The Beauty of an Ugly Bike

I love New York City. It’s a huge, wonderful playground for 20-somethings with more interesting places to eat, sights to see, and things to do than one could experience in two lifetimes. It also has the best public transportation system I’ve ever used. You can get from one end to the other of the sprawling 5 boroughs for $2.25 and be drunk while doing it. As a result, car and motorcycle ownership is relegated to a luxury, at least in Manhattan.  

It can certainly be fun to dice it up with the cabbies, trucks, and delivery guys. I love weaving through a somewhat crowded street, particularly on a summer night when the air is cool and the lights flashing by add to the sensation of speed. Unfortunately, the day-to-day realities of owning a bike aren't always so poetic. 

I’m poor, so I park on the street. Because of how tight parking is in NYC, sights like this are not uncommon.

My bike gets knocked over about once a month and the dents, scrapes, and a broken front fender tell the tale. Knowing it’ll get violated again in a few weeks, I’m not inclined to fix the cosmetic issues with my bike, so it starts falling into ‘streetfighter/rat bike’ territory. Don’t get me wrong, I love my little SV. It’s the perfect city bike and it has served me very well. I'm meticulous about maintenance, but I can’t justify repairing it to a point that I’d be proud at a bike night. As much as I love it, I don't think many others could appreciate what I see in my beloved ugly bike.

We often compare our bikes to beautiful women. We give them female names, talk about their voluptuous curves, and can be as protective of them as of a pretty girlfriend. I know I've been guilty of referring to a bike as 'my baby' and I've been told by girls that they felt like there was another woman in the relationship (not knowing they were the other woman). Half of the print motorcycle magazines have women on the cover, and the other half are soft-core porn *cough* Easy Rider *cough*. 

As with women, it's the pretty bikes that get on the cover of magazines. They are the ones that turn peoples' heads on the street and get all the attention at parties. Coveted by many, they turn their owners into Gollum-like creatures of lust. We save our exotic, finicky, and specialized toys for those perfect summer days when we can blast up a coast road or show them off at a bar. Spending slightly outside our means to buy the newest, hottest model, we love them dearly and loathe to park them out of sight, lest some miscreant molest or steal our precious.

There's a good chance, though, that your first bike was an ugly bike. You were 19 and you wanted something cheap and not too intimidating to learn on. It was supposed to be a summer fling. Once you had cut your teeth, you were supposed to move on to something newer, better looking, and more powerful. The truth is that no one ever forgets their first and, regardless of how good or bad it was, it will always have a special place in your heart. In spite of all your plans, here you are years later and you can't bring yourself to get rid of your old friend. 

This type of bike is beautiful in a different, more faithful way. Like an old dog with half an ear missing and a bit of a limp, they don't have broad appeal. They aren't the most impressive to show up to a party with, but will always be by your side. You love bikes like this, not because of the way they look, but for what they do for you and what they mean to you. Sure, you've been bitten once or twice, but you can move past the time they left you stranded in the rain because the good times you've had are far more important. 

You've aged together, both gaining scars and scrapes along the way and rising again tougher than before. Every broken part is a reason to upgrade and every close call is a lesson. You know that spending more than the original purchase price on better parts is a losing proposition. You know that you should just bite the bullet, sell your old friend, and buy a new bike. You don't, though, because if you pulled emotion out of the equation, you'd be driving a Prius. 

Bikes like this don’t even have to be cheap. This Ducati was not a cheap bike when it was new a few years ago. Judging by the rash on the bar and tank along with the lack of side plastics, it has been down at least once. Rather than simply repairing it, this owner made the bike his own, resale value and public opinion be damned. The frame has been painted, and there are numerous upgrades. Sure, the chain is a little rusty, but that suggests the owner is forced to park it outside, giving me the image of the owner rebuilding his baby in the living room of his apartment. Despite being wrecked, rashed, and a little bit ugly, this bike is clearly loved.

Well-loved bikes age better than most. Their lifetime of use gives them a reassuring, weathered feel, akin to the callused, leathern hand of a lifetime laborer. Like a well-worn boot, they fit perfectly; not because they were engineered to be perfect from the factory, but because over time both you and the bike have molded to fit each other. An identical bike owned by another would feel foreign. 

Ugly bikes are also freedom. They are freedom to park wherever you want without worrying about someone sitting on it, scratching the fairing or knocking it over when parking.  They are freedom from worry about it being stolen, because even thieves appreciate a well worn but well maintained bike. These fears allayed, you can ride to interesting new places, leave the bike parked in an unfamiliar and shady neighborhood, and be confident that it will still be there when you return. It doesn't have the same value in someone else's eyes. The prospect of my SV being stolen when I park it in the Bronx about the same as someone stealing a guard dog: theoretically possible, but who would want to.

Being a motorcycle guy in a city can be hard. Because we can’t just lock the bike up safe and sound in a garage or driveway, our bikes take additional abuse.  Occasionally, I forget why I push the damn ugly thing across the street every other day for alternate side of the street parking and have to keep my plate in my pocket, but it all comes back to me when I ride. Motorcycles move me, and once on the road it doesn't matter if my tank is dented or my seat is ripped.

Here's to having a beer with your old friend rather than buying a drink for the hot girl at the bar. 

8/18/12 Saturday Stroll

Went for a walk this morning before heading to do some car stuff. Luckily I've been reunited with AY's old DSLR.

Plus a hint of what's to come with my car.

8/14/12 Getting Out

I love New York City. It’s a wonderful city with more interesting places to eat, see, and things to do than one could experience in two lifetimes. It also has the best public transportation system I’ve ever used. You can get from one end to the other of the sprawling 5 boroughs for $2.25. As a result, car and motorcycle ownership is relegated to a luxury, at least in Manhattan. I’ve been stubborn enough to keep a car in Manhattan for an extended period, but soon grew frustrated enough to retain only the motorcycle.

The other problem is that in NYC, motorcycles can very easily be brought down to pure utility vehicles. Lately I’ve ridden the motorcycle more for practical reasons rather than for the pure enjoyment of riding itself. There are a few causes of this.

Because I’m poor, I park on the street. This means my bike gets knocked over about once a month and, as a result, I’ve got little dents and scrapes and a broken front fender. Knowing it’ll get knocked over again in a few weeks, I’m not inclined to fix the cosmetic issues with my bike, so it starts falling into the ‘streetfighter/rat bike’ territory. Don’t get me wrong, I love my little SV. It’s the perfect city bike and it has served me very well. I’ve even upgraded the suspension and brakes, things that are unlikely to get ruined by someone parking by feel, but I can’t justify repairing it to a point that I’d be proud of it at a bike night.

Another problem is created by the nature of traffic in NYC. It can certainly be fun to dice it up with the cabbies, trucks, and delivery guys on electric bikes. I love weaving through a somewhat crowded street, particularly on a summer night when the air is cool and the lights flashing by add to the sensation of speed. The problem is that, while you get a great traffic sense and grow eyes on the back of your head, you really never get a chance to explore the limits of the bike. I might get wide open throttle for a total of two seconds at a time, and that’s on a relatively underpowered bike. A liter bike would never be able to use its power in the city, unless on one of the highways.

The real problem, though, is that there is no way to do any serious cornering. The traffic and roads are simply too unpredictable to ride anywhere near 7/10ths, let alone higher. Swing around a corner with a knee down, and your likely to be rewarded with a cab stopped to pick up a patron or a slick steel plate covering a recently cut hole in the earth.

Knowing I needed to exercise myself and my bike, I planned a trip into the country to visit Kevin in upstate NY. Kevin recently bought and restored an old bolt-action shotgun and was itching to try it out. I was a little late on the way up, so I took the Taconic Parkway. It’s pretty boring until you get to the Fahnestock State park, which has some great, higher speed corners that are fun if traffic is light. It was nice to get out on the open road and stretch the legs of the bike, though. The SV, being naked with GSXR clip-ons, isn’t the best highway tourer in the world, but the windblast was welcome after spending so much time in stop and go traffic.

Kevin and I spent a few hours walking around in the woods ostensibly hunting turkey, but in actuality we shot a great deal more tin cans than birds. There is something very satisfying about a big, heavy, bolt-action weapon. I have the same appreciation for old guns as I do for old machine tools. There was a time when things were built to last forever. Cases and parts were made out of cast iron rather than thin stamped steel. Sure they were heavy and cumbersome, but they still work long after their original owners have passed on. My mill and lathe are from the 1940’s and they still work incredibly well. Somehow I don’t think the lightweight mills coming out of China now will manage the same feat, but I digress…

After I had topped off both the SV’s and my body’s fluids, it was time to do some more hunting, this time for corners. Rather than take the straight shot down the Taconic, I took Rt.84 to the Western shore of the Hudson where I picked up 9W going South. 9W, being a river road that follows some mild mountains, tends to have great twists and turns. It also is much less populated than the Taconic, allowing for some faster riding. Having scoured my iPhone map for windy roads, I also spotted this little section of 202 back on the east side of the river. Unlike similar roads in Harriman state park, there was no traffic whatsoever on this road when I was riding on a Sunday afternoon, and the corners were tight enough to give me a great workout. I will absolutely be returning here soon.

Cruising back into Manhattan, I remembered why I love riding so much. When I got off the bike and sat on the couch with a well-deserved beer, it felt like the volume on everything else in the world was turned down three notches. I wasn’t dreading going back to work on Monday as much as usual, and my goals for the week seemed to be much clearer and easier to achieve.

Being a motorcycle guy in the city can be hard. Because we can’t just lock the bike up safe and sound in a garage, we deal with more negatives during the off-season than most riders. I know I’ve spent more time in the past year wrenching on my bikes than riding for pure pleasure. Occasionally, I forget why I push the damn thing across the street every other day for alternate side of the street parking.

Mercifully, all it takes is clear weather and a good road to bring it all back. 

6/26/12 Why We Ride

Season of the Bike

There is cold, and there is cold on a motorcycle. Cold on a motorcycle is like being beaten with cold hammers while being kicked with cold boots, a bone bruising cold. The wind's big hands squeeze the heat out of my body and whisk it away; caught in a cold October rain, the drops don't even feel like water. They feel like shards of bone fallen from the skies of Hell to pock my face. I expect to arrive with my cheeks and forehead streaked with blood, but that's just an illusion, just the misery of nerves not designed for highway speeds. 

Despite this, it's hard to give up my motorcycle in the fall and I rush to get it on the road again in the spring; lapses of sanity like this are common among motorcyclists. When you let a motorcycle into your life you’re changed forever. The letters "MC" are stamped on your driver’s license right next to your sex and weight as if "motorcycle" was just another of your physical characteristics, or maybe a mental condition. But when warm weather finally does come around all those cold snaps and rainstorms are paid in full because a summer is worth any price. 

A motorcycle is not just a two-wheeled car; the difference between driving a car and climbing onto a motorcycle is the difference between watching TV and actually living your life. We spend all our time sealed in boxes and cars are just the rolling boxes that shuffle us from home-box to work-box to store-box and back, the whole time, entombed in stale air, temperature regulated, sound insulated, and smelling of carpets. 

On a motorcycle I know I'm alive. When I ride, even the familiar seems strange and glorious. The air has weight and substance as I push through it and its touch is as intimate as water to a swimmer. I feel the cool wells of air that pool under trees and the warm spokes of light that fall through them. I can see everything in a sweeping 360 degrees, up, down and around, wider than Pana-Vision and than IMAX and unrestricted by ceiling or dashboard. Sometimes I even hear music. It's like hearing phantom telephones in the shower or false doorbells when vacuuming; the pattern-loving brain, seeking signals in the noise, raises acoustic ghosts out of the wind's roar. But on a motorcycle I hear whole songs: rock 'n roll, dark orchestras, women's voices, all hidden in the air and released by speed. At 30 miles per hour and up, smells become uncannily vivid. All the individual tree- smells and flower- smells and grass-smells flit by like chemical notes in a great plant symphony. Sometimes the smells evoke memories so strongly that it’s as though the past hangs invisible in the air around me, wanting only the most casual of rumbling time machines to unlock it. A ride on a summer afternoon can border on the rapturous. The sheer volume and variety of stimuli is like a bath for my nervous system, an electrical massage for my brain, a systems check for my soul. It tears smiles out of me: a minute ago I was dour, depressed, apathetic, numb, but now, on two wheels, big, ragged, windy smiles flap against the side of my face, billowing out of me like air from a decompressing plane. 

Transportation is only a secondary function. A motorcycle is a joy machine. It's a machine of wonders, a metal bird, a motorized prosthetic. It's light and dark and shiny and dirty and warm and cold lapping over each other; it's a conduit of grace, it's a catalyst for bonding the gritty and the holy. I still think of myself as a motorcycle amateur, but by now I've had a handful of bikes over half a dozen years and slept under my share of bridges. I wouldn't trade one second of either the good times or the misery. Learning to ride one of the best things I've done. 

Cars lie to us and tell us we're safe, powerful, and in control. The air-conditioning fans murmur empty assurances and whisper, "Sleep, sleep." Motorcycles tell us a more useful truth: we are small and exposed, and probably moving too fast for our own good, but that's no reason not to enjoy every minute of the ride. 

- Dave Karlotski.

6/26/12 Plans for the Future

Right now my car is slow. I never thought of it as slow when I had it in highschool, but I've owned and driven faster cars since then and I know I need more power. When I was at the track, I was able to pass very fast cars in the turns only to get blown by on the straights.

I had been planning on buying a new engine for the Z. I wanted either a 1JZ/2JZ, RB25DET, VQ35DE, or and LS1. The problem is that it's never just a new engine. It's an engine, a transmission, mounts, wiring, a new exhaust, new driveshaft, new gas tank for fuel injection, new fuel lines, intercooler on the turbo engines, and many many odds and ends just to get the engine in the car. This is not to mention that at those power levels I'd need to upgrade the differential and halfshafts. All this adds up to quite a bit of money.

Now I've decided to do this in stages. I'm gonna build a mild, carbed, 2.8 liter L engine to get me by in the meantime. I've worked out a deal with CB to get a head, triple webers, and a 2.8 liter block. CB is doing a much more aggressive 3 liter, ported head monster motor for his girlfriend's car, but I don't think that's a road I want to go down just yet. This engine should make around 180-200 rwhp if I build it right (compared with 250 or so for CB's stroker) , which would be about double what I have now and more than enough to make the car fun, and is simple enough to build in a couple of weekends. The main thing here is that because it's an L engine, I don't need mounts, a new trans, a new fuel system, exhaust, wiring and all that fun stuff. Just build the motor, tune the carbs and go. Not to mention they look and sound amazing!

As I mentioned before, there has been some progress with the new shop. As it stands now, JB and I will probably be setting up a couple of containers as a temporary shop while we try to get into a nearby building. Here is a quick sketch I did of a possible layout. It's small but it could serve until we get something bigger.

Not a big update, but that's what I've got planned.

And now, some interesting photos.

6/18/12 Massive Transition Period Update

I need to apologize for not updating this sooner. I guess I got a bit disheartened when we lost the shop in the Bronx and didn't want to write about it. Now, however, the next space is in the works (likely in Brooklyn) so I'm in a good mood again. I'll write about the new space when some of the details are ironed out, but in the meantime I need to catch up on the past few months.

When I last posted, I was finishing up some details on the car to get it road-worthy by the time the shop was to close. Coincidentally, I was signed up for a track day at Lime Rock around the same time. There were numerous little things that had to be done on the car to get it to pass the tech inspection at the track, namely I had to button up my fuel system, properly mount my battery, and figure out my seat belt situation.

T-2 days till Lime Rock:

 The fuel system was easy enough, I borrowed a gas cap from CB and reused the gas cap base from my car. I just needed to block off some vent hoses and tighten some hose clamps. On a run to the parts store, however I realized that the sound I thought was my alternator belt being loose was actually the water pump bearing failing. Luckily, I had just bought a spare engine (it was an L24, that the owner thought was an L28, but I took it anyway because it was just rebuilt). I hopped in the Miata and scavenged the pump from that motor and started installing it on my car. Around the same time CB came over with a buddy and they installed my gas cap/base.

I also needed to install my seat belts. The car came with seatbelts, but I didn't have a complete set. The ones from my old car were junk, and I couldn't use the racing harness I bought from CB because the track had a rule that the driver and passenger have to use the same equipment. I picked up a set of rear belts from a 240sx very cheap, and wrestled with my car for an hour or so to get them in.

T-1 day till Lime Rock:

CB had been struggling with clutch issues with his car for the past couple of weeks, and with one day left he was still having issues. I went to his house late and helped him put the trans back in his car for what we hoped would be the last time.

Lime Rock travel day:
We decided to drive up to Lime Rock the on Sunday for our Monday trackday. We had a connection with a local B&B and it was certainly the better way to do the trip.

That morning we had an early wrenching session to check the last issues that might pop up with the cars. I was tightening a hose clamp on my gas tank when the fuel return spout broke from its weld. This resulted in a  slow but noticeable fuel leak when stationary, and a substantial one when the engine was running. Panicking, we drained the tank and I drove to an auto parts store with CB. Twenty minutes and a tube of JB weld later we were in business.

JR also showed up with a proper battery tie down for me that he stole from his turbo car. About as long as I remember I had been using bungees and ratchet straps to hold my battery, and that would apparently not pass tech...

My left rear wheel bearing was still making a slight noise, but I checked the tightness of the stub axle nut and all seemed well so I just tried to ignore it.

It was a rainy drive up to CT. With the exception of an actual squealing alternator belt when the lights and wipers were on, the car performed perfectly on the drive. This was shocking to me considering that the car had driven about 20 miles in the past 35 years.

In the morning, it was frosty cold. The chokeless 240z started hard, but did start. We made a quick fuel run then got to the track just as the safety meeting was ending, in true Top Gear style. My car flew through tech and I was soon waiting for my instructed session to start.

After I had borrowed a helmet from JR, my instructor and I set up our helmet-talkies and headed out to the track. I have to admit I was a bit nervous, but it definitely helped to have an instructor in the car. I don't think there was any way I could have figured out the line on my own, but he did a good job of showing me when to turn in, where to aim and when to get on the gas. After a few laps I was starting to feel comfortable and getting on the car a bit harder. To my surprise, it performed shockingly well. Somehow, despite my eyeball alignment, it handled easily and controllably as as you approached the limit of grip. Once I stiffened up the illuminas, it even transitioned from corner to corner very flat and stably.

In my third session out, my instructor was pushing me to go faster and faster. I was actually passing the other cars on the track (mostly Porsche's as it was a PCA event), though many would retake me on the long front straight as I don't have very much power. Just as I was doing really well and going pretty quickly...I spun.

My instructor didn't see anything I had done wrong and seemed to be as surprised as I was about the spin. After a quick drive through of the pit lane to talk with the controllers about it, I was back on track. It took a couple of laps to get the confidence to go hard through that particular turn, but eventually it came back. The only damage to the car was a lost center cap to one of my wheels.

Unfortunately my spin did direct the attention of the corner workers to my car, and I was black flagged for some reason. It turns out my brake lights hadn't been working (this was probably true the whole weekend, but no one noticed until after I spun). In between sessions I did some electrical detective work to determine the cause of the fault and was ready in time for my last session, which went well and without incident.

In addition to Porsches, there was our club and some other serious iron. All in all, I really enjoyed the day and I definitely have the track bug. I also have the bug for more power, as doing all the work to pass a car in the bends, just to have him walk by me on the straights was frustrating to say the least. I think there is a 1JZ-GTE in my future...

Pretty much immediately after this event, the boys and I moved out of the shop. JB got a PODS storage unit and we loaded whatever we could in there. The rest of it went to my mom's house in Newark, including the 240z. It was a sad day indeed.

As a result, all work that I needed to do on my motorcycle has taken place in AY's building with the help of KY. I had been having an intermittent stumbling issue with the bike that I couldn't track down. It seemed to break up at higher speeds and when turning, so I assumed it was a fuel issue. In fact, I thought was was the same water-in-the-tank issue that I had before. One afternoon, I hopped on the bike to go fix it. Once I got there, I drained the tank, cleaned the tank and front plug drain tubes, and drained the float bowls. This did nothing. A later day, rode over again so I could swap the spark plugs. One the ride over it was running great.  I figured I should do the plugs anyway because they were past due. Did all the work and....it started stumbling again. Frustrated, I ordered new coils for the bike while I was away on vacation. Once I got back, I went to install them when I noticed that the bike stumbled when I turned the handle bars, even when I was stationary. I investigated and saw that the wire I had run to the tachometer of the Vapor gauge had been rubbed raw and was occasionally coming into contact with the frame...when the wind would push it back or when the handle bars were turned. I taped up the wire, re routed it and was back in business. Sometimes it's the simple things...

Around the same time KY was solving an issue with his friend's BMW Z3. This guy had bought 19's for his small car along with a set of lowering springs. As you might expect, it now rubbed it's tires pretty much everywhere. Even after removing the inner fender and massaging the hood (which is also a fender on these cars) it still didn't have enough clearance. The solution was to add a spacer between the upper spring perch and the body. Spacers were cut from 3/8" plastic and inserted, along with longer studs to clear the longer distance. This did the trick and the car can now brave the pothole-ridden streets of NYC without fear.

The only other time I've had my Z on the road since losing the shop was, unfortunately, for a pretty sad reason. One of the members of the New York Z club, Tommy Sullivan, passed away in early May when his house burned down, claiming the lives of his wife and two daughters as well. Tommy was able to get his son, Tommy Jr., out before going back into the blaze to try to save the rest of his family. In order to remember our friend and try to raise some money for his son, the local Z clubs did a cruise and sold T-shirts and stickers. It was a great day, and a memorial Tommy would have loved.

I know it's been a long time, but a new shop in is in the works so expect more regular updates soon!

- W.W. SBSS

3/15/12 Exhausting

With the Y-Pipe on, it's *a little* quieter so I ventured a little farther from the nest. I also Installed the driver side seatbelt for some safety. The car felt good. It really does seem to handle tightly. I did a couple hard brake tests and it seems that I don't need a bigger brake booster, as locking the wheels was no problem. That said, I do need to bleed them a bit better, as my left front locked far before my right front and I need to adjust my proportioning valve as well. but these are details.

I drove the car to bruckner and grabbed dinner. Also noting my electric fan and thermostat worked exactly as it should. Man it looks small...

Tomorrow I'm going to CB's shop to borrow his lift to install my exhaust. In preparation for this, I *ahem* modified the exhaust I stole from one of his parts cars. Here the tried and true Mike Fiesta method of making a generic muffler sound good. Mike and I did this to the muffler on my old car way way way back in the day, and the thing had the perfect amount of rasp. 

Step one, cut a flap in the muffler housing.

Step two, expose the innards.

Step three, remove innards.

Step four, weld shut.

That's it. hehe

Stay tuned for the results. 

-W.W. SBSS