The Coffee Guy's blog

Coiled and Waiting

Building a motorcycle has a lot of waiting involved. Its not all about the parts, its about the post.

I have built a few, roadworthy Bikes over the years, I could have built dozens, but the transit of inanimate objects does not come by galactic transporter technology. There are no next day Amazon parts, there are no drop by and pick them up parts, there are no guaranteed next day deliveries, and there are no parts that just come up on your social media feed that make you say, ”hey, exactly what I need!”.

The black kettle has been calling the stove black a’til its black and blue. Blued steel, sometimes not the goal at any rate. Where does this stuff come from? Then the thing you find in Australia or Indonesia arrives in two days. Regardless of locale, THAT part you want will take a week or two. Or even a fortnight!

Then there is the precious question of whether or not the nefarious cortege will have laden your bindle, you right, I said bindle, with government allotted unfunded taxation. Read duties. Believe me, the only duty my parts have is to fit and operate as advertised.

Now the path to the build is prone to popular waiting periods of all strife. Rolling the rear wheel around slowly to ensure that all the links in a chain follow the smaller sprocket without a hint of a jump. Jump indicates the need for a new chain, i.e. Waiting. Turning the crank while doing static timing to see if the light goes out. Not out, more waiting for a new set of points or ignition plate.

Waiting for the chromer, or painter, or wheel lacer. All this waiting has two waits to consider. One, that the job is being done, and two that they don’t call you and say it’s the wrong doo dad, and THEY have to wait for someone else to procure a thing’a’ma’bob before they can get back to you.

There can only be one good wait, that moment when your partner walks into your garage and hands you a glass filled with a substance to calm your nerves in it. Unwanted waiting can be good.

There are the short waits too, installing new lights and waiting for the illumination of the world as you finally press that button and the circuit is closed. It works! That time you are ready to pull out the kick tab and depress that lever and the engine roars to life for the first time and on the first kick! Short wait. The occurrence of your tire inflation and there are no hisses. The stand back and look at the stance, and you say, “That’s what I was looking for.’. No Waiting.

But commonly that uncommon wait for someone you have no control over controlling your life with a noncommittal, soon, or next week, or I posted it Tuesday. Currently coiled around waiting for coils, makes me think of the hour count, or the day count, or the millennial count. I know it’s coming from afar, don’t care.

I need the concrete confirmation of diagnoses being accurate. I need it now.

Slip a jolt of Java in that Justin, not voting for you anyhow.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019

Everything The Same, Is Different

Sosa’ we all travel, or at least I hope you do. We do. The old Novem double hockey sticks apparently changed everything. If it wasn’t secure, we bolted it down to the extreme. Well at least for a week or so. Then the standards came out and every two-bit aviation authority took to the business of interpretation.

Nobody stepped in. We all stepped out.

Now these places have some stepping sideways, into scanners, up to wands, over to the side please, turning around? and sundry other contortions concocted at the willy nilly of these acrobatic security passels.

My fave of late is the four S. Basically, means you don’t have to disrobe and they scootch you past all the other security measures and they swab you almost everywhere to the extent that you had of wish you just passed a load. Then the authoritarians lay gobs of red ink on your boarding pass which only means you are untouchable from here on in.

Been four S’ed twice. Look for it at your local security stop next time.

As I said, we travel a lot.

The procedure almost coterminous to the four S is the shoe and belt routine. Now as you know, I am a bit of a stickler for the Sketchlers. Why? A cuzzin’ they pass the metal detectors like a good swoosh. Yup, in all of the techy detechers, I have never been beeped with a Sketcher.

And the belt? Well I know that my Brass buckle up will not spool off the wizards in their alchemy. Well some want it on, some ant it off, some want it in a separate bin, some want it with the coat and shoe or shoes, some want it with the devices, some not. GET IT STRAIGHT!

One good purveyor of procedure told my darling that it was us the Canadian who are the cause of all this fracas. Whhaaat? I don’t recall. Memory is a funny thing like some bones. So now we are trained to not know what to do at any one or another security interruption.

Sosa’ the slow down begins. First what to don or un-don, then we have un-donned too much and have to don agin. My devices need to be flat and separate, no you can leave them in your bag, go from two bins to one, where do I put the empty one, Stand how? Can I walk now? Oops go back. Never walk back. Lift your arms, not that high. Turn around all the way, lift your shirt, can you feel this? Do you have any metal? Really? Inside or out? Why doesn’t stainless-steel set these things off? Nobody ever thought of making a stainless-steel shooter?

Whhaaat?

So here we are in a state of comprehensive security standardized across the orb.

Not.

One.

The same.

Get it straight folks, either the baddies know what you are doing, or you are not secure. Why is it that some places are worried about shoe bombers, and others are not? Why are some metals tested for and others not? Why don’t we all go through that body scanner, change, keys, phones in our pockets, belts on, the whole kit and caboodle? Give it up.

Scan this Shirley, in need a smooth Sumatran this morning.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019