Easy Rider and Chopperguy

It was a good effort today. I gave the old girl all I could for one day. In the end, I got her started. She roared beautifully. She'll go. She still won't stop. The plunger is binding in the master cylinder. I'm going to take it into work and hone it out on the precision honer we've got there.

The old drum brakes on the Ironheads are real pieces of crap. All that power to thrust you forward and a half-assed drum brake to stop you. The rear drum brake on TAZ is the same way. You have to rely almost entirely on the front disc brake. Sera didn't even used to have a front brake. Then I wore out a pair of good boots performing emergency Flintstones braking maneuvers. So she got a disc brake up front. It has never worked as well as it should have. Hopefully I can change that tomorrow.

I tend to forget what different beasts my two Ironheads are. I'd swear that Sera weighs about half what TAZ does. She also leans about twice as far to the left when on her kick stand. TAZ is LOUD. Sera generates volume and tone. Sera also has a habit of marking territory and blowing oil caps. As soon as she fired up today she took a leak on the driveway.

TAZ just punked me. I was running some errands when a loud PUNK came from the engine. It sputtered loudly, then stopped. What every biker should know to do in this situation:

1. Swear very loudly (I forgot to do that)
2. Engage clutch
3. Coast to the side of the road
4. Swear some more (Didn't do it. For some reason I was mellow.)
5. Park the bike
6. Start assessing the situation

A grizzled white haired man with mutton chops and a mustache driving a construction truck immediately pulled over and asked if I needed to borrow any of his tools. Knowing that a problem that sounded like PUNK would almost certainly require parts, I thanked him but said I was fairly close to home and I had all the tools I needed there. I ended up pushing TAZ a quarter mile home. My first impressions are that I blew a gasket. When kicking over there is still about the same level of engine compression, so piston rings are not likely to be the cause (not ruling it out, though). To investigate further I need to tear into the engine. Damn I wish I had a garage.

What this all means:

1. My errands didn't get run
2. I have to take the bus to work
3. To do this I have to stop by the ATM
4. To get exact change (or a close proximity thereof) I need to stop by the Kwik-E-Mart
5. The guys won't be able to talk me into going to the nudey bar after work
6. Hopefully my lovely will pick me up from work
7. Sera, the chopper, is less of a mystery so will be fixed up and put back on the road pronto
8. TAZ will be dug into and fixed ASAP

Both of these bikes are older than I am. I need to remember that and keep both of them working at all times. That way I always have a backup when one of them goes PUNK! What fascinated me was how calm I remained through the ordeal.

"Huh. That's not a good noise. Is it a random occurence? Nope. Clutch is in and I'm coasting. Anyone in the side land? There they go. Okay, get over. Blown head gasket? Blown piston rings? Whatever it was, I bet I'm pushing this bike home. Hey, the rain is picking up. Oh well."

I broke the law tonight. I did it with full intent and knowledge that I was breaking the law. I did it right in front of four police officers.

At approximately 1:45 AM I pulled up to a red light and stopped. I waited. Just across the intersection were two police cars, lights flashing, the officers surrounding a pulled over vehicle and questioning the occupants. I waited some more. A car pulled up behind me. We waited. Several cars went through the intersection in the opposite lane of traffic. We waited. A car pulled up to the cross street of the intersection and stopped. We all still waited. A girl pulled up next to me in a little red sports car. We waited. The girl next to me gave me a questioning look with a shrug of her shoulders. I shrugged back. Kicking the bike into first gear, I looked for cross traffic and oncoming traffic. The police were still just across the way, but no other vehicles were visible. I gunned it. I twisted that throttle hard and screamed across the intersection. I don't normally do that around cops, especially that close to bar close, but I was not going to spend half a second longer in the middle of that intersection than was absolutely necessary and I was not going to wait forever for that stupid light to change. While I was pretty far away from the intersection pretty fast, a look in my mirror showed no one else following my lead.

Every rule has at least one exception.

I was robbed. It was a gentle robbery. First they asked me to give them $5 to park my motorcycle. I whipped out the wallet and handed them a single bill. In return I received a little green ticket with instructions to place the piece of paper in my windshield. Uh, yeah. At the door they told me that if I wanted to go inside I had to give them $15. Since this is what I came to do, I again unleashed the leather and slipped the elderly gentleman a single bill. I was rewarded with another ticket which would permit me entrance and another single bill similar to the one I had to relinquish for parking. In total they took $20 from me. In return I got two thin pieces of paper and the privilege of entering the 2nd Annual Portland Bike Fest.

Upon arrival I should have realized that something was amiss. After all, this was supposed to be a show dedicated to bikers and their lifestyle. The bike parking area had a few motorcycles parked there. I slid my road worn 1973 Harley Sportster between a shiny Honda Shadow and a pimped out Goldwing. Was this the crowd that I would find waiting for me inside? No, it was a far worse thing than that. The parking lot was a sea of suburban monstrosities. Mini vans, SUVs, and family sedans were packed near capacity into the lot. A few old timers sat out front, road worn faces sucking back cigarettes and telling tales of their travels. I walked up to the turn style, handed another elderly gentleman my ticket, and entered purgatory.

This was the new American motorcycle scene. What greeted my senses shared more in common with the old starving artist fairs than what I had known to be a bike show. Technical proficiency of the craft of motorcycle building was apparent, but the soul had been stashed away in some forgotten shed along side the classics that used to dominate such events. The first bike I saw had a placard next to it, declaring that this was a custom chopper. To its credit, the bike was based on a rigid frame, open belt primary, and had radically long front forks. Did this make it a chopper? The inverted telescopic forks were massive. They were so large that I doubt most women could fit a single hand around one tube. The frame, while forgoing the added mass of a suspension system, seemed to be designed for use by a pair of over weight, middle aged polar bears. One look at the expanse of the seat confirmed this intended use. The mass of the plate covering the outer portion of the open belt primary drive showed that while polar bears me be an endangered species, they wanted something capable of withstanding a direct hit from a high powered rifle. I glanced around the auditorium, spotting several likely candidates of big, white furriness. Which ones had ridden this bike here? I looked again at the motorcycle. Apparently the bears opted for something with more protection, like a Hummer or maybe an armored personnel carrier. The bike had no stone bruises, heat marks, oil stains, or other signs of actual road use.

After passing by several examples of the expanding back sides of the American biker, I came upon something that seemed to tell a different tale. It too bore the description of chopper on its tag, but the builder had the common decency of tacking on the words 'pro-street' before hand. At last, a sign of someone not afraid of revealing that their design was actually a hybrid of styles. The message of the bike was powerful. It was done up with the long, low, pro-street style but opted for a long, thin springer up front like a chopper. They had painted it a dazzling burnt orange with a Confederate flag on the tank and the numbers '01' in dark blue on the sides. Having grown up watching a pair of hillbillies outrun dim witted law enforcement every weekend, the General Lee reference was stark. The devil is in the details, or so they say. Iron Cross valve stem caps and the lightning bolt 'SS' insignia on the points cover clearly eluded to Germany's World War 2 era. By comparing the ideals of the Confederate South and Hitler's Germany the common theme emerged. This was a bike for people who hated Jews and Coloreds. While I could not approve of the sentiment, I appreciated the honesty in this ocean of ambiguity.

While navigating the displays of thick, glossy paint jobs, wide rear ends, and obvious over use of chrome trinkets (Am I talking about the bikes or the people, here? The lines seem to blur.), I spotted a group of young gals. It was obvious that they belonged to some sort of bizarre gang or strange sex cult as they all looked and dressed alike. Each was a blonde anorexic in black vinyl hot pants. below the waist were fishnet stockings at black high heeled platforms. Up top were form fitting micro t-shirts declaring them as 'Bad Ass'. The situation became clearer when I spotted the heavy set, grey haired man with a much larger shirt featuring the same words. Apparently this was some sort of family business, a man pimping his wares. This is Portland, after all, home to what is the third largest legal American sex industry after Nevada and California. I only hoped, for the old man's sake, that this was the colloquial use of 'bad'. Honesty is never the best policy in advertising.

While still searching, hoping to find a Picaso amongst the velvet Elvises, the first act of the day's musical entertainment took to the stage. Tribute bands, by nature, are a curse of the blind masses on those with the sensibilities of a mouse. Once, during a financially difficult time, I purchased a case of ramen noodles. The mice found them, recognized that they were not food, and started to build a nest in the box. I took a cue from the mice and tossed the entire case, vowing to never again indulge in such cheap mockeries. So when a band announced as a tribute to Guns and Roses were brought on stage, my stomach was already turning. To my surprise, they went above and beyond what any normal cover band does when pissing all over songs that some people may have actually enjoyed at one time. They did an acoustic set. No, don't run. Whatever does not kill you surely makes you stronger. Breath in. Breath out. Turn off the sound inputs and focus on the visual. Something here has to be worth the admission price.

There, a few feet from the forty-something tattoo artist with pink dreads and years of living the lifestyle engraved in the folds around her eyes, there was that one thing I had come for. It was a beautiful garbage heap. Low slung rigid early 60's Sportster, magneto ignition, steel plate seat, single rear disc brake, and not a speck of paint anywhere. It was a masterpiece of function and art. In defiance of convention, black exhaust taped pipes were routed to the left side of the bike. A pair of velocity stacked carbs jutted out to the right, feeding into a single pipe before splitting into the heads. The oil drip off of the generator was cleverly disguised as a garden hose faucet. An extremely utilitarian oil cooler was hidden in the shape of a hip flask. Strangely twisting copper tubes fed fluids from their various storage containers to where they would be used. In order to ride this bike someone would have to remove their lower legs and reattach their feet at the knees. It was street performance art for the brave. Polar bears need not apply.

Before total nausea set in I managed to find a couple of other rough gems. One came in the form of a simple bar hopper that borrowed heavily from the stylings of the late, great East Coast outlaw Indian Larry. While a bit over done, one could appreciate that the old school influence had not completely died off. Another was a memorial to the fallen brothers of Oregon's motorcycle clubs. It was assembled using parts from the motorcycles of dead patch holders. The result was a clean suicide clutched rigid framed pan/shovel. It was obvious that this was something greater than the sum of its parts.

When I could no longer handle being crowded by polar bears and families who tuned in to watch Jesse James or Orange County Choppers every week, I stepped back outside to the clouds of cigarette smoke hovering around the door. Only a few years ago when I went to such events, the bikers would light up inside with blatant disregard for posted signs prohibiting such behavior. I couldn't help but think, 'No! Not yet. I am far too young to be talking about the good old days.' Striding through the parking lot, I passed a D.A.R.E. search and rescue vehicle. A woman who had been passed out in the front seat wearing her fishnet stockings and black leather bikini top quickly opened the door. Her head barely cleared the vehicle before she vomited up a chunk mixture of what was mostly beer and some remnants of a meal that never should have happened. She glanced in my direction, mascara smeared around her eyes, and quickly retreated back into the refuge of her vehicular fortress of solitude.

Back in the motorcycle parking area my bike still stood out as a blight in the sea of bolt on customization. The Shadow was now gone. In its place was a simple, low slung Ironhead Sportster. Somewhere in that accumulation of bastardized bike styles and commercialized creations was a kindred spirit. We were a pair of suckers, willingly handing over $20 for the privilege of partaking in the dance of the dead. While one polar bear made grunts and groans at another, attempting to show off the various gadgets and googaws on his giant Japanese sled, a lone wolf howled. All attempts at any other communication were futile. The wolf howled and leapt, running off into the distance. Somewhere back there was another lone wolf. Rather than tracking him down, it was best to leave him as a mystery, more perfect than what I would probably encounter. That way this lone wolf can continue to think that while the pack is busy in-breeding and feeding off of dead carcasses, there are a few out there that still dare to howl at the moon. And maybe that thought is worth $20.

You can contact the author of this article at http://votejake.blogspot.com.

A co-worker has been thinking of buying a motorcycle again. He used to have a crotch rocket but now wants something a little closer to a cruiser. At this point, he wants a Harley.

Him: What's up with the 2000 and newer Sportsters?
Me: What do you mean?
Him: I was looking through the paper. You can get a 1200 with 6,000 miles on it for less than $6,500. What's up with that?
Me: A lot of people buy them and then graduate up to a big twin.
Him: But a 1200 is a big bike.

It was an interesting conversation. As anyone who reads here regularly probably has figured out, I love Sportsters. Why would anyone want to get rid of their Sportster? Here are some common responses.

A) Big Twins look cooler.
B) My buddies made fun of me for having half a Harley.
C) The Sportster 'buzz' gets annoying.
D) I wanted to go on longer trips.

A & B are total bullshit answers but are the most common ones I've heard. No stock bike looks cool. Have I said that before? Have I said it over 100 times yet? Over 1,000? Just in case you missed that, NO stock bike looks cool. A chopped Honda looks cooler than any stock Harley. As for B, just blast those big twin boys off the line over and over again. Make them eat dust and crow in one meal.

C is legit. Sportsters generate a vibration that while tempered in the newer versions, is still noticeably there. That buzz can get to you. It can also get to the ladies. Curse and blessing.

D is quite often an extension of C. The buzz can make you numb after a couple hundred miles. Very temporary thing. A quick break and I always recover and am ready for more. And with a few modifications like forward controls and a larger tank you can tour on a Sportster.

I let him know my position on the Sportster. I let him know that I love the things and will come up with no end to the reasons why Sportsters are the best Harleys around. I also let him know that as a Sportster fanatic, I'm extremely biased. Honesty is an appreciated gesture when someone is talking about plunking down a chunk of their savings on a bike.

After work I decided to stop by Taco Bell. Sometimes it helps to have the whole drive through process so mechanical that you don't even have to hear the person on the other end. If I could have gone inside to order I would have. Drive through service only by the time I get off of work. With engine roaring I pulled up to the speaker.

TB: Wah wah wah Bell. Wah wah wah order wah.
Me: I WOULD LIKE A GRANDE MEAL! FOUR BURITTOS! SIX SOFT TACOS!
TB: Wah wah wah wah grande wah wah wah wah. Wah thing wah?
Me: THAT'S ALL!
TB: Wah wah wah wah wah wah.

I pulled ahead and took out my wallet. The boy at the window said something to me. I looked at the electronic sign and pulled out a ten dollar bill. When he gave me back my change he said something else which was completely lost to my ears.

Me: I'D LIKE SOME FIRE AND SOME HOT!

A few moments later he handed me a bag with some other unintelligible phrase to which I simply nodded. I slipped the tacos into my saddle bag and had an absolutely gorgeous ride home.