glockmail
05-03-2007, 02:04 AM
Motorcycles
When I was in High School my best buddy had a 1970 Suzuki 250 dirt bike that he bought well used. He was driving it on a railroad track when he broke what he thought were some minor mechanicals off the side of the engine case. It continued to run so of course he ran it, until the engine seized. The mechanicals he broke turned out to be part of the oil injector system for the “one lung” two stroke motor.
He owed me 50 bucks from I forget what and kept delaying on repaying me, so I took the broken bike for it. I had the cylinder bored and bought a new piston and got the bottom end working for very little money, but the broken injector part could only be purchased from a dealer as a complete kit for well over $100, so I plugged all the lines and holes and mixed oil into the gas. I rode that bike down every dirt road I could find, woods, trails, construction sites, landfills, you name it. I avoided a lot of solid objects and took a lot of spills, and learned how to ride real well, all experiences that proved to serve me well later on the streets. It was a good bike and continued to serve me well for about 8 years.
When I dropped out college after three semesters I bought a well used 1971 Honda 450 Scrambler that was street legal. It was a four stroke, two cylinders, drum brakes and the exhaust came up the side and exited high like a dirt bike, giving it the ground clearance for minor off road capability. Top speed was about 65 and if you squeezed the front brake like Vice Grips it would eventually stop. It was light enough to do a sideways stop like a kid on a coaster brake bike.
As an incentive to get back to college my grandparents gave me about half of what it took to buy my dream machine: a brand new 1979 Kawasaki KZ 650C. The price was right because the dealer had not sold it from the previous year. It was a sweet ride, being everything that the Honda was not: very quiet, smooth, and quick as hell, with triple disk brakes so I could bring her back down even faster. I’d eventually ride it all through the Northeast, from Vermont to New Jersey. As soon as the snow melted, I'd bring it out of storage, clean it up, tune it up, change the oil, and she'd always start on the first try. I'd wear a ski suit, hiking boots, heavy sweaters and two jackets for The First Spring Ride. Back at college it was a babe magnet, and I owe it the fact that I met my future wife by offering her a ride. Over the years I rigged it with a rear seat back and small luggage rack, electronic ignition, and a small fairing that I painted to match the metallic blue on the gas tank. During the summers I’d commute to Boston during the week and drive to NYC to see my girl on weekends.
My dirt bike skills served me well negotiating Boston traffic. Northeast drivers and especially Bostonians are skilled at risking your life to save themselves a few seconds. The intersection at the start of Storrow Drive is four lanes, necks down to two, then another two get added on before you swoop under the first 10’ high bridge. In my first encounter with this notorious intersection I ended up in a sea of cars and nearly got pushed into the guard rail by a driver who saw my vehicle as an opportunity to take 3/4 of a lane. From then on I learned to time that light to get the red, work through the lines of stopped cars then jet out ahead at the green, letting them catch up nearly a mile later.
On one return commute I got cut off during a left turn by a driver turning it into a double left, and ended up stopped behind a parked car on the shoulder, taking mental note of the offender. About a week later the same thing happened, same car, so I followed him about ten miles until he went around the same block twice. I then pulled up beside him in stopped traffic, pounded on his window and bent down to get a good look at his face. When the middle aged man was faced with the prospect of hands on with an athletic, bearded 20-something he nearly pissed his pants. The warning was sufficient to keep the double left from reoccurring.
Several attempts by drivers in both Boston and New York to end my life have occurred. On another occasion I followed the would be killer to a red light, then rolled into his stopped bumper, causing his car to lurch and suddenly change from a weapon to a locked door refuge that he could not be extracted.
On multi leg stop-sign intersections I found it advantageous to become a traffic cop. At the front of the line I would stand off the seat and point to the car on the left to go, then straight, then right, establishing authority and set order of movement before I jetted off, leaving the sheep mystified.
One weekend on Cape Cod I decided to forgo the Sunday night ride home and commute directly to Boston on Monday morning. I left the house at 6 am for the 90 minute ride and ended up in five lanes of traffic on the three lane Southeast Expressway. It was easily the most frightening discretionary situation I have ever experienced and one not to be repeated.
On crowded urban roads a motorcyclist always has to choose the portion of his lane carefully. The center has an oil slick that will build up on your tires and make your next quick turn or stop more exciting than it needs to be. The left tire track is closest to opposing traffic with the possibility of quick death from a clueless or murderous driver. Cars passing on the left also tend to cut in front of you quicker than if you were driving a longer, larger vehicle, with the possibility of attaching your front wheel to their rear bumper. The right track would seem to be the safest choice, except that passing drivers then assume you are riding a bicycle on the shoulder, and use half of your lane during their maneuver. My choice became an active strategy: use the right side until the car behind you looks to be contemplating a pass, then switch to the left side, then back again to the right when the passing car is alongside. This had the added advantage that the driver about to pass can’t see as well around you, and is forced to make more of a commitment in the passing lane, increasing his relative speed for a quicker pass.
“Tailgaters” that are annoyances in my large car are dangerous on a motorcycle, as your life instead of merely your bumper becomes dependant on another drivers reaction time. Speeding up exposes you to the risk of a ticket or the driver assuming that you wish to compete. Slowing down is rarely a good option, as most drivers assume that you want them to follow you even closer. I developed the strategy of remaining on the left side of the lane (where I have been anticipating a pass), and with my left arm fully extended physically waving the motorist on to pass. Again, by taking the assertive role of the traffic cop, you maneuver the sheep around you to a safer position. More than once a especially sheepish driver would refuse the instruction, prompting me to make a “reverse pass” by moving to the left lane, squeezing the brake, and pulling back in behind.
I owned the Kawasaki for 15 years and put 40K miles on it, eventually moving it with me to Upstate New York, where I figured it would serve me well on those back country roads. Over the years the annual First Spring Ride became more of a chore, and I found that riding a motorcycle was simply not the thrill that riding had once been. Most of all, drivers in cars could still not see me, and as my adult responsibilities increased I became increasing apprehensive of the price I may have to pay for someone else’s inattention. I sold the bike soon after my son was born.
When I was in High School my best buddy had a 1970 Suzuki 250 dirt bike that he bought well used. He was driving it on a railroad track when he broke what he thought were some minor mechanicals off the side of the engine case. It continued to run so of course he ran it, until the engine seized. The mechanicals he broke turned out to be part of the oil injector system for the “one lung” two stroke motor.
He owed me 50 bucks from I forget what and kept delaying on repaying me, so I took the broken bike for it. I had the cylinder bored and bought a new piston and got the bottom end working for very little money, but the broken injector part could only be purchased from a dealer as a complete kit for well over $100, so I plugged all the lines and holes and mixed oil into the gas. I rode that bike down every dirt road I could find, woods, trails, construction sites, landfills, you name it. I avoided a lot of solid objects and took a lot of spills, and learned how to ride real well, all experiences that proved to serve me well later on the streets. It was a good bike and continued to serve me well for about 8 years.
When I dropped out college after three semesters I bought a well used 1971 Honda 450 Scrambler that was street legal. It was a four stroke, two cylinders, drum brakes and the exhaust came up the side and exited high like a dirt bike, giving it the ground clearance for minor off road capability. Top speed was about 65 and if you squeezed the front brake like Vice Grips it would eventually stop. It was light enough to do a sideways stop like a kid on a coaster brake bike.
As an incentive to get back to college my grandparents gave me about half of what it took to buy my dream machine: a brand new 1979 Kawasaki KZ 650C. The price was right because the dealer had not sold it from the previous year. It was a sweet ride, being everything that the Honda was not: very quiet, smooth, and quick as hell, with triple disk brakes so I could bring her back down even faster. I’d eventually ride it all through the Northeast, from Vermont to New Jersey. As soon as the snow melted, I'd bring it out of storage, clean it up, tune it up, change the oil, and she'd always start on the first try. I'd wear a ski suit, hiking boots, heavy sweaters and two jackets for The First Spring Ride. Back at college it was a babe magnet, and I owe it the fact that I met my future wife by offering her a ride. Over the years I rigged it with a rear seat back and small luggage rack, electronic ignition, and a small fairing that I painted to match the metallic blue on the gas tank. During the summers I’d commute to Boston during the week and drive to NYC to see my girl on weekends.
My dirt bike skills served me well negotiating Boston traffic. Northeast drivers and especially Bostonians are skilled at risking your life to save themselves a few seconds. The intersection at the start of Storrow Drive is four lanes, necks down to two, then another two get added on before you swoop under the first 10’ high bridge. In my first encounter with this notorious intersection I ended up in a sea of cars and nearly got pushed into the guard rail by a driver who saw my vehicle as an opportunity to take 3/4 of a lane. From then on I learned to time that light to get the red, work through the lines of stopped cars then jet out ahead at the green, letting them catch up nearly a mile later.
On one return commute I got cut off during a left turn by a driver turning it into a double left, and ended up stopped behind a parked car on the shoulder, taking mental note of the offender. About a week later the same thing happened, same car, so I followed him about ten miles until he went around the same block twice. I then pulled up beside him in stopped traffic, pounded on his window and bent down to get a good look at his face. When the middle aged man was faced with the prospect of hands on with an athletic, bearded 20-something he nearly pissed his pants. The warning was sufficient to keep the double left from reoccurring.
Several attempts by drivers in both Boston and New York to end my life have occurred. On another occasion I followed the would be killer to a red light, then rolled into his stopped bumper, causing his car to lurch and suddenly change from a weapon to a locked door refuge that he could not be extracted.
On multi leg stop-sign intersections I found it advantageous to become a traffic cop. At the front of the line I would stand off the seat and point to the car on the left to go, then straight, then right, establishing authority and set order of movement before I jetted off, leaving the sheep mystified.
One weekend on Cape Cod I decided to forgo the Sunday night ride home and commute directly to Boston on Monday morning. I left the house at 6 am for the 90 minute ride and ended up in five lanes of traffic on the three lane Southeast Expressway. It was easily the most frightening discretionary situation I have ever experienced and one not to be repeated.
On crowded urban roads a motorcyclist always has to choose the portion of his lane carefully. The center has an oil slick that will build up on your tires and make your next quick turn or stop more exciting than it needs to be. The left tire track is closest to opposing traffic with the possibility of quick death from a clueless or murderous driver. Cars passing on the left also tend to cut in front of you quicker than if you were driving a longer, larger vehicle, with the possibility of attaching your front wheel to their rear bumper. The right track would seem to be the safest choice, except that passing drivers then assume you are riding a bicycle on the shoulder, and use half of your lane during their maneuver. My choice became an active strategy: use the right side until the car behind you looks to be contemplating a pass, then switch to the left side, then back again to the right when the passing car is alongside. This had the added advantage that the driver about to pass can’t see as well around you, and is forced to make more of a commitment in the passing lane, increasing his relative speed for a quicker pass.
“Tailgaters” that are annoyances in my large car are dangerous on a motorcycle, as your life instead of merely your bumper becomes dependant on another drivers reaction time. Speeding up exposes you to the risk of a ticket or the driver assuming that you wish to compete. Slowing down is rarely a good option, as most drivers assume that you want them to follow you even closer. I developed the strategy of remaining on the left side of the lane (where I have been anticipating a pass), and with my left arm fully extended physically waving the motorist on to pass. Again, by taking the assertive role of the traffic cop, you maneuver the sheep around you to a safer position. More than once a especially sheepish driver would refuse the instruction, prompting me to make a “reverse pass” by moving to the left lane, squeezing the brake, and pulling back in behind.
I owned the Kawasaki for 15 years and put 40K miles on it, eventually moving it with me to Upstate New York, where I figured it would serve me well on those back country roads. Over the years the annual First Spring Ride became more of a chore, and I found that riding a motorcycle was simply not the thrill that riding had once been. Most of all, drivers in cars could still not see me, and as my adult responsibilities increased I became increasing apprehensive of the price I may have to pay for someone else’s inattention. I sold the bike soon after my son was born.