love story, confession, and ramble

somehow, in a mail to a buddy that had nothing to do with anything other than how cold it has been and how i've clipped-up the tender in anticipation of Above Zero weather in maybe a week, i wrote this. yeah, got a bunch of pops in-me, but it seems right to push some bits onto the board where some more people might grok it. thanks for the bandwidth.

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it's a cold-starter, for-sure, but i just have to clean all the plugs, put ether erm "starting fluid" in all 4 cylinders (3 won't do it), leave a trouble-light under the crankcase for a bit and be Very careful on the throttle.

it's always been a persnickety bee-atch. i can't tell you the number of times i've had to re-ether and re-dry plugs when i was first learning the machine. 3, 4-times a few years ago before i learned. the choke is another thing. all that stuff was hard-earned, but i have a 50/50 shot at the worst for first-spin success at 28F anymore. easy to get cocky, and that thing is the first--no--it's the Only motor that's made me it's b*tch. i serve It.

it really is a wonder.

i mean, think of it. it's a ridiculously high-performance thing for '81 showroom-floor-tech. 4 effing carbs, all of which need to be reasonably synced for harmonious performance. when it's warm, when i'm in it's powerband (5200 R's +/- about 500), a flick of the wrist is a one-way ticket to smileville.

it's not fast, remotely, by "superbike" or contemporary bike tech. it also has damn-near zero electronics. well, at least for the ignition and the motor--the speedo is the other story.

i have No doubt that, were I in my teens or even 20's, i've have torn-down the whole engine and gone over every damned clearance, tensioner, o-ring, and bearing. i'd have spit-shined the guts, pretty-much, and re-mic'd everything that possibly could matter (it's just that i couldn't have affored Fixing anything at those ages

that's what makes me a little sad. i beat it, but i honor it. i know it has the heart of a champion. in the way (big-stretch) loosely analogous that native americans honor their kills, i honor it during my beatings, if only mentally. it's just built so-well that it takes it, but it enables me a mental construct that it Understands that One Day it will be treated Well--refreshed and rewarded.

it's just inanimate forgings and castings and moldings and extrusions. their silence would drive me to haiku, given another life. i don't have enough time to get there, these years.

i think i'm going to borrow a friend's go-pro and see how the audio does. i'm particularly-interested in honoring the audio because it deserves it. there are things that deserve that.

the rolls merlins in P-51's. the potato-potato of a 40-something knucklehead. the (properly-backpressured) chevy small blocks. and yes, however unfitting it sounds in the company of those true classics, the 80's 650/750 yamahas seem to belong.

sometimes, when i'm dodging seams and potholes and patches and cracks and crap, i'm pulled out of my concentration by pure appreciation of the engine.

it's a sort of uber-feline. it's not throaty-throaty, but it's throaty. it's a growler. it runs so many revvies that it can't not, but it does it w/o pretense. it says to the world that i am here. i am rusty, i have holes in me, i have black tape on my seat and black tape holding my battery covers on, but it serves notice to the world that it stands tall and it apologizes to no one or no thing. it declares it's existence. there's no pride to it, there's just a reminder that it's Still Here and that son, you best respect your elders.

yes, this is a love-story about cold metal and copper and plastic. it is a shout from the past, but it is a declaration. it screams i did all this w/o any of that.

it is air-cooled. it is normally-aspirated. it is 100% mechanical linkage. don't need no steenkeen vibration isolators. a guy could tear every wire out of the thing except about 8 or 9 (4 of which being plug-wires) and it would still do its thing. it would say "hey" to the world with the smirk of an old person.

it is a vehicle to out-of-body transcendence. cold, inanimate parts--the collection of which can ennoble the soul of a man.

it's horsesh*t in 17 other ways, but it shines. my rig has a hole in the gas tank (don't lean over hard-right or you get gas on your leg) and a bunch of other things that only add character.

the spirit and the soul of the machine shine through. through anything, but it takes time. it will not reveal itself to anyone until a person has earned the ability to receive its charms. i've put the time in, and it has rewarded me.

i'm just a steward of a thing that will go on living, should i be smart enough to keep it from the mitts of the parts butchers and auctioners and teen Dr. Mechanics.

at this point, it's a beat-to-f*ck coat of arms. it's beat-to-f*ck nobility, and it bows to no one. it only demands that someone acknowledge its provenance and honor its nobility. it doesn't care that the coat of arms is beaten, it only demands that it be respected as is its due. in fact, it laughs and mocks those who discount it due to mere observation--and it's ready with the lesson.

it tongue-tied the kids at the cycle mechanics who rode it. i laughed aloud and said that that was the nicest, most diplomatic compliment i'd ever heard. it simply exists, and it does what it does, and we mere mortals gain educations.

i took my test on an '8X seca in maybe '82. it never left me, that bike. that particular bike was new and much less finicky and incredibly smooth (for those times or any times). so much so that, 25 years later, it was what i got as my re-entry to cycling.