 250-300-degrees F that can damage winding insulation. The motor in the Brammo Empulse is water-cooled (you can see its radiator just below the steering head), enabling it to deliver high power continuously without overheating. The motor is being built by Parker-Hannifin especially for this application.

Heat in electric motors is generated mainly from the resistance of the wire windings and from magnetic hysteresis loss in the magnetic poles that pull the rotating armature around. Even at 90-percent efficiency, this waste heat accumulates if not removed. One way to deal with it is to program the power supply to reduce power (as disappointing as what happened to Dani Pedrosa when his fuel system went into fuel-conservation mode in a recent MotoGP). Brammo has met the problem head-on with water cooling that actively removes waste heat to limit the rise in motor temperature.

As compared with internal combustion, the energy cost of electric vehicles is low. Bramscher gave the example of 15,000 miles of operation for $100.

Motors and controllers for electric vehicles are already very good. It is mainly the rate of progress of battery capability that limits performance. With the Empulse, the people at Brammo are using that progress to their advantage.”

I went over to Lee’s house to pick up some dead motorcycles the other day.

While he was climbing over the piles of stuff in his shed, trying to search out an old Kawasaki airbox, I noticed something tied to the ceiling.  It was over 8 feet long, made of fine, beautiful wood, and looked very fragile and very strong at the same time.

“What the fuck is that thing?” I asked. I had totally forgotten about the decomposing KZ1000 parts we were supposed to be gathering up.

“A…. kayak maybe? I think it’s a folding kayak,” said Lee. It was a leftover from the old legendary second hand- sporting goods store on 10th and Pine, and Lee had been storing what was left of it for over ten years. It was missing some of its most important parts (the hull and deck parts, for starters) but it was mostly there, and it was amazing. A 15 foot boat in two pieces, it was incredibly well made and brilliantly designed, with interlocking aircraft-like aluminum fasteners, a little fabric seat, and some type of sail-part. Lee didn’t know much about what it was, but he could see that I was literally entranced by this thing, so he let me take it home.

I’ve since learned that it is a Klepper Aerius 1 folding kayak, made of ash and birch wood. Kleppers have been the same design for half a century, and of course there is a huge cult following of boat-nerds who think they are the coolest things that float. They are also insanely expensive, and the new “skin” that my boat needs costs more than a complete regular kayak. I’ve been searching and searching for ideas to get around purchasing a new skin, but I didn’t find much info for build-your-own-folding-kayak-skins until I stumbled onto the Folding Kayak Builder’s Manual. It’s a gold mine- free plans and instructions to build your own complete folding kayak! I now have another project, and another reason to learn German.

Traveling in top gear  on a quiet, residential street on Beacon hill today, I had a moment to appreciate the afternoon. It was finally a sunny day and I was test riding a 1973 CB100. It felt good to be a grease covered, disheveled, thirty-five year old man, hauling ass on a tiny blue motorcycle, and I was doing my job.

Back at the shop, summer is in full effect and we have three “interns” who have joined the Twinline posse. With the roar and stench of the Dyno in the background, randomly flying molten steel, and Stormy’s inappropriate humor, it takes a brave soul to enter these doors, let alone donate a bunch of summer time. A brave soul, or a strange soul.

Jabari

Robin

Brian and Christina

Gearbox, clutch and flywheel stuff removed to expose the rear main seal

Prying out the old seal. He would’ve been better off just leaving it in there and putting a towel under the bike.

Once seal is removed, clean with Stormy’s favorite substance on Earth: lacquer thinner

The oil pump is located directly under the main seal. Not replacing the oil pump gasket while you’re in there “would be plum ignorant”

In order to drive in the new main seal, it’s nice to have a huge metal cylindrical thing like this one to hit with a hammer. Also,  Stormy says to never put any oil on the new seal before driving it in the groove.

The brand new main seal. Its going to be a very short ride for this little guy.

Within one mile of installing his new seal, Stormy’s bike dumped about a half quart of oil on the ground, in an expensive slug trail from Holgate street to the shop’s parking lot. The Storm’s face fell like Hemingway’s Old Man, when the sharks were tearing at the tuna carcass. It was sad. For whatever the reason, probably because it hadn’t been driven in quite far enough, the seal had ruptured and torn.

The Vintage Motorcycle Enthusiasts meet on Vashon Island once a year, and ride their shiny little gadgets up and down the island’s most treacherous backroads. We cobbled together some bikes at the shop on Sunday morning, and tore out across the West Seattle bridge to catch the 9:00 ferry boat.

I got a chance to talk to Ron Brown, riding his Yamaha trials bike.

Ducati

Aermacchi

Best in show: Norton twin with a sidecar

Allyne’s CB350 Frankenchopper

VME members, discussing the use of whale fat for lubricating hand-cut transmission cogs

Other cool home made stuff from Street Use:

When I first met Stormy, he said so many offensive things in so short a time that I thought maybe he had Tourette’s syndrome, but it turned out that he just has an incredibly dirty mouth. He’s obsessed with sex, ranch flavored corn-nuts, and BMW motorcycles, and he has taken an interest in sharing what he knows with me. I consider it an honor. He has been a mechanic and race rider for 40 years, owns 56 classic motorcycles, can wheelie his full-touring R1150RT for a block, and he has an obscene sense of humor. I help him with anything he asks me to do around the shop, and he teaches me the wisdom and patience required to work on these slow, weird machines called BMWs.

“Hey bitch! Get over here cootie-boy, pull that head and lap the valves for me.”

“Sure thing Stormy!”

“You know, I enjoy working with you, what the fuck ever your name is.”

“Same here, Stormy.”

“Don’t patronize me, motherfucker!”

He’s full of great advice:

“Don’t spend any money. Get a lot of pussy. And ride like you’re gonna die tomorrow.”

In spite of his racist diatribes and good ole boy politics, he’s a lovable old guy, in a Mark Twain/Hunter S. Thompson kind of way.

We went to Tacoma Screw today to buy a drill bit, and got sandwiches at Smarty Pants. I wanted Stormy to see some of the vintage race posters in there, get a beer with him, and get him talking about racing in the seventies. He was more interested in our waitress. “Look at the ass on her. Boy, I would lick that bowl clean. I mean, I would tear that ass up.”

I asked him if he had ever tried side-car racing.

“Yeah, I monkeyed with a guy for a season at Laguna Seca. Going 160 mile an hour with your ass touching the ground and your nose two inches from a fucking hay-bail. No thank you.”

Ice racing:

“Them Czechs and Russians will use you for traction. Plus it’s so cold, trying to start my bike I was shaking like a coon-dog shittin peach seeds.”

I’ve decided to buy a rare, broken-down old R65LS from Stormy, not because it’s a particularly good deal, but because I will have access to his truckload of rare and weird fasteners, bits, fairings, Bing carburetor jets, and the miscellany of a guy who has owned several motorcycle shops and has never thrown anything away.