New Parts

It's been a while since I've done a tech post, so I thought I'd share some updates on my Bonnie.  I recently installed some parts to dress up the clutch lifter and a new rectifier/regulator.  I know that's not as sexy as installing FCR39s, cams and a turbo but all that will come later.

... Except the turbo...

... Maybe...

Anyway, let's break out the tools and get dirty.  First we'll have a look at the clutch lifter area as it comes from Triumph:

Yuck!  That looks terrible.  The only way to fix that is to add some chrome.  As they say, if it don't go, chrome it!

The first step is to remove the bracket holding the clutch cable to the clutch cover.  Loosen up the nuts on the cable with a pair of 12mm wrenches and then remove the two 8mm bolts.  With that loose, you can now wiggle the clutch cable out of the lifter arm.  When you do this, the arm will slacken and move backward.  Don't worry because it will very easily go back into position.

With the cable in your hand, spin off the nut facing the rear of the bike and remove the bracket.  Slide the new awesome chrome bracket on, install the nut and then the rubber boot, slip the cable back into the lifter arm and bolt up the bracket.  The new bracket is thicker than the old one but there are plenty of threads on the bolts. 

For the lifter arm cover, remove the two hex screws on the cover and apply thread locker to the threads.  This will prevent the little screws from vibrating out.  I used hi-temp thread locker because it does get hot down there.  Slip the cover over the arm and install the screws one at a time.  Tighten until they're snug.

Once completed, it should look like this:

Oh, hang on.  It should look like this:

Yes, that looks more better.  The chrome adds a bit of bling to an otherwise dull area of the bike.  Readjust the clutch cable and that job is finished.

Next up is the rectifier.

The standard rectifier on the Bonnie runs hot and does an alright job.  This is an area that could be better and a MOSFET rectifier is a big improvement.  This will strengthen the charging system while running much cooler than stock, meaning increased life for the unit.  I chose a Hotshot rectifier from Rick's Motorsport Electrics. 

When I took it out of the box, it looked huge and I didn't think it would fit in the stock location.  Comparing it the stock unit, however, shows it's actually smaller:

To begin, remove the headlamp and gaze into the mess of wiring behind it.  Somewhere in there is the connecter for the rectifier.

Once you've found it, wiggle it out of the bucket and remove the two 8mm bolts holding the stock unit in place.  To install the new unit, first wiggle the connecter into the bucket.  Next, install and tighten the two 8mm bolts.  As you can see in the pic with the two units, the new one is narrower than stock.  There is enough room, thankfully, to bolt the new unit in place.  once the rectifier is secure, apply some dielectric grease to the terminals and plug it in.  Install the headlamp and let's fire up the engine.



At normal idle with the standard rectifier, here is the charging voltage:

 With the new rectifier, here is the charging voltage at the same idle speed:

That's quite an improvement.  The battery likes it, too, because it's holding voltage a lot better than it did with the stock rectifier. 

And that's that.  Go grab yourself a celebratory beer, coffee or whatever and stand back and admire your work.  

Small Errors in the Big Picture

When posting about my trip to San Diego, I mused that I would be looking for a touring-oriented motorcycle to take long trips.  My Bonneville did wonderfully, apart from getting noisy in the desert heat, but I was cramped and sore.  So, off I went to look at some bikes.

My main requirements were comfort, fuel injection and liquid-cooling.  Comfort explains itself but I wanted fuel injection for elevation changes and liquid-cooling for the temperature changes.  I wanted to climb every mountain and cross every desert.  FI and liquid-cooling makes this easier.

I had my eyes on an older Triumph Sprint ST.  I like the styling and I like how it fits in between a sports bike and touring barcalounger.  I like the idea of being able to attack the twisty bits while also being able to pound out the miles.

The trouble was the riding position.  My Guzzi was fun to ride but the position was too much for me after a few miles.  The Sprint was only marginally more comfortable and I could see long distance comfort issues on the horizon.  That was out.

I also liked the Triumph Tiger 1050.  It has sportiness like the Sprint but you sit more upright.  Hmm, I thought, this could be my answer.

Not so on the Tiger 1050 because it's a pseudo-adventure bike, which means it's tall and I'm not.  I could barely touch the ground with both feet and, thus, the Tiger 1050 was out.

Other bikes came and went.  I looked at Ducati Monsters (fun but not practical for touring and air-cooled), Ducati Multistrada (ugly, too tall and air-cooled), KTM Duke 690 (fun but so not a touring bike), etc.

One bike that kept coming up was the Triumph Tiger 800.  It ticked all the boxes and I could fit on it.  The Tiger seemed like the logical choice.

It wasn't without faults, though.  I wasn't keen on having ABS, first off.  I don't really find it necessary and it adds weight and complexity.  It's just one more thing to go wrong.  Unfortunately, all 2013 Tigers come with ABS.  Another was cost.  A new Tiger would be significant;y more expensive than any of the other bikes because they were used.  I planned to trade my Guzzi in but I would still have a payment. 

But I kept going back to the Tiger.  Finally, I caved in and bought it.  For the first time in my life, I listened to my head and made the logical choice.

All seemed well at first.  I took it on a few rides, mostly to my local haunts and to work but something kept nagging at me.  I couldn't put my finger on it but something was there, something odd.

It wasn't until I took a ride up to Fort Collins that it finally hit me.

The Tiger is incredibly smooth.  The ride is supple and it absorbs every bump.   I'm used to the harsh ride of my Bonneville and my Guzzi.  This was like riding a Cadillac compared to those two.  The 800 triple also has power everywhere.  License-revoking speeds are just a twist of the wrist away.

The problem and the bike's biggest fault is that it's too smooth.  It's actually quite dull.

At no point during any of my rides on it did I feel engaged with the bike.  It seemed to me like a very blustery Toyota Camry.  The same roads that have me gurning like an idiot on my Bonnie or Guzzi are dispatched lifelessly on the Tiger.  It's a bike you ride with a serious face as you pile away the miles.

In short, I cocked up.

And I also miss my Guzzi.  That bike had loads of warts: the gearbox was noisy, it was uncomfortable, it vibrated right at highway speed, the gas mileage was poor and so on.  Twist the throttle, though, and all goes away as you ride this wave of power and noise.  It was a glorious experience and because the roads that allowed such behavior are few, one to be cherished.

I got none of that fun riding the Tiger.  If I wanted dullness and good gas mileage, I would have bought one of those new Honda 500s. 

To sum it up, I made the logical choice.  The Tiger 800 clicked every single box and met all the criteria.  It is, without a doubt, a fantastic motorcycle.  It's just missing that most important element, one that I didn't know was important to me: fun.

I made the logical choice but not the right one.

On The Road, Pt. VII

This is the end... Beautiful friend, the end.

Yes, this is it.  The final day of my journey has arrived and I would soon be spending the night in my own bed, using my own toilet and parking indoors.  First I had to get there, though.

When I went to bed, it was still raining in Farmington and i figured on another rainy day of riding.  To my surprise, the sun was out in the morning and it was cloudless.  I gobbled down some more breakfast, packed up the bike and headed for home.

I was excited to get back into Colorado because that meant some twisty mountain roads.  Bits of Cali and Arizona were nice but most of the areas were flat, straight and dull.  At points I was actually wishing I was in a car.  I could lean the seat back, put the cruise on and jam to some tunes.  On the bike I couldn't do any of that.  All I could really do is stare at the odometer and glance at the occasional pile of rocks on the side of the road that passed for scenery.

This was of course the Saturday of Labor Day weekend, so everyone and their dad was out on the road and driving at around four mph.  Honestly, it was a bit frustrating because I was used to going 70 everywhere and now I'm feel like I'm at walking pace. 

I also saw a lot of bikes.  I think I saw more bikes this one day than I saw in the entire preceding days combined.  Nearing the Wolf Creek Pass, I was passed by a group of Harleys complete with get back whips and do-rag-wearing riders.  Excited by the corners, I jumped into the passing lane and blew by them as the road got twisty and then did the same to a couple of BMW riders.  I waved to them all as I passed but none of them even looked at me.  Bastards.

Wolf Creek is a delightfully twisty road that goes up well above 10,000 feet and it has a tunnel.  I love tunnels.  This tunnel even has a curve in it, making it a million times better.  Another good thing for Wolf Creek is that its four lanes wide, so you can always pass the geezers in front and you can push it a bit because the edge of the world isn't inches away.  I had a grand time scratching around the bends before the straight stuff returned.

I made a pit stop for a snack in Del Norte and got ready to head for the arrow straight section of 285 that headed toward Saguache.  Breaking up the monotony are the two ridges that were cut through when the road was made.  This was fantastic when I was heading this way before and its fantastic now.  I bet its just as fantastic to be reading about it again, too.

As I was snacking on a protein bar I brought and an apple and banana I grabbed from the hotel, I noticed the sky getting cloudier.  I didn't even check the weather because I knew it meant rain.  By this point, I could predict the weather better than 100 Weather Channels.  I just got on with the job at hand.

It got darker as I neared Saguache, darker still as I neared Buena Vista and then it finally rained when I got to Fairplay.  I'm glad I got to see the scenery last week when it was sunny because it was miserable now.  All I wanted at this point was to go home.  I had had enough rain to last me for the rest of my life.

I wish I had more to say about this part of the trip but it was a blur.  I was focused on home and really didn't look at the scenery and really didn't care about the roads.  I went my speed, passed a bunch of cars and reminded myself how much fun it is to tour on a motorcycle.  This is fun, they said.  Riding is fun, they said.

I skipped a pee break in Fairplay to outrun the storm and that was a mistake.  I thought I could hold it but I couldn't.  Every bump was murder until I finally gave in.  I pulled over, scampered down a hill and released the Nile.  After what seemed like 20 minutes of continuous peeing, I walked back to bike and continued on my way a much lighter rider.

The rain came and went and came again during this time but I wasn't very bothered by it.  It was pouring rain when I made my final stop in Bailey and my crotch was cold and wet.  I think my penis ran away somewhere around there.

As I got closer to Denver, the sun came out and it finally got warmer.  I was still focused on home and was passing cars like crazy.  I was never so excited to see Denver as I got closer and closer.  I slowed down at this point because I didn't want to make it this far only to have a crash on my doorstep.  Turning down Colorado Blvd., then on to my street and finally up the drive was a wonderful feeling.  I had done it.  I rode my motorcycle to San Diego and back and lived to tell the tale.

Including going the wrong way and doubling back, the bike and I did just under 2,400 miles in six days.  That doesn't include riding around while in San Diego.  The bike never missed a beat the entire time, though it was quite dirty and sad-looking when we got home.  The air-cooled engine did get quite noisy going through the hot desert and the chain's a bit looser now but otherwise, you can never tell it went that far.  It never even used any oil.  Let's have a round of applause for modern motorcycles, everyone.

Would I do it again?  Well, yes and no.

My Bonneville may not have missed a beat but I sure did.  As the days went on, fatigue set in quicker and quicker.  The Thruxton gel seat I fitted to bike years ago helped some with comfort but the bike felt cramped, even for my short ass.  Add in the stuff strapped to the back and there wasn't much room for me.  I was constantly fighting for space with my luggage. 

As for the riding, well, pockets of it were very good but most of it was quite boring.  It was a bit like a 90 minute movie that had 12 minutes of action.  I felt like I was always waiting for the good part to come along.  A trip from Denver to San Diego will happen again (San Diego is too nice to not go back) but it will happen either on a more touring-oriented bike or in a car.  My Bonnie loved the twisty bits but hated the slab.  We share the same opinion, the bike and I.

So that's it.  It's back to work and planning more trips, most of which I won't go on.  At least it gives me something to do at work while I not do my job.  In the meantime, I can also look at the Triumph Sprint STs that pop up used quite often.  The 1050s, I think, look best in blue while I like 955i models best in green

Hmm...

On The Road, Pt VI

When we last left our hero (me), I was getting wet yet again in Arizona.  You know, I thought this was the desert southwest.  Why is it raining so much?

Anyway, this morning was the beginning of the second-to-last day of my trip.  Soon it would be back to the drudgery of everyday life.  That wouldn't happen until blasted through the rest of Arizona, though.

After a trip to the bathroom, the first thing I did was check the weather.  I had a choice of two routes (insert Joe Pesci voice here) that would take me to Farmington, NM.  I could go through northern Arizona, the way I took on the trip out.  I could also take 89A to Flagstaff, jump on I-40 to Gallup and then take 491 north.  The difference between the two was 10 minutes but most importantly, it was raining in the north and not on I-40.  I chose to take the slab.

After faffing about in Prescott trying to find gas, I got back on the brilliance that was 89A.  In the valley before the descent into Cottonwood, the road reminded me of the veranda on the Isle of Man TT course.  It was a long sweeping road that would be heaven on a fast motorcycle.  I can believe that because it was fun on my Bonneville. 

The descent is even better as you ride this ribbon draped across the mountain.  The sheer drops on the right are blocked by a comically small guardrail while asperous rocks stick out on the left.  You don't notice any of that, though, because the road commands your attention.  Its myriad of curves are a long series of downshifting, upshifting, turning in, rolling off the throttle, powering down the straights and the occasional touch of brake.  The oscillation of touching the white line and then heading for the double yellow becomes a dance; horse and rider as one.

Moments of extreme concentration such as this can only be broken by an equally extreme disturbance.  Coming around a bend and finding a large boulder in your way is an example of that.  Funnily enough, that's exactly what happened to me.  Lucky for me no one was coming in the other direction, so I didn't have to break stride too much.  The next boulder was even bigger and was surrounded by police, so I had to slow down for that one.

Snaking through Jerome, I finally caught up to civilization.  This being a Friday before Labor Day, I was now in a long line of SUVs, minivans and RVs.  The slowing of pace allowed me to take stock of the scenery and, wow, what scenery it is.  Jagged rocks, majestic trees and beautiful houses are all fighting for the same space.  Also, there's an oddly satisfying feeling to looking to the side or back and seeing the road you were just riding.

I stayed behind the long, slow train through Sedona and the wonderful canyon that followed.  I so badly wanted to break away and pass everyone but I thought better of it since the passing zones were short and it gave me the opportunity to look around a bit more.

When I got to Flagstaff, I pulled over and busted out the GPS.  I had a vague idea of where the entrance to I-40 was but wasn't quite sure.  The GPS didn't know, either, as it took me all over town and a through a college campus before introducing me to the interstate. 

It was gray and rainy in Flagstaff, which I was used to at this point.  I spent my snack break and fuel stop under an awning to keep dry.  I hopped on the interstate and was greeted by sunshine and clear skies.  This was going to be a long haul but I was glad to be on the slab, to be honest.  There isn't much out here, the northern route showed me that, and the interstate had more people on it. 

As I was riding through the pouring rain a few days ago, I was thinking that if I had a crash or a breakdown, there wasn't much civilization around for help.  At least on the interstate, there were more people and towns in case the worst happened.

After a couple fuel stops, a lunch break and some chatting with an outlaw motorcycle gang, I was nearing Gallup.  The sky got blacker and blacker as I neared Gallup.  Not again; not more rain.

I pulled into a gas station and ripped off the fastest refuel this side of Formula One.  The massive storm was on my right moving west but I was moving north.  The speed limit in Gallup was 40 mph but as you got away from town, it went up to 70.  If I kept my speed up, I could out run it.  The problem was I needed a stop in Tohatchi to make it all the way to Shiprock.  Would that allow the storm to catch me?

I pulled into the station in Tohatchi ready to rip off another blazing stop.  I stared at the ominous black cloud while the tank filled up way too slowly.  Of course the fuel cap, bloated by years of ethanol gas, decided now it wouldn't go on.  I whipped out the WD-40 I brought for just this instance and a quick shot of it allowed the cap to tighten.  As I was getting ready to depart, an old guy wandered over and wanted to talk about my bike.  This is a scene so common to Hinckley Bonneville owners.  I quickly apologized, pointed at the storm and high-tailed it out of there.

Out on the road, I could feel the storm getting closer.  The temperature dropped significantly and the wind picked up.  Soon the wind really started to move.  Dust and debris were flying across the road and it was all I could do to keep control of the bike.  I hunkered down as much as I could and fought the wind.  The passing minutes were agonizing.

As I rounded a bend, the wind began to die down and the temperature started to rise.  I had done it, I cleared the storm!  The view in my mirrors was a menacing black but the view ahead was blue and cloudless.  This same area I had mistakenly gone through earlier was much more scenic drenched in sunshine.

As if on cue, the construction zone I turned around in last time appeared and I knew then that Shiprock wasn't too far off.  I got some gas in Shiprock while it was miserably hot and pushed on to Farmington.  Once in Farmington, I grabbed a hotel room for the night and finally relaxed.

It was dinner time and as I stepped outside, I was greeted with a familiar sight: rain.  The rain had also brought along its buddies thunder and lightning, too.  The walk to the Mexican restaurant wasn't much fun but at least the food was good.  Afterward, I squished back to the room and collapsed.

Tomorrow was it, the final day.  The trip I had been planning for months would soon be over.  The final day wouldn't be without its moments, though.

Stay tuned for Part VII, the final chapter...

On The Road, Pt. V

After a few days of sand, surf and sun, it was time to head back inland.  By this time, I had my morning routine and bike packing down to the point where I could do it in my sleep.  I fueled myself up, then the bike and headed off a bit later than I wanted.  I really wanted sleep in but the road beckoned.

Before I began my day properly, I went down to the beach one last time to take a picture of my bike with the ocean.  It was to be my proof that I actually made it and didn't make the whole thing up.  Picture over with, it was time to go home.  I went to put my ear plugs in only to find one was missing.  Great.  This necessitated a stop at Lowe's and of course, the guy behind the counter asked if I was on a bike.  That's why this genius is working at Lowe's.

This trip's trend of weather variances continued as I was chilly by the ocean and got hotter as I moved farther inland.  Something else weird was that I stopped admiring the scenery and got on with the business of riding.  Maybe it was because I was going the same way and had seen this stuff before but I had my eyes set on Prescott, AZ and not on the ride.

Coming down the Pines to Palms Highway, which is just as brilliant going this way, I again had to put on some extra clothing.  Then I had to take it off again when I got to the desert.  It's just amazing that in two hours, I went from ocean to mountain to desert.  Didn't I say that last time?

Anyway, I blew through Palm Desert and Indio, hopping back on I-10 to begin the drudgery of the slab.  I made my next gas stop at a service station that was also home to the George Patton museum and some other small stores.  It's an odd place to have this since there's nothing around for miles except this.

Gas tank full and bladder empty, it was back on the road for some more slab.  The hot gusts of wind were mercifully absent this time.  The miles clicked off ever so slowly until it was time to pull off in Blythe for gas and lunch.  My choice for lunch was a Subway, which had been the choice for lunch on the road every other day, too.  You're welcome, Jared.

I dismounted my bike and went to put my ear plugs in my right jacket pocket when I noticed something odd.  The pocket was unzipped and there was no camera in it.  Frantic, I searched everywhere for it until the realization set in: it fell out of my pocket.  Some point during the day, I forgot to zip up the pocket and my camera was somewhere along the road in California.  There went all my pics, including the one from the morning in front of the ocean.  Now you know why there aren't any pics in these posts.

Pissed off, I ate quickly, got gas and hit the road.  After hours of straight line drudgery and sweltering heat, I made it to Congress, AZ.  I would be heading up the mountains and beginning the final push to Prescott.  After a long day of sweating, I was looking forward to the cooler temps and more exciting roads.

As I left Congress, an Audi A7 followed and looked like it wanted to play.  I'm fine with that, I thought, and carried on at a swift pace.  The road leading up to Prescott is a joyous collection of tight bends, fast sweepers and short straights.  My Bonneville, even with all that weight on the back and my fists of ham, handled the road brilliantly.  It makes the case for a pure sports bike difficult when such a normal machine can perform so well. 

The Audi became a smaller and smaller speck in my mirrors until I got cold and pulled over to put my flannel back on.  Using my motorcyclist spider sense, I could see the clouds getting darker and more abundant.  Smiling at the thought of more rain (why not?), I put on the wind breaker, too. 

Sure enough, I was greeted with rain in Prescott.  I rode through a slight drizzle but I could hear booms of thunder and see the lightning.  Either I had just missed the storm or was on the front edge of it.  I set my GPS for the hotel and rode through town.  It's a nice place, Prescott, with loads of small town charm.  Also there was the Audi.

I eyed a few restaurants I'd like to try but my route kept taking me further away from town.  The further I got, the less I wanted to ride back and I wasn't walking that far.  Finally, I reached the hotel, quite a distance from Prescott, and got a room.  The manager even let me park my bike under the awning, which was great because it started to rain as soon as I got there.  Pickings were slim for dinner, so I grabbed a few things from a grocery store and ate that.  Whatever; it was dinner and I was hungry.

Aside from the rain in Prescott, the day had been fantastic.  I had clear skies and great weather all day and the bike never missed a beat again.  I was starting to break down, though.  Really, I just wanted to go home to my bed.  Losing my camera was the real black eye on the day.  I'm still pissed about it and I have no one to blame but me.

Stay tuned for Part VI.

On The Road, Pt. IV

It was now Monday, the day I'd be getting into San Diego.  I spent most of the previous evening drying out my clothes using a combo of the iron and hair dryer.  It worked... Sort of.  What really worked best was putting my socks in the microwave.

Anyway, I pulled the blinds open in the morning and was greeted with more rain.  How could it rain this much?  It has to stop some time, right?

Well, this morning wasn't that time.  It rained all through breakfast and all the while I packed up my bike.  The highlight of the morning wasn't the omelet I had (it was good, though), it was a chance meeting in an elevator.  I walked in the elevator carrying all my stuff and the guy in there told me he once rode a motorcycle from Hollywood back to Pittsburgh.  Pittsburgh?!  That's the second person from my old turf I met on this trip.  Weird and wild stuff, that.

I made my way through the rain to a nearby gas station, fueled up for the ride to Prescott and prepared to get wet.  I wasn't 45 minutes into the day and everything was already soaked.  Lovely.

Mercifully, the rain ended when I got on Arizona 89A, the winding road that would take me to Prescott.  The road was still very wet, though, which meant I couldn't fully exploit the twisty bits or the empty road in front of me.  At least it was warming up.

Like a ghost in the night, a great number of switchbacks appeared on the road.  The scenery and the tight road tore at my concentration, delighting and denying me at the same time.  The road snakes, dips and climbs through an amazing canyon.  It's an absolute delight, almost to the point of wanting to turn around and ride it a few more times.  The Bonneville's handling also continued to impress; this section was a blast in the wet on a packed-up bike.

As quickly as it appeared, the canyon was gone.  The road  flattened out and gently wove through the forest.  Every so often a small motel or cabin would appear on the side, showing some semblance of civilization.  Aside from this, it was you and the trees.

As I broke through the trees into Sedona, AZ, I was greeted with a panoramic view of biblical proportions.  There were sunken canyons, high, spiraling mountains; trees, rocks and buildings sharing the same space.  The architects built Sedona around the geological features; instead of dominating the land, the builders incorporated it and created something beautiful.

Above this wondrous scene was the best sight of all: dissipating clouds and blue sky.  The sun even made an appearance.  I had come through 300 miles of rain and misery to be greeted by a sight of extreme beauty.  It was totally worth it.

I fueled up in Sedona and headed toward the mountains.  As I got closer, the road dried and the sun took command over the sky.  One of the highlights was Jerome, AZ, an old mining town built into the mountain.  Suddenly, I was in the Apennines, snaking through the town's narrow streets, tight corners and stucco buildings.  It was like being transported to another country, if only for a brief moment.

Dancing the curves of the mountain brought me to Prescott, AZ, finally.  I fueled up, got lost and then finally found my way down the mountain.  Further increasing my reward were more mountain roads and more gorgeous scenery.  Coming down the mountain brought incredible views of the desert floor.  The desert spread out like an enormous blanket, covering everything up to the horizon.

At the bottom was a little place called Congress, AZ.  This place consisted of a gas station and a Family Dollar.  That was it.  As I was getting gas, I suddenly realized something: I was very hot.  I was so busy concentrating on the road and the scenery, I didn't notice the temperature went from the low 60s to the mid 80s.  The windbreaker that had saved me yesterday was now clinging to me like a frightened child.

Free of bondage, I set off across the flat and straight desert.  It's here that one can truly grasp the vastness of the U.S.  There was nothing, I mean nothing, but scrub and dirt for miles and miles.  The road was so straight I could have set the throttle and taken a nap.  The desert was not without excitement as a number of vultures took flight directly in front of me.  I had to lay flat on the tank to miss them and if I was in a car, they would have splattered across my windshield.

The flat desert gave way to I-10, the road that would take me to California.  I-10 was more of the same except with more trucks.  A stop for gas and an awful lunch got me ready for the final push.  The trip down I-10 was a boring exercise in dealing with hot wind blast and boring scenery.  I was thankful when it ended.

A stop for fuel in Palm Desert, CA meant the end of the desert.  San Diego was just on the other side of the mountain.  While filling up in Palm Desert, I again realized I was very hot.  I was sweating not even doing anything.  Unfortunately, I had no more removable clothes.

The final leg would take me up the Pines to Palms Highway and around Palomar Mountain.  Any corners would be exciting after the dullness of the desert and this did not disappoint.  Every corner you could imagine, from tight twisties to fast sweepers, were here and it was all bathed in bright sunlight.  Again, the scenery was just as fantastic as the road.  The Bonnie and its rider enjoyed every minute of this place, as it was similar to roads in Colorado except they were only at around 3,000 feet.  That meant the bike actually had power to go down the straights.  It also got cold up here, requiring me to stop and put my flannel back on.

The downward side of the mountain put me on the fast-track to the ocean.  By this time I was pretty tired and just wanted to get to my hotel.  After what seemed like 40 years wandering the desert, I pulled into the hotel, got in my room and collapsed on the bed.  Another realization hit me: I was hungry.  It was getting too dark to walk all the way to the ocean, so I just milled around the area.  All that was around were hot rod shops and a doughnut place.  Giving in, I ordered pizza from Domino's and then crashed.  It had been a very long day.

I made it, though.  I was in California.  As I tried to calm down and relax after the day, I thought about the ride I had just put in.  It's easy to think about California and wonder why anyone would want to live there.  Then you visit and realize why.

In a two hour period, I went from the desert to the mountains and finally to the ocean.  I did this while on amazing roads surrounded by some of the Earth's best scenery.

What an amazing place.

Part V will cover the beginning of the ride home.

On The Road, Pt III

It was.

I awoke to rain; lots of it.  I grabbed some breakfast and got ready for the day, hoping all the time that it would let up.  Watching the weather channel confirmed what I thought: it wouldn't.

So, I packed up and got ready to go, figuring I might as well get on with it.  Parked next to my Bonneville was a very nice Yamaha FJR1300.  It actually made me feel better since I wouldn't be the only bike.  As I was strapping my backpack down, the Yammie's owner came out for a chat.  It turned out he was originally from Steubenville, OH, which is very close to Pittsburgh.  I wasn't expecting that.

Belly full of carbs and orange juice, I set off into the rain.  My not packing rain gear was really dumb.  Water came in through my mesh summer jacket and spray from the road came in the mesh areas of my pants.  Clearly, this would be a long day.

The rain let up as I approached Shiprock, NM to fuel up.  The sky was extremely gray and foreboding, though.  I took off from the gas station and headed on down the road.  I settled into the groove of riding, keeping a watchful eye on the skies.

Oddly, something didn't feel right.  I kept seeing signs for Gallup, NM, which wasn't where I wanted to go.  I figured Gallup was the only large town around and it would appear on most of the signs in the area.  A little further and I started to get worried.  Pulling over, I whipped out my phone and it confirmed I was heading south to Gallup instead of going west toward Teec Nos Pos.  I was so focused on what the skies were going to do, I completely missed my turn and went way off course.

If I continued south, I could take I-40 to Flagstaff or I could turn around and take 160, the way I intended.  Rain covered both routes, which meant I had to decide on whether I wanted to share the rain-soaked roads with tractor-trailers or not.  I chose to go back, refuel and head the way I intended.

Heading toward Teec Nos Pos turned out to be a very scenic route.  There were gorgeous canyons and beautiful vistas on either side of the road.  This road even had some corners, which would be quite rare on this route.  Teasing me, the sun popped out for a few miles.  This brief respite would be the only sun and blue sky I'd see for a while.

Rain peppered my face shield off and on but as I got near my fuel stop in Kayenta, AZ, the sky turned a deep black.  At the station, I popped in for a pee and a quick snack.  The sky was incredibly ominous.  It looked like I'd be riding into the lungs of Hell.  I guzzled my water, refueled the bike and headed off.

A few miles later the rain came and it came hard.  Water poured through my gear and my base layers were drenched.  I could feel the cold water running down my back.  Crotch drenched, socks drenched; everything was wet.

I was already cold and this served to bring on intense shivers.  I had 78 miles to go to Tuba City and there were times I thought I wouldn't make it.  I was so cold and shivering so much I could barely keep control of the bike.  Never mind that I was doing so while riding through hard rain (not the movie).  This was such desolate country that there wasn't even an underpass or anything to hide under.  All I did was shiver and stare at my odometer, mentally counting off the miles.

Mercifully, the rain died down.  I was still very wet and cold but I could now see where I was going.  I can say that no one in the history of the world was happier to see Tuba City, AZ than I was.  There was a Quality Inn in town and I couldn't get there fast enough.  I pulled up to the door, hopped off my bike, squished my way up to the desk and inquired about a room.  I'd have to kill two hours, which gave me time to change and eat, two things I desperately needed to do.

I changed and then shiver-walked over to the restaurant next door.  I immediately ordered coffee, something I haven't had in nearly 20 years.  After a mediocre lunch, I went to the trading post next door and bought a windbreaker while the two girls behind the counter complained about their pre-calc class.

While all this was happening, the rain began to dissipate.  According to the map I was another hour-and-a-half from Flagstaff.  The weather around there wasn't as bad and the major storms had all moved north.  I had originally planned to spend the night in Prescott, AZ but that wasn't happening.  If I made for Flagstaff, I'd still get a bit wet but I'd be closer than if I stayed in Tuba City.  Helping spur this decision was the fact that a room at this Quality Inn would cost $130.  That's a lot to stay in this one horse town, even if I was soaked.  Feeling adventurous, I put on my soaked gear, which now weighed twice as much, and headed for Flagstaff.

The skies were a deep gray and I got peppered with rain but I eventually made it to Flagstaff.  I pulled over to search for a hotel and lo and behold, a Hampton Inn was nearby.  I stopped there and got a room for the night, damn the cost.  As I was putting my stuff in the room, beams of sunlight came creeping into my room.  I just smiled since it had been hours since I saw the sun.  This moment was fleeting, however, as the gray came back to reclaim the sky.

I threw on some dry clothes and figured I'd scare up some dinner.  As I walked out the hotel, I stopped to look at my bike.  It was a bit dirty this morning from yesterday's showers.  Now it was completely filthy.  It wasn't even black anymore.  It was now a shade of gray-brown.  She was a champ, though.  Through all the rain and the water, she never missed a beat; never misfired, chugged or slowed down.  What a great bike.

My choices for dinner were Arby's, Jack in the Box or Sizzler.  Yum.  I chose Sizzler and had the salad bar, which was awful.  I think they put the stuff out at nine in the morning and it stays there all day.

I went back to my room and hit the bed, hard.  I was exhausted and two hours away from where I wanted to be.  This meant my push to San Diego tomorrow would be a very long one.  How would that turn out?

Stayed tuned for that in Part IV.

On The Road, Pt II

The first day of my trip finally was here.  I, of course, waited until the night before I left to pack and ran around like a mad man doing so.  I also didn't sort out what was going to go where until I was about to leave.  Clearly, a boy scout I am not.

I figured since I'm in Denver, I should wear some layers for when it gets cold, so I opted for some shorts under my Triumph riding pants.  In case you're interested (and how could you not be?), I picked up a pair of Triumph's Adventure jeans.  They're tan, which I wanted since everything else is black and I didn't want to roast, and are vented in the shins and thigh.  They are actually quite nice and are the only riding pants I tried which actually fit me.

All that is great but the only real problem is aside from being tan, they're navy blue.  Why?  All the blue does is require me to buy the matching jacket so the colors will match.  When did motorcycling require so much fashion sense?

Anyway, I'm geared up and ready to leave.  I throw my backpack with my computer and other electronics on and grab my saddle bags with everything else.  I'm sweating before I reach the top of the stairs.  Never mind, I'm sure it will be chilly outside.

It's not.  Sweating some more, I load everything on the bike, strap it down and remember I forgot my ear plugs.  Okay, back in the house, grab the earplugs and now it's time to leave.  Wait, I forgot the chain lube.  Back out to the garage, grab the lube and now it's time to leave.  Wait...

After 45 more trips to grab forgotten stuff, it's finally time to leave 30 minutes after I wanted to.  No matter, though, we're on the road beginning an epic quest.

I decided to take I-70 to Route 285 instead of going through town.  I didn't want the hassle of going from redlight to redlight and really just wanted to get going.  Never mind that this route shaved 45 minutes off my entire day.  The bike ran great and really didn't feel the extra weight on the back.

I-70 and 470 were boring slab stuff, though I did see a trailer full of hay tip over.  That was interesting.  The real interesting stuff was when I got on 285.  This would take me nearly through the spine of Colorado and the Rockies.

This was proper Colorado riding: small towns, mountains and valleys.  The scenery was just spectacular.  It was hard to concentrate on the road because my head was always scanning the scenery.  Everywhere I looked there was something gorgeous to see.

The Kenosha Pass takes you up to 10,001 ft and then puts you down in an epic valley between the peaks.  The area is flat and open for miles and miles.  It's almost like being in a giant crater, a mostly-featureless area surrounded by imposing mountain peaks.  There were trees occasionally and a few farms but not much else.  I should also point out that my decision to layer up was a good one.  It was mighty chilly up there early in the morning. 

In Saguache, I made the left-hand bend to stay on 285 and continued on a stretch of road that was flat and straight for miles.  Honestly, look at it on a map.  It's perfectly straight.  The cool thing about this section was that two ridges run right across the road.  Instead of going over the ridges, the engineers cut right through them.  What you end up with, then, is a free geology lesson as you can see the layers of rock under the surface.  I thought that was fantastic. 

As I got to Wolf Creek Pass, something strange started to happen.  The skies got darker and the air became cooler.  Closer to the mountain, this increased until the inevitable happened: rain drops on my visor.  One thing I didn't pack was rain gear, a decision I regretted immediately. 

The run up to the nearly 11,000ft summit of Wolf Creek Pass was pock marked with rain and slow moving vehicles.  Thankfully, the road is wide and I could deal with the lack of excitement of the straight bit with some corner carving action.  It was very dark at the summit; cold, too, and the rain got heavier. 

The trip down was a blast until I got stuck behind an RV, which was a blessing because it was quite wet and there were a few cops out.  As quickly as it appeared, the rain and gray disappeared.  The rest of the trip was clear, sunny and dry. 

Approaching the end of the day, I pulled into Farmington, NM where I would be spending the night.  Initial impressions of the town were good.  I thought I would be in a town similar to the one from Tremors.  There were malls, restaurants and even a Harley dealership.  The thing was I kept passing all these places and I still didn't reach my hotel.  I kept going and going and Farmington got worse and worse.  Finally, as I reached the back end of town, I found my hotel.

The city planners must have designated this place as Hotel Row because that's all that was there.  There were six or so hotels, a gas station and one lonely Mexican restaurant.  You can guess where I ate dinner. 

With the first day behind me, I lugged all my stuff up to my room (no small feat), locked up the bike and headed to the lonely Mexican place.  I had a burrito that weighed probably ten pounds and was greeted with rain as I left.  Hmm, interesting, I thought.  I hope this isn't a sign of things to come.

Stay tuned for Part III...

On The Road, Pt. I

As has been well-documented in this blog, I was bike-less here in Denver for a few months.  Without a bike to occupy my time, I was forced branch out in my interests.  Really, that gave me time to do other things.  I did some knitting, I took a yoga class, I learned karate and studied French.

Okay, none of that is true.  All I really did was think about motorcycles and trawl the Internet looking at motorcycle pictures and parts.  So, business as usual.

Something I did do a lot of was plan trips on Google Maps.  One area that kept coming up was California.  I had been to Cali a few years ago to buy a Datsun 240Z in Oxnard.  The Z turned out to be a junk heap but it gave me a chance to take a cross-country road trip back to Pittsburgh with my dad, which was fantastic.

I initially wanted to go to San Fransisco but that turned out to be too far to go in the time I had.  Doing that trip would have required a 500-mile slab day through Nevada and I really didn't want to do that.  The next logical choice was San Diego.  This was a much shorter trip since San Diego is closer to Denver that San Fran and was doable in the time I had.  Plus there was no long slab day.  San Diego it was, then.

Once the destination was set, a route began to appear on the map.  Save for some towns and cities along the way, there really isn't much in the American southwest.  I had already been through this area returning to Pittsburgh from Oxnard, so I was sort of familiar with it.  I would be on a bike this time, so it would be different.

I could make it to San Diego in three days and I decided on spending two days there, making my trip eight days in total.  Not a bad trip, I thought.

My first night was to be in Durango, CO but the hotels turned out to be too expensive, so I decided on Farmington, NM instead.  The same hotels were much cheaper and this added about one hour to my day, which wasn't bad.  Oh yeah, no camping on this trip.  It's hotels only for this adventurer.

The next thing to decide was gas stops.  My Bonneville has a range of around 130 miles, depending on many things like elevation and how exuberant I get with the throttle.  Over the three days to San Diego and back, I had gas stops planned every 50 to 80 miles.  It may seem excessive to stop this often but I'd rather not push my bike for God knows how many miles until I reach a gas station.

All of this was planned in April and May, which meant the next step was to wait for time to take the trip to come.  I had put in the vacation time for the last week in August.  During the wait, I thought about going to other places, such as Idaho because it would take me through states I had never been before.  I also thought briefly about riding home to Pittsburgh.  San Diego sounded so much better than all of those other plans and so that's where I went.

In the next installment, we'll set off for Farmington, NM and see what sort of adventuring we can find.

Stay tuned!

When is a Motorcycle Post Not a Motorcycle Post?

The answer is when it's this one.  What does that mean?  I have no idea but it sounds good in my head, so I'm keeping it.

During the summer here in Denver, I've been using my Bonneville more and more and my car less and less.  I've used my car for trips to the grocery store and to pick my parents up from the airport on a recent visit.  In fact, I just put gas in my VW for the first time since May.  May!

I forgot how expensive it is to fill the car up.  I'm spoiled by $12 fill-ups.

I've been thinking that, besides a round-the-world trip or a twisty mountain road, the holy grail for a motorcyclist is to ditch the car and keep the bike.  It's a tempting and romantic idea, I'll admit.

It's something I've thought about quite seriously and I've reached a conclusion: I couldn't do it.

Never mind the winter weather and cold temps, I couldn't do it because a car is quite convenient.  Besides keeping you warm and dry, a car can haul things and carry extra people while still being fun.  Last week I bought a rake and it would have been very hard to carry it home on my bike.  I'm sure some creative genius is reading this and thinking they could do it but I'm a lazy genius.  I used the car.

I'm also sure my parents didn't want to be picked up at the airport on my bike.  Yes, I could have rented a car but I used my car instead.  I ended up renting one anyway and it cost me nearly as much as a year's insurance on my car.  Another plus for my VW is that it is paid for and it's also nearing the nadir of its depreciation. 

But it's not just economics and convenience that influence me to keep my VW.  It's mostly because I like the car and cars in general.  I've been a car guy much longer than I've been a bike guy.  My VW is quite fun to drive, even if its suspension is a bit soft and it rolls in the corners.  The 1.8 turbo makes near-instant torque, a great whoosh from the turbo and gets good mileage if I'm light on the throttle.  If I boot it, I can watch the gas gauge plummet.  That's not so good.

It's also cavernous and comfortable.  I drove it from Pittsburgh to Denver loaded with stuff (and my mom) and it averaged 32 mpg and neither of us were tired from the drive.  The car never missed a beat the entire time.  Cruising at 75, you could have a conversation at normal volume and just relax.  My Honda Civic at 75mph was a nervous, noisy wreck.  

I know this blog is supposed to be about motorcycles, but I just wanted to give big ups to my VW.  I've had it for seven years and it's been a great car.  It's currently sleeping under a car cover so the evil Denver sun doesn't kill its paint.

Whatever I replace it with has very big shoes to fill.  In fact, I might not replace it with anything.  I go to car shows and I look around dealers but I can't find anything I'd replace it with that doesn't have Ferrari or Porsche on the front.  And, really, if I could afford a Ferrari or a Porsche, I'd just keep my VW. 

I look around, think about how nice newer cars are and then I get in my 9-year-old VW and go home.  I feel the same about my Bonneville.  I look at new bikes, and there are some I really like, but I can't find one that I like more than my Bonnie.  I very satisfied with both vehicles, if I'm honest.

Mick Jagger can't get no satisfaction, but I can.

Triple Trouble

In the 1960s, Triumph was at the top of its game.  The company could seemingly do no wrong.  Dealers couldn't sell the bikes fast enough, a never-ending supply of movie stars and other celebrities were photographed on them, and Triumph was winning races everywhere you could imagine.

While the public was buying every Triumph twin in sight, the company was working on a new bike, one that would set the world on fire like the Speed Twin did 30 years earlier.  This bike wouldn't be a twin, however. 

The story goes back to 1962 where one-and-a-half Tiger 100 engines were combined to form a three-cylinder power plant.  The engine was modified slightly from its donors and then shoehorned into a regular Triumph frame, which was tested using lead weights to simulate the new engine.  What resulted was a superbike, even though the thought of that didn't exist yet.

The three-cylinder engine was much more powerful and a whole lot smoother than its parallel twin cousins.  It also showcased Triumph's ability to make the most out of what it already produces.  Aside from a longer stroke, the new engine really was the tried-and-true Triumph twin with another cylinder grafted on.  Twin cams actuated the valves just like on the twins and they were also placed for and aft of the cylinders.  Hey, if it ain't broke...

Using essentially off the shelf parts meant that a three-cylinder road bike could be available to the public in no time.  Triumph could once again put the world on its ear with a fast new bike, something that could further put the company above its competitors.

Sadly, it didn't work out that way.

In a case of foreshadowing, Triumph made one of the many decisions that eventually put the company on the brink a few years later.  Instead of getting the bike out to the public quickly, it was decided that BSA, Triumph's parent company, would get a version of the new triple.  In theory, it was supposed to be a badge engineering job but it went horribly wrong.

BSA wanted some uniqueness to their model and required the engine to be sloped forward, unlike the bolt-upright Triumph version.  Another issue was the commission of Ogle Design to style the bike.  Instead of the classic Triumph look, an attempt at a squarer, modern design was used.  This not only further delayed production of the bike, it also added unnecessary weight to the machine.  The bikes also used different frames, further differentiating themselves.

So they were badge engineering jobs that were almost completely different.  It's not hard to see why BSA and Triumph would be in a financial bind in a few years.

When the bike finally came to market in 1968, it really did create a polarizing effect, though not always in a good way.  The triple twins were badged as the Triumph Trident and the BSA Rocket 3. 

The bike was very fast; its 60hp would easily push the bike over 100mph.  Tuned versions of the triple would nudge 140.  The Rocket 3 won a number of races at Daytona in the early 70s and set speed records that stood for a number of years.  The triples didn't lack in performance. 

While it had a four-speed gearbox like its twin-cylinder brethren, it had a dry clutch instead of a wet clutch.  Also the clutch wasn't where it normally was on a Triumph twin.  Mounted on the left was instead a shock absorber for the transmission.   

The real shock was reserved for the styling.  The classic Triumph teardrop look was replaced with a square tank known as the "bread box" and "ray gun" silencers.  It was a huge departure from the Triumphs of yore.  While the public was impressed with the performance, they didn't warm to the controversial styling.

Perhaps the biggest blow to the new triples was Honda's CB750, which debuted just four weeks later.  The CB750 was a high tech showcase with a front disc, overhead camshaft, electric starting and four cylinders.  Also, Honda used horizontally split crankcase, which meant less oil leaks.  Rubbing salt in the wound was the fact that the Honda was cheaper and faster than the triples.

The triples were never a sales success.  In order to boost sales, the bread box look was canned for a more traditional Triumph look.  A fifth gear was added, as was a front disc brake, to better help the bikes compete with Honda and the new Kawasaki Z1.  With the closure of BSA in 1973, the Trident was left to go alone against the Japanese. 

In a last hurrah for the triple, a Triumph Trident T160V was produced from 1974 to 1976.  The T160 featured many improvements and changes, such as forward sloping cylinders, front and rear discs, an electric start (finally) and left side shift.  In all, it was too little too late.  Few were produced and the triple was soon retired to the history books.

Personally, I like the styling of the original Trident and Rocket 3.  I also think the Rocket was the better-looking of the two.  What I like most is that it was such a departure from the classic Triumph styling.  If you look quick enough, all the Triumphs from that era look the same.  They look great, don't get me wrong, but it's also a boring to have a range of bikes that all look exactly the same except for the color. 

The triples were halo vehicles for Triumph/BSA and special styling should have been part of the package.  The later redesigned Trident looked like a Bonneville with an extra cylinder.  Its uniqueness was gone. 

Besides, too much emphasis is placed on the styling of the triples for their lack of sales and not enough is placed on the fact that they were old bikes when they were new.  Triumph and BSA were content to trot out the same old bikes with the same old problems year after year after year when Honda came along and showed everyone what was possible.  I know it's been done to death but if there was any one example of why the English motorcycle industry collapsed, the triples are it. 

Bureaucracy and bad decisions delayed what could have been a sure-fire hit.  With some development, a 140mph monster could have been built and history would be completely different.   Triumph/BSA should have spent the extra 18 months developing the bike instead of designing two different bikes that were supposed to be the same.

The Question

I was just thinking today that it's been over a month since I've driven my car to work.  Mostly, my VW has sat forlorn in the driveway, save for weekend runs to the grocery store.  My Triumph has been pounding the pavement everyday and battling the traffic on my four-mile commute.

Most of my commute is spent idling, which is really fun when it's 90° F outside.  Save for a few close-calls and some obscenities hurled at offending drivers, it's been really uneventful commuting.   One thing that has been interesting is the questions I get at work.

People see me in my jacket, holding my full-face helmet and ask "do you ride a motorcycle?"  "No, I just carry this stuff around for fun" is what I would like to tell them but some of these people are higher on the ladder than me, so I can't.

The responses I get are along the lines of the danger of motorcycles, how they would never ride one or how I don't look like someone who'd ride a bike.

The last one gets me because what does a motorcycle rider look like?  Non-riders think of the Hell's Angels or the Sons of Anarchy guys as the stereotypical rider but that shows a lot of ignorance.  Yes, I've met and seen lots of people who fit that mold but most of the riders I know are normal people.  They're doctors, businessmen, mechanics, factory workers, office workers, etc.  They just happened to ride motorcycles. 

Sure, riding a motorcycle is dangerous but so is everything that's worth doing.  Mountain climbing, skydiving, deep sea diving and many other activities would be pretty boring if the amount of inherent risk was gone.  Climbing Mt. Everest or racing in the Isle of Man TT is a big deal because it's dangerous.  If all you had to do was ride an elevator to the top or putt-putt around the TT course, there wouldn't be much sense in doing it.

The attraction to the amount of risk or to the rush of adrenaline you get when blasting down a back road is difficult to explain to people.  That's what attracted me to motorcycles in the first place and that's what continues to do so.  My boring four-mile commute is so much more fun on a motorcycle.  That I save on gas and parking is a nice bonus.

When I explain this, I'm usually meant with blank stares.  I just smile and think about how someone won't blink an eye at skiing or snowboarding yet won't ride a motorcycle 50 feet. 

It boggles the mind, really.

Reunited

So last month I was bragging about my new bike and how much it was going to save me in parking.  I was feeling pretty good about myself.  Finally, I thought, you made an adult decision and bought something you could actually use.  Maybe I'm finally growing up...

Well, not so fast.

While the little Honda may have sipped gas and may have been too ugly to steal, it had some issues.  There were a number of parts broken or missing but like I said, it was $800.  I wasn't going to get perfection for that price.

The Honda had one major flaw, though, regardless of its price: it wasn't my Triumph.

You see, days after I bought the Honda, my Triumph showed up here in Denver.  All the new bike excitement disappeared and old friend bike excitement took over.  It was like being reunited.  The Honda was immediately put on the back burner and unceremoniously sold a short time later.

My Triumph and I have had some adventures together.  There were boring commutes, exciting backroad blasts, rides in the rain, crashes in the mud; overnights, trips, etc, etc.  That bike and I have had a lot of fun together over the last five years.

Being away from it for a few months really got me thinking about how easy it is to get attach to an object.  Let's face it, there's no reciprocity with a motorcycle because it's just a thing.  It's not alive; it has no feelings.  I can't help but feel a bit of kinship with my machine, though.  I can't help but feel every trip, no matter how mundane, is a trip with a friend.

I mean, we're sharing the same experiences and while the bike lacks the ability to verbalize its memories, the scars on the bike tell the story.  There are a host of scrapes and scratches on the left side of my Triumph from when we crashed in West Virginia.  Those scratches really bothered me at first.  My Triumph was so pretty, so new and the marks gnawed at me.  I felt sorry for the bike.

After some time, the marks started to grow on me.  This was now my bike.  Triumph made thousands of black Bonnevilles in 2008 but only one is mine.

This one, with the scratches and the droopy turn signal, is mine.

Over The Mountain

Since I've been reunited with my Triumph, there was only one place to celebrate: the mountains.

Ever since I moved to Denver, I've looked at the mountains with lust.  The twisting roads, the beautiful scenery; it's so close yet without my bike, so far away.  Sure, my GTi is fun to drive on twisty roads but it's not the same.  It's just so much better on a bike.

With so many good roads to choose from, it was hard to pick just one.  I finally settled on Golden Gate Canyon up to Nederland and I would then continue on to Estes Park.  This would give me a chance to get a taste of proper canyon riding and also allow me to break in my new Michelin Pilot Activ shoes.  I topped off the air in the tires and topped off the gas and went on my way.  There were some clouds but I wasn't worried.  I don't think the Devil himself could have stopped me.

When I got on Golden Gate Canyon, it was everything I imagined: challenging, delightful, invigorating.  Even the gravel in the corners didn't bother me.  I was in some proper motorcycling stuff now, not the crap I knew back in Pennsylvania.  I could set up for corners and not have to dodge potholes big enough to swallow a Dodge.  I wasn't getting beaten to death by appalling road conditions.  The road was smooth and the bike just glided along.

I must say, the Bonneville is a joy to ride.  I modified the suspension a few years ago (it's on this blog somewhere) with Progressive fork springs and Hagon 2810 rear shocks.  This setup was good on PA's roads but just magic here in Colorado.  The bike was rock solid in the turns and turn-in was crisp.  A slight bit of countersteer was all that was needed to get the bike to lean.  I looked into Ricor Intimators and Race Tech Emulators for the forks but after that ride, I don't think they're necessary.

Back to the ride.  Mile after mile of cornering bliss brought me to Nederland where I stopped to use a grungy bathroom and a fuel pump from the 1950s.  After that it was onward and upward to Estes Park.

A strange thing started to happen after I left Nederland.  It started to get colder.  I chalked it up to being at nearly 8,500 feet of elevation.   Something else was strange: the sun was disappearing.  Clouds were dominating the sky and they were getting grayer.  Hmm, I'd better check my handy phone for the weather.  Oops, no reception.  Well, I guess I'll continue on.

As I got on, the sky became worse, so much so that nearly-black clouds were obscuring the mountains.  It looked like I was riding into Mordor.  I started to get nervous about riding into snow, since it was getting damn cold now.  To confirm my fears, I started to hear the plink of raindrops on my helmet.  It was time to turn around.

I busted a u-turn and headed back to Nederland, not before getting slightly wet.  The ride back was just as much fun, only a bit faster since I was now going downhill.  I got back to Nederland and took a glimpse to my left.  The storm was now hovering over where I needed to go.

I was making great time on my return.  I didn't even get lost, which was a first.  With about 15 miles to go on Golden Gate Canyon Road, the familiar plinks of rain returned.  This time, I wouldn't avoid the storm.

It rained on me from then all the way down Route 6 and for most of my return up Colfax Avenue.  I could outrun the rain but it would catch up with me at the redlights.  I finally did outrun it and stayed dry on the rest my way home.  I put the bike away when I got home, admiring how dirty it was.  It looked like I rode it through Uzbekistan.

And now for the final bit of hilarity: I decided to go on a nice walk through City Park to relax a bit.  As I'm walking, I feel the soft patter of rain on my head.  Yes, the same storm that I narrowly avoided once, got caught in again and then outran is over me for a third time.  I just smiled as I walked, watching the lightning and listening to the thunder.

What a great day.

Little Honda

So I've moved to a new city (Denver, CO) and started a new job smack dab in the middle of downtown.  All is going well; Denver is lovely, my job is good, the pay is good and the commute is very easy.  All seems perfect, right?  Well, no.

As with all good things, it comes with bad as the side dish.  In my case, the bad is parking.  You see, I'm in downtown, so parking is scarce and expensive.  Even with early bird special rates, I'll spend over $1,000 per year on parking.  As a cheapskate, that makes my skin crawl.  Now it's time to find some way to ease my parking expense.

I could ride a bicycle.  Bikes park for free on the sidewalk and I'd get the side benefit of exercise.  Of course, that also means I'd have to dodge the traffic that sees a bicycle as a nuisance and it would make my short commute longer.  During the summer, I'd also sweat my ass off and I don't want to stink for the rest of the day.  Let's not mention the many, many times I've crashed my bicycle as a kid.  I think I spent more time wreathing on the ground in pain after a crash than actually riding the bike.  So a bike is out.

The next option is public transport, which means a bus in my case.  The Denver Light Rail is so far away it's not even an option.  My company offers free passes for the RTD buses.  For me, that means driving across town, parking my car, and then riding the RTD in to work.  In that same amount of time, I could just walk to work.  I could ride the regular bus, which means a longer commute and the chance to sit next to someone who smells like pee.  So the bus is out.

It's gets a little better because scooters under 50cc get to park on the sidewalk for free.  For free, you say?  Hmm, my inner cheapskate likes that.  While a scooter isn't a motorcycle, it does have an engine and two wheels.  They're also cheap to buy and run and are fairly simple.  Yes, I think a scooter could be the answer to my problems.

With a scooter in mind, I went off to the dealers to look at a few.  The Chinese junk were out immediately.  Vespas were out, too, because they're too expensive.  Even used Vespas are too much.  Genuine Scooter Stellas are nice but are, again, more than I wanted to spend.  

That left me with two choices: the Honda Metropolitan or the Piaggio Fly 50.  Both are new for 2013.  The Honda has been restyled and looks even more like a Vespa than an actual Vespa.  It has lots of storage and is really quite good looking.  I liked it in pearl white with the brown seat.  It's also fuel injected, which is nice.

The Fly 50 is much more modern looking with its styling.  It also boasts bigger wheels than the Honda and has a front disc where the Honda has a drum.  The Piaggio is slightly more expensive and gets slightly less MPG.  The Fly offers similar amount of storage, though, and goes about as quickly as the Honda.

Both are surprisingly quick on the road and are as nimble as a gazelle.  Steering is fast on the Honda due to its 10-inch wheels; the Piaggio felt much more stable.  Both would be perfect for riding around town and commuting.  So it seems my parking dilemma has been solved with a scooter. 

Well, not so fast.

As I was riding around on the Honda, I caught a glimpse of myself in a store window.  It was not good.  I'm used to looking like a complete nerd but this was too much even for me.  I went back with that image gnawing at my mind.  I chalked it up to a momentary bought of self-consciousness.  It would pass, I thought.  Later on in the week, I went to look at a used Malaguti Yesterday 50, which had the distinction of being hideously ugly.  That was out.

However, something happen while I was sitting on the Malaguti.  I had an epiphany.

The place that had the Malaguti also sells Royal Enfields.  As I was sitting on this ugly scooter, I was staring at the chrome and the big engine of the Enfield and I realized I couldn't ride a scooter.  I just couldn't do it.  Nothing personal is directed toward scooter riders, but it's just not me.  I decided on a cheap motorcycle.

In my search for parking solutions, I found a nearby garage that charges half price for motorcycles.  That would put me well under $1,000 per year in parking.  While still more expensive than free, I wouldn't be on a scooter.  So the search for a cheap motorcycle ensued.  After a few false starts, a few dreamers and a few potential candidates, I came across a little Honda that fit the bill.

It was a 1981 Honda CM400T, a pseudo-cruiser from Japan's Great Cruiserfication period.  At least it has a round headlamp.  It was $800, ran and had new tires.  It has issues, like a tach that doesn't work, faded paint and a busted headlamp shell, but I wasn't expecting perfection for under a grand.  The contacts on the starter switch could use some cleaning, as well.  It also came with a giant sissy bar/luggage rack that was so 70s and was ditched on the quick-fast.  I picked it up yesterday and spent most of the day riding around without a license plate.  Don't tell Johnny Law...

The first thing that sticks out is how light the Honda is.  Fueled and ready to go, it tips the scales at just over 400 lbs.  That's significantly lighter than my Triumph and my Guzzi.  It felt so playful and easy to throw around.  There's not much in the way of torque from the little twin, but that's to be expected.  The brakes are terrible, which I chalk up to me being spoiled by modern brakes. In all, though, it feels pretty solid.

There it is: my parking problem has been solved.  I feel much more comfortable on a motorcycle than on a bicycle or a scooter.  I also don't have to sit next to a vagrant on public transport and I don't have to walk to work.  Things are looking up for me, all thanks to Soichiro Honda and the power of dreams.

Here it is.  It's not a big motorcycle just a groovy little motorbike. 

Swiss Miss

The Swiss have given the world many things, such as absinthe, the Swiss Army knife, cellophane, and the bobsleigh.  You can also thank the Swiss for LSD, which made Flower Power possible, and for Smaky, an 8-bit personal computer.  The Swiss also built a number of motorcycles, though you probably never heard of them.  You probably couldn't pronounce their name, either. 

Motosacoche started in 1899 by the brothers DuFaux in Geneva building engines to put in bicycles or motorcycles.  The design of this engine bared a resemblance to a bag, hence the Motosacoche name, which means 'engine in a bag'.  Leave it up to the French language to make something as dull as 'engine in a bag' sound romantic.  Within a few year's time, Motosacoche became the biggest motorcycle builder in Switzerland.

Motosacoche was so big that it was soon supplying engines to the large British motorcycle industry.  Royal Enfield, Triumph and Brough Superior are said to have used Motosacoche engines.  Many companies from Europe used Motosacoche engines in their motorcycles.  During this period, the company had factories in Switzerland, France and Italy.  Matchless won a number of events with a Motosacoche-powered racer in 1913 and 1914.

Aside from their engines, Motosacoche was known for their fast and robust motorcycles.  The original 1922 24 hour Bol d'Or event in Paris was won by a 500cc Motosacoche.  The 1928 350cc and 500cc championships went to an OHC Motosacoche ridden by Walter Hadley.

The company wasn't just involved in racing.  They produced a number of singles up to 500cc and one liter v-twins that proved to be stable workhorses.  As most road bikes of the time were, Motosacoches were simple and rugged.  While the company was certainly Swiss, many of the bits on their road bikes weren't.  English-made Terry saddles, Amal carbs, Dunlop tires, and Pilgram oil pumps were used.  Enfield also made gearboxes on early models.  English Gearboxes from other companies were used later.  Actually, the frame, engine and bodywork were made in Switzerland while most of the rest was imported. 

Racing and industry dominance was short-lived for Motosacoche.  English companies, particularly Norton, caught up quickly in speed on the track and with the economic environment of the 1930s, decline came quickly.  During WWII, Motosacoche built motorcycles for the Swiss military (no, the didn't have spoons or toothpicks) alongside other Swiss brands such as Condor.

After the war, the company tried to get back into motorcycle manufacturing with a strange 200cc prototype.  This vehicle had a side-valve engine and looked like a Scott Flying Squirrel (only uglier).  Not surprisingly, this model failed to make it past the prototype stage.  Motosacoche gave motorcycle building one last try in 1953 with a couple of bikes bought from Germany's U.T. motorcycle company.

Unfortunately, European buyers at this time were hungry for cars and the new Motosacoche machines didn't sell.  By 1956, their motorcycle building days were over and they went back to building engines, this time for industrial and agricultural use.

A Real Runner

If you mention the Gilera name to most people today, they'll either know the company as a maker of mopeds, scooters, and small-bore motorcycles or they'll give you a confused look.

That was not always the case, however.  In the years before and after World War II, Gilera was the maker of a series of fearsome four-cylinder racing machines.  That's quit a difference from their current position as being another one of Piaggio's many brands.

In the 1950s, Gilera's mighty 500 Four won six championships in eight years, including five straight from 1952 until 1957.  They also won Isle of Man TT in 1955 and 1957. 

Those big air-cooled fours belted out 70 hp and with the bathtub fairings of the day would propel the bike to 160 mph.  After 1957 season, the declining prices of cars in Italy and the escalating costs of racing caused the Italian manufacturers to come to a gentleman's agreement: they would all pull out of racing.  The dominating era of the Gilera Four came to an end.

After pulling out of racing, Gilera concentrated on small road machines and was purchased by Piaggio in 1969.  They have gone on to produce motorcycles of various sizes, along with mopeds and scooters.  The company also made a comeback to racing in 1992 and has won championships in the 125cc class in 2001 and the 250cc class in 2008.

But what kicked off their era of dominance?  How did a company that now sells rebadged Piaggio MP3s once rule the racing world?  Well, it starts with the purchase of an aircraft engine.

In 1923, two Roman engineers named Carlo Gianini and Piero Remor, with capital invested by wealthy Roman count Giovanni Bonmartini, designed a 500cc four-cylinder engine for aircraft use.  The supercharged engine was originally air-cooled but was later redesigned for liquid-cooling.  This engine was eventually purchased by the Caproni aircraft company, who then later sold it to Gilera.

The only similarities between this engine and later the Gilera fours was the number of cylinders and the displacement.  This engine was angled forward at a steep 45° and was liquid-cooled.  Nestled behind the cylinders was a rotating lobe supercharger and the exhaust was a four-into-two setup.

Shoving an airplane engine into a motorcycle frame isn't exactly easy.  A special frame was designed and it was similar in concept to Yamaha's Deltabox frame that would arrive nearly 50 years later.  Two layers of steel tubes ran along the sides of the powertrain and connected to a large spar just under the seat.  This odd frame concept was necessary not only because of the engine's width but because of the size and placement of the radiator.  The front suspension was a traditional girder-style and the scissor-type dampers for the rear suspension were of a pivoting fork design.

This machine debuted in 1937 and immediately began to make an impact.  Piero Taruffi guided it to 170 mph over the flying kilometer and into the record books.  The next year, the 500 Gilera won at Taranto and Lario.  In 1939, Dorino Serafini rode the bike to a record-breaking win at the Ulster Grand Prix in Ireland and on to a world championship.  The next year, the fascinating Gilera was gone.

The innovative chassis played a part in the Gilera's success but the lion's share went to the engine.  It pumped out 85 hp and with the unitized four-speed gearbox and sans fairing, the machine would hit 143 mph.  Put a fairing on it and top speed went up to 170 mph.  That was truly heady stuff for the day.
  
This Gilera is an important piece of motorcycle history.  It's innovative chassis and powerful engine put the world on notice and paved the way for Gilera's future domination.  The 500s that came later would be less radical, however.  Their engines were naturally-aspirated and air-cooled while their frames were more traditional.

It's a shame that the gentleman's agreement between the Italian manufacturers ended Gilera's reign.  They were such iconic and ground-breaking machines and it's sad to see the Gilera name on scooters and mopeds and not on world-beating superbikes.   I don't think ever got to see just what Gilera was capable of.

I think the world was cheated.

Knowing Better

Have you ever liked or done something that you know you shouldn't?  When you were told not to touch the hot stove, didn't that make you want to touch it even more?  One of my professors in college told me to never open a story with a question, yet here I am doing just that.  Why?  Because it's too tempting not to.

The Royal Enfield Bullet falls into the above category perfectly.

Everything I've read about the Bullet says it's a quality control nightmare.  It's a good thing the Bullet is good-looking because it will spend a lot of its time stationary.  Every time I see one, though, I can't help but be drawn in by its looks.  I know there are issues and I know owning one will be a headache but I keep looking.

The Bullet is motorcycling's version of the coelecanth.  It's a living fossil based off a machine that first hit the pavement in 1948.  From that time until a few years ago, very little about the Bullet changed.  It still had drum brakes front and rear, a kick starter, four speeds, and 1940s English build quality.  The big pushrod 500cc single belted out just 22 bhp.

Recently, sweeping changes were made to the Bullet.  The drivetrain was unitized, EFI was added and so was a front disc brake.  And that was about it.  On the plus side, power for the 500 went up to 27.5 bhp. 

While unit construction and disc brakes are hardly revolutionary in the 21st century, adding them to the Bullet was like adding nuclear power to the USS Monitor or like adding electricity to a 16th century house.  The gorgeous, timeless outside remained but with "modern" touches hidden underneath. 

And gorgeous the Bullet is.  By not changing much over the last 65 years, the simple and elegant styling has remained.  Even the pinstripes are still applied by hand.  While modern motorcycles are shaped by science, the Bullet was shaped by the human soul.  Everything about the Bullet just looks right.  It's one of those shapes that screams "motorcycle," not "sci-fi horror show" like many modern motorcycles.  Even the little tool box on the right side looks good.

Hidden under the beauty of the Bullet is the ugliness.  That ugliness is quality.  Scour the Internet or talk to owners and the stories are eye-opening.  Until the recent upgrades, the Bullet really was an old bike with turn signals, so it had all the old bike foibles.  Included among the foibles was the fact that it was achingly slow.  Flat out, the Bullet would struggle to hit 80 mph.  The infusion of power raised top speed only marginally.  And the quality of the metal wasn't and still isn't great, either, with rusting after one season common.

But then you look at one and the foibles you know are there move to the background.  When mom was telling you not to touch the stove, you weren't really listening, were you?

The Bullet is one of those machine you have to get to really understand.  But once you get it, you get it and it makes complete sense.  The Bullet will never compete with a Honda CBR1000RR but then it's not supposed to.  It's meant to be retro and unlike the Hinckley Bonneville or the Moto Guzzi V7, it's actually retro.  It's not a modern bike styled to look like an old bike.  It's an actual old bike.

I like the Bullet because it's a total museum piece that somehow continues to be sold.  It's contemporaries have all gone the way of the dodo but the Bullet remains.  That's staying power, especially when today's superbike is tomorrow creaking old door.

So when the apocalypse comes and civilization as we know it is obliterated, you can take solace in the fact that three things will remain: cockroaches, Cher and the Royal Enfield Bullet.  

Great Britten

Few can claim to have built a bike from the ground up.  One of the people who can claim to building his own bike is Kiwi madman John Britten.

With a little help from his friends in Christchurch, New Zealand, Britten built a revolutionary bike that went on to beat the factories and set a few land speed records.

The number of parts not bespoke to the Britten V1000 are few.  The brakes come from Brembo, the suspension from Ohlins, the clutch from Kawasaki and the transmission from Yamaha.  And that's about it.  The rest of the bike is completely handmade in Britten's workshop.

What makes the bike extraordinary is not just that it was handmade but the tech it incorporates.  Let's start at the front.  Where the vast majority of racing motorcycles use a hydraulic fork, the Britten V1000 uses a Hossack-style fork with twin control arms.  For reference, the Hossack suspension is marketed by BMW as the Duolever and is found on the K1200/K1300 line of bikes.

The trump cards for this design are the elimination of brake dive and its strength.  A hydraulic fork not only dives under braking but the forks tend to wiggle under the strain.  This system doesn't.

What's so special about this setup if BMW is using it?  Britten was using this suspension in 1991, 14 years before BMW used it.  Also, Britten's front suspension is made entirely from carbon fiber, not aluminum like BMW's.  The unit can have an amount of brake dive tuned it, to give the rider a sense of familiarity under braking.

Let's move back toward the engine.  A v-twin design was chosen because it lessens the frontal area, improving aerodynamics, and a 60° spread was chosen to keep the wheelbase short.  The powerplant is fairly straightforward: it's a liquid-cooled DOHC unit with four valves per cylinder.  The rods are titanium and it has two injectors per cylinder.  This engine churns out 165 hp and redlines at 12,500 rpm.

A stand out part of the engine is the exhaust.  The wiggling spaghetti-like exhaust is made by hand and takes 70 hours to make.  It's then coated in a nice shade of blue.

As we moved back to the engine, I can hear you asking about the radiator.  It's liquid-cooled, where's the rad?  I'm glad you asked.  The rad is located under the seat, another Britten innovation.

And while we're here, let's talk about the frame.  There isn't one.  Everything bolts to the engine; the steering head, the swing arm the seat, everything.  There is a little bit of "frame" that holds the front suspension together.  It's made from carbon fiber, but I guess you've figured that out already.

Finally, the swing arm attaches to the back of the crank case, as does the seat.  The arm is made of carbon fiber, too.  Another weird thing to notice is the shock unit in front of the engine.  No, that's not for the front.  That's the rear shock.

The body work is carbon fiber, as are the wheels and the timing covers.  I think the tires would have been made from carbon fiber if that was possible.

So this bike was very innovative, but what does all that mean?  Well, it means the bike was fast, very fast.  The V1000 competed from 1991 until 1994 and won three Battle of the Twins events, it won the NZ Grand Prix title in 1993 and came 1st and 2nd in the New Zealand National Superbike Championship in 1994.

This machine also has a number of speed records to its name, including a top speed record at the Isle of Man TT in 1993.  That same year, the V1000 set the speed record for the flying mile, the quarter mile from a standing start, the mile from a standing start and the kilometer from a standing start.

As with anything good, there also comes a side of bad.  The V1000 was no different.  The small shop run by Britten kept the bike out of major world competition.  World Superbike requires 200 examples to be sold to enter the series.  Between 1991 and 1994, only 10 Britten V1000s were produced.  This limited the types of races in which the bike could be entered.

Perhaps the biggest blow to the V1000 was the death of John Britten in 1995.  With him went the company and the dream. 

The V1000 isn't noted just for its innovation.  It's noted for being the result of a group of people dedicated to creating something truly wonderful.  It's also noted for having the ability to go out and beat the factories.  I think the V1000 resonates with many motorcyclists because it is the story of a man literally building a bike in his shed that goes out and not only takes on the world, but beats it.  The human story outside of the bike, I think, is the most interesting part.

It's wonderful to see Honda, Yamaha, etc. spend millions to push the envelope.  It's even better when it happens in someone's backyard through their vision, genius and willpower.

Things I Hate About Motorcycling

I really enjoy riding a motorcycle.  I think that's evident by the content of this blog.

With that said, there are a few things that annoy me and a few things I generally hate about riding a motorcycle.  Since I'm a generous person and like sharing (stop laughing), I thought I'd share my top five annoying and hate-brewing things about motorcycling with you.  You're welcome.

Alright, here goes:

1. Riding in traffic - The cars are lined up for miles and there you are on your bike.  It's air-cooled, of course, so heat is wafting up, making things even hotter than it is.  The fumes from the cars are making Manfred Mann's lyrics make sense.   You look over at the car next to you: the people are lounging in air conditioned comfort and eating ice cream while you sweat in your black jacket, black gloves and black helmet.  Oh yeah, your bike is black, too.  Finally the traffic clears, you can get some air across the cylinders and you promptly get nabbed by a cop.  Damn.

2. Meeting another biker at a stoplight - Do you pull up next to him?  Did he move over intentionally?  Does he want to talk?  I can't hear him with my earplugs in so I'll just make hand gestures.  Does he think I'm mentally disturbed?  Does he think I'll want to race him?  Can I beat him if we do race?  All these questions and more flood your mind as you pull up to a light.  And when you come up with answers to all the questions, the light turns green, he pulls away oblivious to your existence and you're stuck with a line of angry car drivers behind you.

3. Wearing the gear - It's 90° F with 85% humidity outside and you want to go for a ride.  Okay, helmet, gloves, jacket, pants and boots on.  Sweating begins before you make it to the end of the driveway.  I'll make a quick run to the store, you think; it'll only take a few minutes.  Okay, helmet, gloves, jacket, pants and boots on.  Twenty minutes later, you leave for the store, which is just around the block.  It took you 20 minutes to gear up to take a 10 minute round trip.  Tired of the putting on all the gear, you decide to ride in a t-shirt and shorts like the Gixxer guys, which means you'll promptly hit a patch of oil and slide across all four lanes of the road.

4. The weather - Al Gore says the weather is changing but it's really staying the same: it rains while you're on your bike and is beautiful when you're not.  When's that big rain storm going to get here?  Just as you're about to leave.  Packing rain gear, though, is a guaranteed way of preventing rain from happening. Washing your bike guarantees a monsoon will happen as soon as you peek out the garage.

5. Getting stuck behind slow drivers - You're flying down your favorite back road and all is going well.  You're in the zone, concentrating as hard as you can and clipping every apex.  Valentino Rossi is behind you taking notes, you're so good of a rider.  You come around the bend, perfectly clip the apex, get ready to nail the throttle as you straighten up...and find yourself stuck behind grandma Ethel on her way to bingo. 

Her 1995 Buick Skylark hasn't been above 25 mph since the lot attendant first filled it with gas 17 years ago.  And there you are, Aprilia RSV4, full Dainese race suit and aching arms, on the slow boat to China.  You may as well enjoy the scenery because you know the bingo hall is right by your house, this is the only road to get there and cops magically appear if you cross the double yellow.