The Coffee Guy's blog

Blocking the Backing Boldly while Brandishing a Bivalve

Bespoken and bespectacled, I swore never to utter mud slinging slurs on curs and vipers of the world. Too late. It was a playground thing that you couldn’t swat a kid with glasses. Why was that? Had I been smarter not younger I might have procured a set of fakies at the time. Bruises showed differently.

It was a country school for sure. A place where roast woodcock for lunch was a normal thing to see. Blood was drawn every recess, and teams were picked for talent first, filler second. Near to everyone came on a bus. Ours took an hour each way. In the warmer months we would opt to ride our bikes the 10 or 12 miles through the unthawed back roads in spring to school.

Times now a parent won’t allow a teen to walk 30 feet alone let alone some order of kilometers. Not much in the woods those days, fox, bear, deer, racoons, and sundry other vermin. Some good for eating some not. On the same hand drivers on those roads took some liberties. On a lane and half wide road, there is not much space if you are cutting the corner.

The ditch at times was a welcome resting place when one of the Thompson brothers would come by spewing dirt and gravel on the wrong side of the road. We would still get there before the bell rang. Stopping to skip stones, push down a punky tree, or just chasing down some mink with fish, we pushed on.

The road home in reverse was calmer, but we were already hungry in the first mile or so. Less kibitzing on that ride. Down the hills, head pushed forward for that ultimate speed attainment. Yup, saw a few in the ditch from that too. The grind back up would prove we were hungrier than we thought.

Never knew a lock on a bike or a house or a car until my 20’s. The ole Chevy S15 didn’t even need a key to start. Close the door walk away. If you really needed it, I guess you could have it. Wouldn’t get far, everyone knew it was ours and would confront you if you were not family driving it. More than a tank to clear the area of those in the know.

Bobby knew it back then and I s’pose it's more so now. These times they are a changing.

Make it Black again back again Bob

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

 

In My Garage

It all began with a roundabout drive home through a part of my neighbourhood I don't often go through. Rounding a corner I caught out of the corner of my eye a ”FREE” sign. Always up for something free I backed up in my car and eyed a sign on the side of a motorbike. After the two guys already kicking the tires had confirmed they had to go ask a wife if they could have it. I immediately stated, “Don't bother, I’ll take it”.

I secured the ownership from the guy with it up for grabs and drive the short distance home to tell my wife while she was driving me back to pick up the bike. I pushed it the two blocks home and beamed at my newly acquired ride. I felt like I hit the lottery. I took pictures while my wife wondered what she had just abetted me in bringing home. A 1972 CB350 K4. No pipes, broken side cover, rust dirt, and many other missing or broken parts.

That was the start of a 20 month odyssey into the vintage Asian bike world. With no time on my hands that summer I stored the bike in my shed till November. Dragging the unlikely suspect to my garage I marvelled at all the stuff I hadn’t noticed before. More missing parts, jury rigged parts, and aftermarket changes to the original model. As I had rebuilt four Honda PA50 Mopeds vintages from 1979 to 1982 my first instinct was to strip all the parts down and see what I really had.

Month 3. After pulling the tank and a few other parts, the thought occurred to me that I might have more on my plate than I bargained for. I decided to see if it would actually fire and ensure the engine was in principle in working order. Pouring some gas in the carbs and getting some juice to the starting circuit, I prepared to kick it over. With no pipes or manifolds now on the bike after two kicks I was scared ****less by a roar I had not expected so easily.

Fire shot out of the cylinders and lights came on! I screamed with delight! I ran in a got my wife to film the next blast on our digital cam. It’s still on my Facebook page. I finished the strip in a couple of days setting aside the parts which definitely needed replacement, and listing others I would replace anyhow. Tired but satisfied with work well done. Little did I know of the availability of parts for this bike? Once the bike was stripped and the motor was on a working mount, I started visiting my local Honda dealer. Encouraged and discouraged at the same time. Necessary parts No Longer Available (NLA), many parts still in stock; I started piling up the new parts in a box. The remainder of the bike now in six large boxes with assemblies in zip-lock bags.

My winter challenge would be the motor. First stripping it down and refinishing it. I determined that the tranny or lower part of the motor was fine with only 20,000 miles on it, if the odometer was accurate. The kids went together and bought me vintage rubber for Christmas. Refinishing, buffing, painting all the parts as close to the spec of a new bike. New pistons and many other internal engine parts. By the end of January, the motor was finished and ready for the frame.

Month 5. The frame was sent to a powder coater. While I knew this was not original, I knew the finish and final result would be superior. Now with the motor finished and spring coming soon I started to clean and replace the remainder of the parts. My buffing wheel and solvent well were working overtime. Every night from parts soaking the radiant aroma of solvent permeated the lower half of our house. I really needed the frame so I could determine more fully if I needed more parts.

It took more 5 months. The powder coater had problems with his furnace and delay and threat turned into more delays. In the mean time I amassed the chrome parts needed to be rechromed, and the list of NLA parts grew. I started searching the internet and Ebay. I knew all the vintage and Bike parts dealers in a 200 mile radius and on line. Parts dribbled in. Some were not the original parts and had either to be discarded or resold.

Month 10. Chrome was the easiest. Thank God as I was getting tired and discouraged just looking for parts. With the best parts I had from several sources I delivered the mass of partially restored parts to the chrome shop. The quote was in ($900) and the delivery day set (six weeks exactly). As I continued to wait for the frame and get smaller brackets and parts painted or rebuilt, I also had to start considering the colour painted parts. While I would let any good paint shop work on the gloss black bracket, I wanted a paint job on the forks, tank and side covers to exactly match the showroom. There are many paint shops who said they would do it. Few which would consent to OE paint standards, and none which would do hand painted pin striping.

After the mid to late seventies most of the Asian bikes were using decals for stripes and shapes on their tanks and covers. Mine had to be old enough to need that special touch. Too many shops saying they paint are simply guys wanting to be artists and have no knowledge of the craft of painting. Word passed around, I strolled bike shows and cruise nights. I no longer visited the shops; I simply phoned and asked if they could do the original. Finally, one shop said yes and I brought the pieces by. Another $900 quote and a promise for a completion date in six weeks. I okayed both.

By now I had to pick up the chrome, on time and to the penny of the quote. Like new but with more gleam and depth to the chrome. Techniques have improved vastly. But I still by this time had no frame and a garage full of carefully rebuilt and restored parts and assemblies. I so wanted to put this thing together. I would return and watch the short video of the beast starting up with gas poured down the carbs. More parts from the New Old Stock NOS market, both from dealers who had parts but would not ship out of the United States, and from others who would only deal in Cash or certified cheques, as well as the ubiquitous Ebay account.

The frame shows up and I immediately drop the motor in it. The slick shiny black contrasted with the gleaming silvers of the power plant make me giddy. I slide on the rear fender for more effect. Wow! Startling in its simplicity. Assembly begins in earnest without the painted parts.

While I am relatively able to assess parts and assemblies, I missed the mark on a number of them both in terms of originality as well as extent of rebuilding required. So back to the parts guys and on-line purchases. Over this whole time, I have procured a CD of the micro fiche for my bike so now I know all the exact original part numbers and assembly tricks. I had also found and kept many pictures of various bikes out there, noting wiring, cabling, and tubing routes. I also noted those bikes which were not original and in what way. I could now tell at a glance if a bike was true to form very quickly.

Month 12. Late August the paint is finished and the final assembly happens. Ready to start up and test drive I go over the spec sheet and repair manual for anything I might have missed. Anything out of place or that might be dangerous or unsafe. After all, this bike would go a lot faster than the four Mopeds I had rebuilt. All seemed generally in place. I looked great! A few beauty shots in case the whole thing blew up when I cranked it over.

I fired it up just before a buddy of mine (a Harley owner) dropped by. Up the road one way, back past the other. It died. I coasted home. Fuel or spark? I lay on the ground trying to see what I could be. After a couple of hours, I slinked it back in the garage for an open book examination. I was to emotional out there in public to think this through. With the manual open and gauges and tools nearby, I marched my way through trouble shooting. A blown fuse and the spark advance plate retaining pin out of place stopped me on my test drive.

More checking and more checking I was ready for another ride. The bike started easily and sounded great. Shifted well and pulled like a horse. I was thrilled but it was late in the year now, one week before the Canadian Thanksgiving week end. Oh well there is always next year. But maybe one last ride. I pull out and go shifting into third and the motor just stops. I cruise back the shop and go through the trouble shooting again.

Month 15. Out comes the motor and I strip down the motor. Getting into the cams I discover that the two bolts holding the cam on the shaft have sheared off. 35 years old and they just couldn’t handle loosening and retorquing. To compound the problem the wobble of the cam chain has allowed the chain to chew through the inside of the cylinder casting. A mad scramble for another cylinder block and more cleaning and glass beading. Back on the road briefly before the snow flies.

Little note from a fact page about the bike. “The CB350 was the highest selling Motorcycle in American history, shifting more than 300,000 units in its six-year run. Add the CL350 and SL350 variants and the figure goes to 626,000! The CB350 had a twin cylinder, over-head cam, air cooled engine. It had two carbs, a five-speed gearbox and an electric starter. It proved to be very reliable, even without maintenance. It was truly an 'everyman' motorcycle that appealed to a mass audience. It made 36bhp@10,000rpm, and weighed in at 370lb's.”

Month 20. The spring arrives and I win the best Asian bike at The Canadian Vintage Motorcycle Show. Kudos and stares at cruise nights. Bike of the night at several places. A dream to ride and pulling strong. Would I do it again? You bet! Differently. I would buy all and any new bolts and nuts for any parts being stripped off or rebuilt. I would be more patient and give more lead time for large items like paint and chrome. I would automatically replace all rubber parts. A bigger better buffing machine and a sandblasting area in my garage. In the end I have a vintage bike everyone recognizes. A bike which stops any passerby, and starts many a conversation. The CB350 K4 is a great starter rebuild with many rewards along the way.

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

Bag Banging Body parts for the Build

It took some time to plenish the pouch for pounding, done now. Scramblers for the winter need fairing for the warmth. Bezzels will be bunged out for breathing.

So, after some time and other projects I find myself peening and pounding, rolling and reeling over the two side covers. Fending off the snow will be part of the need. Of course, who had heard of a Winter Scrambler. Will I need a trail pass? Or will I just pass the trails and go to trial?

20 gauge seems heavier now, .036 they say, was the weight of old cars. Now with the aluminiums, and the polymers, and fibrous carbon, those panels are a lot thinner than drinks at the ole’ watering hole. The ease of crimping cramps my styling of better than beaten boards in the past. Maybe there is a use for a torch?

Sitting on the bench at the bag, pounding my way to the curve. Would I do this easier on an English Wheel? Perhaps, but there is no fun in easy. Easiest way to get a punch in a pinch is to purloin it. Where is that letter now? Has it been repatriated to the owner? Or is it still lost in obscurity?

References are at your own risk, as are activities not sanctioned by the populace. Go strange, or go stranger I say. Stay odd then you can seem normal at the odd times. When does anybody ever look into the even times?

Back to banging Brad, make it black today.

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

Spring, Leap, Pounce, Bound

So the uplifting time of year is nigh, near to the touch for trimming and digging.  Burrow and tunnel your thoughts for what we will do when.  The weather gets warm?

So who will posit positive ruminations of temperatures in climes of summer.  Will you BE the hex?   Will you be the vanguard?   What warrant do you wave for wistful thinking?   I like it 20 in the metric scale of things.  Not that riding will be forthcoming until the Good Surgeon Schwike clears me for ambulation.   Hopefully the 4^th, Be With You.

As the best of us we regale on the eve of the Cinco De Mayo, pronounced, [ˈsiŋko ðe ˈmaʝo] I will be in sincere jollification.  Do you have your deco’s up?  Do you have a nice Matador arranged for a small slaying of El Toro on the festive day?

Slaggards who have not appropriately prepared.   And I am not talking a few Tacos from the shelf filled and flogged.  We must, by edict ,direct the detection of derelict delinquents to become forthwith less enebriated than those not forthcoming.

You sloth commas are as lethargic as detritus emanating from the hind of a bovine.

Make it good.  Dine as you need.  Need as you wine.  Let’s kick this up a little.   We Mex our Tex, Paco our Taco and strut the Avenue like a Rockefeller. 

Wake and roll this festive day.  What for a dead person 2000 years old we take the whole week off, practically the whole month?  So lets out aside the conifer and pull out the Cacti.   Cinco De Mayo goes hi oh.

Slip it smooth Santamaria.  I have it hot.

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.

“It’s all going to pot, whether we like it or not”

The Interweb Thingy

Best video I’sa seen in a while.  Lookie it uppie on the thingy.  So let me ask the age old question, “why do you need to know?”   We are all on a need to know basis these days and for the most part, we don’t need to know.

What was your desideratum for searching out this blog?  Was there something about coffee you needed to know? What could anybody possibly NEED to know about the Java?  Was it Arabica or Robusta?  There are ONLY two kinds.  And you needed to know that?  So’sa now as you sippa you can twitta, “hmmm that was some fine Arabica”?

The difference here is that I NEED to know to be able to write this.   I have been the portent of information since time immemorial.  Well at least as the 24-hour new rotation goes.  The exigency of the corporeity is that we all know too much.   Oh wait.   Want to think we know too much.  What would you do when?

“Cogito ergo sum” that should be the end of it.  Just being cognitive of our own cognition allows us to exist.  Proves our existence.   I, just seconds ago, used the Googler, (Even though I use DogPile, I still call it the Googler), searched “two dimensional protoplasmic array”.   35000 references came up.  I posit that the last few of these would have a tenuous connexion to the ole protoplasmic display.   In fact, I just jotted those four words down out of pure haphazardness.  Hard to believe I know.

So next time you get the compulsion to get out the info thingy, put it away and be thankful that you are in complete knowledge of your existence.   Any and most of the so called information you would glean from your device on the aforementioned topic, you will either forget shortly, won’t understand, or it will be just out and out false.  Not false information, that’s an oxymoron.

Short and strong today Carmela, I need to look up to it.

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.

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My father was an explorer of life and a teacher for life. Don Hull

My dad could regale you with tales of far off places he has been to, and in the same breath teach you something.

 When my dad spoke of places he visited or worked, it was no cursory look around when he was there.  He would tell you where the people came from, what the industry was, and what grew on the land and why.  Travel for him was how he opened another book.

 There are many ways to go through life, as a worker, or a boss, or an entrepreneur, as a roust about, or just flowing along with the river of life.

 My father paddled up stream in that river, he already saw what was down stream so he would ponder what was around the next bend in the river of life and go for it.

 As a young man he moved from one of the hottest places on earth, the south pacific with Australia and New Guinea to one of the coldest parts of one of the coldest countries Canada and to work in a mine in Northern Ontario.

I remember the first farm he bought in Falkenbug Ontario it was pretty soon when Don realized that the Volkswagen Beetle they had at the time was not going to cut it as a farm vehicle.

 My dad could always remember names and places.  Me I’m a numbers guy.  He could tell you the names of guys he went so school with in elementary school, and tell you the name of the street the hardware store was on 40 years ago in Bracebridge.

One of the things my dad and I did separately together as it were, was the Sunday Times Crossword puzzle.  If we chatted throughout the week, we would not let on to each other which clues we actually had figured out until the week end when the solution came out.  He worked from his ability to remember names and places, as well as reading almost everything that came his way, I worked from the numbers end and having inherited my love of reading and inquiry.  The fun began if we were together and we could usually polish that puzzle off in short order working together.

In Australia they call anything outside of town the “bush”.  In Ontario we really lived in the bush.  Forest all around.  I think my dad loved that, it brought back his years prospecting for gold in New Guinea and the Yukon.

I could go on with stories of his adventures, but this one is true Don Hull.  He packed up his two sons in the car, I think we were 12 and 13, in Bracebridge and drove off with a few supplies, some rock hammers and a geological map of the Parry Sound area.  We stopped and parked on the side of some highway, and struck out onto crown land in the middle of nowhere.

Checking the map, reading the compass, chipping at the odd out-cropping of Quartz. We did this for three days.  Looking for old abandoned mine sites or signs of gold in them thar hills.  When we finally got out of the bush it appeared we were nowhere near the car.  Easy fix!  My dad told us to sit tight and hang around where we were, he would hitchhike back and get the car.  For dad this was just a normal thing to do and I remember his casual acceptance of the situation, his move along and do it anyway point of view.

My dad accepted everybody and everything as a learning experience.  I am sure I will be learning things from him for many years to come.

Of course as you could imagine, my dad did a stint in amateur theater as well.  I think this came from his love of verse.

One of his favourite poets was Robert Service.

In closing I would like to read a short excerpt from a Robert Service Poem in memory of my dad.

Call of the Wild

 

Have you gazed upon naked grandeur where there’s nothing else to gaze on,

Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore.

Big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blaze on,

Black canyons where the rapids rip and roar.

Have you swept the visoined valley with the green stream streaking through it,

Searched the vastness for a something you have lost.

Have you strung your soul to silence? Then for God’s sake go and do it:

Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost.

Have you known the Great White Silence, not a snow-gemmed twig aquiver?

Have you broken trail on snowshoes? Mushed your huskies up the river,

Dared the unknown, led the way, and clutched the prize?

Have you marked the maps void spaces,

mingled with the mongrel races,

Felt the savage strength of brute in every thew?

And though grim as hell the worst is, can you round it off with curses?

Then harken to the Wild, It’s wanting you.

Then listen to the Wild, it’s calling you.

And the wild is calling, calling, let us go.

 

Thanks dad you are the best

 

 

Up s the Down Side of Delivery

If ever you neve need to know that which is unknown, then don’t.  USPS or anything other than the UP Service.  In My Opinion these “people” need to take a read form the basic customer service booklette.  The “ette” because I’sa knows that the whole enchilada would be way too verbose for such weenies.

40 bucks is too dangerous for them to carry.  But alas they do not carry mobile Chargex machines either!  On no!.  Your neighbourhood may be too dangerous for their ilk. Oh yeah, I am in downtown while bread Splitlip nowhere.  Waaaay  to verifiable for those shorts clad weenies!

And now for the pies de resistance!  They conjure up usury for delivery.  24 bucks for a vintage Tee outa The Big Apple.  25 bucks for delivery.  And get this, 40 bucks for brokerage fees!  Whatttttttttttttttttttttttttt????????????

So I get a vintage Tee for another 80% interest charged for  uhh….errr.. I don’t know.  They claim it comes to the brokerage, read, the Ups people reading the outside of the package and “valuing it as the number claimed on the outside.  Oh and they claim the Value includes the shipping.  So now I pay HST GST PST ABC, PCB and all the other alphabet soup on each other and the shipping which is already charged by the Ups syndicate.

So better than the government , they tax the tax which was taxed on purchase and paid tax on already claiming  the tax was apportioned on the unpaid paid portion in apportionment of the accordant by laws.   Yup, hold on let me bend over.  I breathe better that way.  With my cranium up my anus.

So not only do the pretty boys in brown not take cash at your door, their depots don’t take cash.  So I a’wanna be the account rep who gloms onto the sales bonus for those bozzoi who have to pay for allllllll their Cash On Hand as a business.

So their dolla is only worth say 96 cents.  ( after the creditage)   No wonder they have to charge usury rates for brokerage.

Oh yeah one better.  If I had have had the item sent via a more expensive route ie, air: there would not be any brokerage fees!

Whattttttttt?

Yup, spend less get more screw down on the up wards.

Peed again.  Never request or send via themsa.

Get me a strong pull Paulette.  Amber, not Brown.

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.

 

Fall Drawl Flails the Grail

While un-inebriated my podiatrist treats smothered in hose soak as I trudge through sodden horse fodder; that into which my demense has turned.  With lawn mower honed and topped up I have been trudging and slogging around and across the expanses of the lawn all summer.  A quick start in April, no rest in August, and now weather for growth in October.   How is it in one year I can blow snow for 7 months, have a 6 week hiatus from yard work in the spring, mow the lawn for seven months, and still have two more months of question before the snow flies again?

Am I fully satiated with the green activities? Yup!  I could give less than one cut grass blade of a rats ass if I ever push those spinning metal knives again this year.  In the year of 2 K plus a fortnight of years I expect a closer trim on the turf.  Turf trimming taxing the top of my cranium till I teeter on the verge of the berm.  In some time I may even ponder to deposit some chlorophyll enhancing material on said plot of grass.  Not until it slows down.

The wall was erected and stabilized with geo-mesh and grade A backfill.  It matches the house and has leveled my parking.  No more of the good burgers of Cambridge sending around the mockstabulary with their little cameras and thermal paper printer pooping out citations.  Score to date, The Big Bad City at 6 ½, resident here9 ½.  Nuff said.

Get out and make your wishes known. The franchise is not extended to everybody on the orb so if ya’ can, then do it a cuz’n you should.  Definitely there are options.  Those that suckle off the public teat need to be curbed not coddled.  Though those eggs are nice at times.  Ask Darrin, he can attest to the nature of the coddled; he will read poached.

In our small corner of the circle, we run at tangent to the obtuse.  Hopefully the bearded meister of’a dis stadt will be sent keister sliding into obscurity.  Running rough shod and deef to the vox poupuli, he needs to control the four walls of his residence and let the rest of us plebes get moving.  The old is out the new is in, and.  We need no legacy, our deeds speak.  We have no LRT, and 11 roundabouts are still on the table.  Has there been any audible voice?  Minimal.

Stir this pot and put your foot down in the Kah Kah.  If you are afraid to do this, then wash your tender feet and stay out of the barn. There is a stallion in the wings waiting for release.  Move aside and let the big boys play.  No ego should be so big as to hinder growth and acceptance of the new and life on the edge. 

Persevere Portia, I like it smooth and dark.  Someone said I had to mention coffee……

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.

Mods and Rockers, here we Came and Went

So for a long time this board has been stagnant.  This ends today.

The Brat and I bust’ a gut to the smoke on Saturday for a rumble from Ossington through Leslieville.  The south part of the smoke will never be the same.  Have had some small issues with the transport this summer, but on the whole a puller and a looker.

Did Dover and Snake Canyon.  Let er rip, blown off a cool 160 but never to look back.  Still the four across pulls better than the XLS, but what do you expect with so many power strokes per rev and so many more revs per linear foot.

Foot pounds aside, I am not sure what the real push is on this bike, might run it to the dyno this winter.

Up for some Uni-filters too, a lot of talk about pods, some good some bad.  After all I am running a street bike and not a picture bike like so many on the web.

Been through some digit protection this summer too, still lean toward the deer hide.  No matter what is said, they are cool, protective, pliable yet durable.  Fingerless is fine but the grip loses.  Black with black and tanned with the summer apparel.  Like I give a rat’s ass what the plebes say.  Love the deer hide.  Getting low on em too so’s a gotta get dem more on my next visit chasing the sun.  Hope they have my size again.  What am I the only one who wears that size?

So picked up some goggles there, at the Town Moto, good thingy too I poured on the way home.

Ride was great with a couple of hundred of us Modders and Rockers hooking and wheeling the Big Smoke.  Then to the Duke for a coupla’ before setting out in the rain home.  A little clear here and there but rain most of the way.  Forged ahead, to the hood and ended up a sopping wet road dirt soaked mess. The jacket weighing in over 30 pounds and falling flat on my face extricating my habiliments from the denim.

All in all, a good day seeing and making friends with like cranial humanoid blobs of protoplasm.

Pour it hot Adriane, the chill runs deep.

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.

 

 

Ease up on the Ethiopian

So for those that are in the habit of black and white, driving is not a right, and it is not a race.  Mania on the bitumen bites.  If you can F1 yourself, its time you NastyCar’ed your way to the Indy’pendant tarmacs.  Go find a private place to sniff my exhaust.  I couldn’t care an iota less that you can recite the serial number on my tailpipe.

The heterogeneity between you and the closed circuit guys and gals is the single focus of’a dem.   One goal, one direction, one desire, one training level, one professional race car drivers license, one performance level, one set of rules, one compilation of safety devices, one type of road surface, one kind of tyres, one overseer, one set of penalties, one knowledge base, they are in it together.

The ones and twos of you who “might” have had any race or even skid skool training are generally the ones not doing the jocose maneuvers on the ole Four Oh One.  It’s the Wannabe Wallaby brained bozos Dodging and weaving between the crying Chryslers and aching Acuras. 

Let’s get to the basics.

Pass on the left.

Slower traffic keep to the right.

Leave one car length for every 15 KMPH, between you and the guy in front of you.  (For those wholly awake and alert, this is “just” enough time to apply the brakes and stop when the guy in front of you stops.)

Drive as far ahead as you can see.

Use one foot in an automatic vehicle.

Heavier larger vehicles (read SUV) take longer to stop.  (It’s just Physics)

If I have a line of traffic ahead of me, I am moving at their speed, I will not move over for you, so stop flashing your lights and riding my ass.

And finally, if you think you are smarter than me, don’t ride my ass.  You will become rudely awakened about all the other rules.

I toyed with a trinket brained hack automobilist the other day from mile marker 286 to mile marker 336.  In one morning he probably peeled off a good 20 thou on his brake pads alone.  He was ever so surprised to see how bright my brake lights were each time. (you think he woulda’ learned)  he dodged and changed lanes 5 score times at least.  Sped up slowed down this lane that lane, this lane, another lane,  I stuck to following the car in front between a buck 20 and a buck 25 the whole time, on cruise control at that!

In the end, I exited ahead of him.  

If we could have culled the heard of these Neanderthals before, we would all be able to drive while texting, phoning, probably playing Xbox too!

But no, this scourge on our roads has debilitated the able to no longer be able to do simple activities.  Its’a cuzza’ those are da ones who woulda’ got caught doing da dirty.  First off they can’t drive let alone do something else at the same time.

If your foot is made of plummet material, find and oval outside of my area.

Pour it hot Mabel, I need the Iron on the road soon.

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.