'Tis I wonderful thing to travel, but 'tis far better to be able to return.

An interesting story of cross-country travel in the 1920's on a motorcycle. Highlights: fixing a broken frame with wire, pushing a bike across a railroad bridge, and dirt roads.

Apply palm to forehead.Reassembly is the inverse.

To update the previous: Not an eaten valve, just Yamaha and their incredibly insane valve settings. How one company can come up with half a dozen different valve gaps for the exact same engine is a matter for the engineers to figure out.

A momentary time of absolute freedom, followed by a crashing sound.

People occasionally ask me why I ride a motorcycle. It's obviously unsafe, frightening and loud. And in spite of all that, there are the moments when you're hunched over the tank, a fast wind pulling at your face and tears streaming back from the far corners of your eyes and a dull red sound echoing back from somewhere below and behind you that makes it all worthwhile.

The other half of this is walking home, sweat dripping out from under your padded jacket and 450 pounds of dead weight resisting your motion towards home.

My bike apparently ate a valve this past week. I'm so sick about it right now I can't even think about it much. I go out to the shed, look long and hard at the bike and try to remember the flying but all that comes to mind is the pushing. Fixing it is a job. Pulling the engine out of the frame, lifting the head and hopefully only discovering a bent valve, if I'm lucky, or a holed piston, if I'm not. Less the lion or the princess and more the lion or the tiger...

I'd sell it, but I can't bear the thought of condemning myself to the ground. Not just yet, anyway.

Advance the spark, we've a hun on our tail!

There are days when I question the issues of owning/maintaining a vintage bike (and this isn't even seriously vintage, it's younger then me!), or at least the questionable decision to use said bike for daily commuting.

This morning was a bit rough start after having been left alone for a rainy week, but I managed to get it to run, albeit with a bit of a limp. Halfway to work, it began revving all over the place and exuding the twin fumes of rich exhaust and leaking gasoline. Never a good sign. I had a distinctly Snoopy v/s the Red Baron feel. Especially with the bright red BMW that was following way too closely.


I get to work to note gas dripping out of the carb holders and hissing off the still ticking exhaust. Disgusted, I put it up on the center-stand and came into my office (the one bright spot of this story is that there is now a motorcycle parking lot within a stone's throw of my building, so I don't have to walk several blocks anymore).

After absorbing some coffee and reading up online I think I can do a curbside fix to get me home, but another round of tests and tweaks will be required. In one way I'm wondering if this bike will ever be finished, and on the other I'm glad I've got something to take my mind of the current madness at work.

When the magic wears off...

I found the above photo here, in a great collection of vintage motorcycle photographs, and it completely summed up the frustration of what happens when vintage motorcycle parts stop working for some unknown reason. Lights flicker out and forward motion ceases and you are left all alone with the gods of physics. Sometimes all you can do is stare and hope for a sign from the heavens to bonk you on your thick skull and tell you what connector to wiggle to continue on.

Why yes, I was rebuilding my electrical system on the bike again, why do you ask?

What goes around...

Remember the old motorcycle tank I bought with the neat painting on the side:

The nephew of the original artist contacted me through my flickr page recently. How cool is that?

Dark and oily corners of the psyche.

"The service manual is the true, dark soul of the otherwise innocent looking project car..." - Peter Egan

Above is the current (to the best of my knowledge, anyway) electric diagram for the motorcycle. Every time I took something apart or rewired it, I made the appropriate notations, corrections and verifications to the way it should have come fresh from the factory. I've got a pretty good idea how the electrons dash around the bike when it's in service now, but there are several spots where magic happens.

Every notation you see, every added line or symbol was a hard-earned lesson. Many were learned easily when the bike merely refused to start, but others were bathed in the cold sweat of a dimming headlight followed by the hot sweat of a fallen wrench warrior, walking home carrying his helmet.

*sound of jaw hitting floor*

I have no words.

More here.

Again, I am indebted to BikeEXIF

Speaking of...

Since I was just considering photographs and motorcycles, here's a nice selection of vintage racing motorcycles found via Google's Life Magazine Archive, which is my new favorite toy of the moment.


Panther


Velocette


Triumph Tiger


AJS


A JAP engined grass track racer


Indian Chief


Indian Chief (non-race dress)

Now, if I was sitting in 7th grade study hall, these would have been sketched on my trapper keeper dividers, but since it's the 21st century, I'm posting them on my blog in a lull between editing promotional video.

Honestly, I think I envy the kid in study hall...

Two wheeled mind.

On the beach at Daytona.

Lately I've had motorcycles on the brain. Maybe it's the warm weather. Maybe it's the fact I'm within striking distance of finally getting my customization/restoration of a beater Yamaha back on the road. Maybe it's the fact that my daily driver has a built-in child seat and is making me feel old. But whatever the case, I'm down to the point of not thinking function and I'm right smack dab in the land of form.

Vincent Black Shadow

This is the sort of thing that can lead to long hours of daydreaming in front of the computer on quiet afternoons. Leafing through parts catalogs, reading bulletin boards and pondering the advantages of stainless steel v/s aluminum.

1949 Moto Major 350

Of course one can get carried away and have to be reminded that I don't have a tool and die shop, sheets of expensive alloy and unlimited time and funds at hand...

Norton Manx

Fortunately, my design ethic tends toward the stripped down café racer style, where the approach isn't to pile on more, but to remove everything that doesn't actively propel the bike forward, which creates a stirring form on its own.

What time I could spend this weekend not being dragged down by a vicious stomach bug was spent slowly polishing the aluminum on my bike back to its former glory and looking longingly at the naked seat pan and planning my next trip to the beach...

This bike may be the biggest vehicular project I've ever taken on, and at two years in, it's starting to feel like it's come under control, instead of being a wild mishmash of repair manuals, faq printouts and packing lists from mail-order houses. I haven't had the heart yet to add up my investment, but I'm starting to feel like I'm on the good side of the price v/s smiles equation.

Now if only it wasn't sitting still...

All photos from the excellent BikeEXIF.