This MGB-GT is really a mess. Opening the door of the MGB is like opening a Hollywood style Egyptian tomb: a puff of cursed air escapes as soon as the handle button is pushed then all your relatives start dying under unusual circumstances. It’s ominous inside there, man. Great drifts of rat guano lie still on the floor. Seats, wiring, and vinyl panels: everything is chewed to bits. There’s cardboard and tinfoil, door gaskets hang from their sills and the cabin is littered with parts. It’s a frigging crime scene, man. What have I got myself into?
After clearing the needle bushes that had closed in on the MGB-GT, I poured a batch of 50/50 water and bleach into the Ryobi sprayer and doused the engine bay taking care to hit the voids between the inner fenders and bodywork. The rats have been nesting in there so I’ll have to dismantle the front clip to thoroughly clean it out. But that will come later, if the engine proves to be ok.
Working my way aft I sprayed the front seats, floors, dash, behind the dash, under the seats and the hatchback luggage area. The roof and windshield area was blasted. I even sprayed the exterior of the car with bleach. I’m not sure what is inside that steel ammunition box but it feels sort of heavy. One positive cleaning note is that I don’t have to worry about the bleach hurting anything, as the entire interior must go. Maybe I’ll strap a lawn chair to the floor when I drive the thing.
The extra cylinder head I found under a wheel in the trunk area is both frightening and reassuring. On the one hand it’s always nice to have a spare cylinder head. On the other hand it’s never a good thing to need an extra cylinder head. Hopefully the head in the trunk is the bad one because why else would you have two? I suppose we will find out which one is which soon enough.
Besides the junk inside the car my MGB came with scattered parts. Some parts were in the bushes and some were in boxes. I haven’t inventoried them yet but an un-chewed rear seat is a huge score. I bet the mandarin orange seats really spiced up the interior of the blue MGB. There’s a Weber carburetor in a bucket that may have been destined for the MGB. I’ll get the standard SU’s working before I attempt any carburation trickery. Besides, with 5000-foot elevation changes around here it might be better to run the constant velocity SU’s.
My MGB looks like it had air-conditioning at some point in its storied past. There’s a disconnected condenser in front of the radiator. My new best friends on the MGB owners Facebook page suggested it may be a gigantic oil cooler but I guess not because there is another small cooler (also disconnected) mounted in front of the condenser that looks more oil-ish.
Lending more credence to the air conditioner theory are two empty holes low on the passenger side firewall that may have been put there for liquid and low(er) pressure refrigerant lines. There are unconnected lines near those firewall holes that look a lot like air conditioning stuff. In addition there is an unused V-belt sheave between the fan blade and the alternator/water pump pulley. There is no compressor or smog pump. I see no evaporator or blower inside the cabin but I haven’t really cleared out the junk so it may be knocking around in there. These clues and the crudeness of the condenser installation make me think the MGB-GT had an aftermarket air conditioner before it came under my tutelage. Since my resurrections are done on a tight budget I won’t attempt to get the air conditioner back online. There’s not much of the system left anyway.
As we blog I’m letting the first bleaching soak in. The rat guano will need a second dose of bleach before I start scooping it out. I’ll be buying a Dupont protective suit to wear along with a N100 mask to filter out the smallest particles. Wetness is key to this mouse-capade. You don’t want to stir small bits into the air and if the poop is wet it won’t atomize. Hantavirus is a real thing in New Mexico and while Hanta is much harder to contract, (you have to breathe in contaminated rodent urine/feces and of course not all rodents have it) it’s much more deadly than Covid-19. How does a 36% death rate sound to you? You read that right: 1 out of 3 hanta cases results in death. At 36% there are no whiny, academic, constitutional mask-wearing debates. If you’re cleaning rat poop out west you wear the mask.
Cleaning this MGB-GT is going to be the hardest part of the whole project. Once I can move about the car without the threat of puss-filled-lung death lurking around every corner we will be able to make progress. To that end I’ve ordered a gas powered pressure washer. I know I always say electric is the way to go for infrequently used tools but the electric pressure washer draws so much juice long extension cords don’t work. For jobs far from power outlets I’d have to run a big generator to supply the electric washer and at that point you haven’t really gained anything. Here at ExhaustNotes we look for any excuse to buy new tools. Besides, it was so cheap!
Hopefully Part 3 of the MGB-GT resurrection will see the car fairly cleaned out but there are no guarantees in life so try to enjoy each day as it unfolds.
A couple of weeks ago I tested three .45 ACP loads in a Model 625 Smith and Wesson and my Rock Island Armory Compact 1911 using Winchester’s 231 powder and Jim Gardner’s 230-grain cast roundnose bullets. We’ve done a bunch of accuracy testing in both .45 ACP revolvers and autos with other loads (and you can find those stories here). This blog focuses specifically on Jim’s 230-grain roundnose bullets with Winchester 231 propellant.
Reloaded .45 ACP ammo with Gardner 230-grain cast roundnose bullets. The 230 cast roundnose bullets replicate GI hardball ammo and this bullet feeds in just about any .45 auto.
To get to the point quickly, the Gardner 230-grain cast roundnose bullets did well (as you’ll see below). My testing consisted of three .45 loads with 4.5, 5.0, and 5.6 grains of WW 231 powder:
I was checking for accuracy and functionality in both guns. Here’s what I found:
The Compact 1911 likes 5.0 grains of 231, and that load functioned best with this powder in the automatic. The slide locked back after the last round the way it is supposed to; it would not do so with 5.6 grains of 231. Getting a short-barreled 1911 to function well is a bit tougher than a full-sized 1911. With 5.0 grains of 231 and the 230-grain cast bullets, my Compact 1911 functions reliably. Your mileage may vary.
4.5 grains of 231 functioned okay in the 1911, too, but it is the least accurate load in both the 1911 and the Model 625 (of the three loads that I tested).
The Model 625 likes both 5.0 and 5.6 grains of 231, with a slight accuracy edge going to the 5.0-grain load (although what you see here is probably more a result of my skills than anything else). The 625 is not as accurate with the lighter 4.5-grain 231 load.
Lyman’s reloading manual has 5.8 grains of 231 as the accuracy load with this bullet, but I didn’t go that high (it was a max load). Like I said, it doesn’t function reliably in the Compact 1911, and my testing showed 5.0 grains to be the Model 625’s sweet spot from an accuracy perspective.
All shots were at 50 feet, and all loads used the Lee factory crimp die (which assures easy chambering in 1917-style revolvers). The loads would do better from a machine rest or a steadier shooter. It was hot out on the range the morning I fired these targets and that probably adversely affected accuracy, too.
Here are the Compact 1911 targets that I shot using the 5.0-grain 231 load:
Compact 1911 results: Close enough for government work. I use Alco targets for this kind of testing; these have four silhouettes per sheet.
The Compact 1911 is not a target gun, but it is accurate enough for its intended purpose. The Rock Compact 1911 is very concealable and it’s the handgun I carry most often. They are surprisingly inexpensive and surprisingly accurate with the right loads.
These are the targets with the Model 625 and 5.6 grains of 231:
The big Smith and Wesson Model 625 worked well with 231 and Jim’s 230-grain roundnose bullets. This is the 5.6-grain target; 5.0 grains of 231 were even more accurate for me.
The Model 625 Smith and Wesson is more accurate than the Compact 1911 (hey, no surprises there). They are both fun guns to shoot.
I usually load .45 ACP ammo with either Unique or Bullseye powder, but I thought I would try 231 just because I had some on hand and I wanted to see how it would do. I have an accuracy load for the Compact 1911 with Bullseye and a 185-grain bullet that we wrote about earlier. Other guys tell me 231 is their preferred .45 ACP propellant and I still had a can of it that I had purchased for the 9mm cast bullet comparo some time ago, so I thought I would give it a try in the two guns featured here. With the sketchy availability of reloading components during these uncertain times, it’s good to know that this powder works well in .45 ACP. But after this test, I’m going to stick with the other two propellants (Unique and Bullseye), assuming I can get them. What I didn’t like about 231 is that it is a sooty powder…I found it to be significantly worse in that regard than Unique.
WW 231 propellant is accurate, but it sure is a dirty powder. My left hand was covered in powder soot after just a few rounds.
I’ve been real happy with Gardner’s bullets. They are less expensive than other cast bullets, the accuracy is good, and I observed no leading in either handgun. I’ll be purchasing Gardner bullets again. If you haven’t tried Jim’s bullets, you might give them a try.
More Tales of the Gun, 1911, 1917, bolt action sporter, milsurp, load data, and other good shooting and reloading posts are here!
Here at Exhaustnotes.us resurrection projects are leaps of faith. They feel good and inevitable, and promising. You know instinctively it’s the right thing to do and that everything will work out ok in the end. The Kawasaki Z1 was like that. I had no doubt that motorcycle would once again tear great, jagged, 8000 RPM holes through the atmosphere. It just had to, you know?
This 1974 MBG-GT is not that kind of resurrection. Nothing about this car feels inevitable, least of all my ambition to see it through to the end. I’m going into this project fully expecting to fail. “Life’s too short,” my buddy Burns said. “Make a hot tub or a planter out of the thing.” That’s sound advice spoken from the heart. The man is trying to save me from myself.
Anyone in the saving-souls business knows that people tend to bushwhack their own meandering path towards destruction. There’s not a lot well meaning friends can do to stop your sanity from hiking off into the woods. It’s a negative human trait offset by our ability to make music and microwave corndogs. And I still don’t know how to play the guitar.
Here’s the thing: I never wanted an easy life. My dreams are not of leisure. I don’t seek comfort. Fun is no fun to me. Put me on a beach towel in Tahiti and I’ll go stark raving mad. Instead, I choose to make a mess of things. I don’t want to hear the MGB-GT run. I have to hear it run. It’s laid fallow for 5 years that I know of and probably 10 more besides. The little British car parked next to the needle bush has mocked me long enough. I’ll have my revenge.
If you’re expecting a short series on the MGB-GT stop reading now. The car has serious rat infestation issues. Most of the interior is chewed up. There must be 50 pounds of rat guano inside the cabin and engine room. I’m going to take this slowly and spend the absolute minimum amount of cash at each stage.
There will be no grinders shooting sparks, no photogenic noir-arc welding and no artificial deadlines to create artificial tension in the story. This job will be stress free and I reserve the right to walk away any time I choose. The MGB will always take a back seat (get it?) to other projects.
The first thing I plan to do is to get rid of this spiny plant. The thing has incredibly sharp 2-inch long needles that will flatten a tire or stick into your leg bone. After that cleaning out the rat-poo engine room so that I can see what I’m up against. Cleaning rat poo in New Mexico is not as simple as hooking up a shop vac and sucking up the stuff.
Here in New Mexico we get several cases of Hantavirus every year. The virus can lay dormant in rat droppings and infect people when disturbed, so no vacuuming. Instead you spray the mounds of poo with a strong solution of bleach to kill the virus (if it can be considered alive). Next you don gloves and an N-100 mask and shovel the wet bleach-glop into a suitable container.
This part of resurrection is no walk in the park. If you manage to stay alive through this step another shot of bleach on the remaining rat droppings should make it fairly safe to use the shop vac. Follow up the final vacuuming with a pressure washer and engine cleaner. And then you can begin. I’ll start by disconnecting all the chewed electrical circuits and…and…well, you’ll see in the next installment of Resurrections: MGB-GT Part 2.
Our last day on the road in Colombia was just a few days before Christmas, and it was a fine ride down from the Volcan Nevado del Ruiz back home to La Ceja. It had been a grand adventure, and I had mixed emotions about it coming to an end. I was looking forward to going home, but I felt bad about wrapping up what had been one of the greatest rides of my life.
Posted on December 22, 2015
Yesterday was our last day on the road. It was yet another glorious day of adventure riding in Colombia.
The night we spent under the Volcan Nevado del Ruiz was freezing. It was the coldest night we experienced on this trip. I had on every layer of clothing I brought with me when we left. Juan told me not to worry, it would warm up as we descended. As always, his prediction was right on the money.
I had mixed emotions as we rolled out that morning. This ride has been one of the great ones, and I am always a little sad on the last day of a major ride because I know it is drawing to a close. But I am also eager to get home. This was a magnificent ride, and it was a physically demanding one. We experienced temperature extremes, from the humid and sultry tropics to the frigid alpine environment we were leaving. The riding was simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying. We road magnificent winding mountain roads, but at times the traffic (especially when we were passing the big 22-wheeled tractor trailer trucks) was unnerving. My neck was sore, most likely from the stress of this kind of riding. But it was grand, and riding Colombia is one of life’s grand adventures.
Juan knows all the good spots in Colombia, and he took us to this one where we could grab a few photos with the volcano steaming in the background.
I had to get a shot of the three of us with the bikes, using the D3300’s self-timer. If we look like three guys (the three amigos) who were having the ride of their lives, well, it’s because we were.
We rode on. We went through towns, we went through the twisties, and we passed more trucks. Another day in Colombia, another few hundred miles. At one point, Juan took us on a very sharp 150-degree right turn and we climbed what appeared to be a paved goat trail. Ah, another one of Juan’s short cuts, I thought. And then we stopped.
“This is Colombia’s major coffee-producing region, and we are on a coffee plantation,” he announced when we took our helmets off. Wow. I half expected Juan Valdez (you know, from the old coffee commercials) to appear, leading his burro laden with only the finest beans. It was amazing. I had never been on a coffee plantation (or even seen a coffee bean before it had been processed), and now here we were. On a coffee plantation. In Colombia. This has been a truly amazing ride.
That big stand of lighter yellowish-green plants you see just left of center in the above photograph is a bamboo grove. More amazing stuff.
These are coffee beans, folks. Real coffee beans.
The beans are picked by hand, Juan explained. It’s very labor-intensive, and these areas are struggling because the world-wide coffee commodities markets are down.
Juan picked a bean and showed me how to peel it open. You can take the inner bean and put it in your mouth like a lozenge (you don’t chew it). To my surprise, it was sweet. It didn’t have even a vague hint of coffee flavor.
As we were taking all of this in, two of Colombia’s finest rolled by.
Juan told me that the police officers in Colombia often ride two up. I had seen that a lot during the last 8 days. Frequently, the guy in back was carrying a large HK 7.62 assault rifle or an Uzi. Colombia is mostly safe today, but that is a fairly recent development.
Vintage cars are a big thing in Colombia. A little further down the road we saw this pristine US Army Jeep for sale. I thought of my good buddy San Marino Bill, who owns a similar restored military Jeep.
Here’s one last shot of yesterday’s ride…it’s the Cauca River valley.
The Andes Mountains enter Colombia from the south, and then split into three Andean ranges running roughly south to north. You can think of this as a fork with three tines. There’s an eastern range of the Andes, a central range, and a western range. The Cauca River (which we rode along for much of yesterday) runs between the western and central Andes. The Magdalena River runs between the central and eastern ranges.
Okay, enough geography…we rolled on toward Medellin (or Medda-jeen, as they say over here) and dropped Carlos off at his home. Juan and I rode on another 40 kilometers to La Ceja (or La Sayza, to pronounce it correctly) to Juan’s home, and folks, that was it. Our Colombian ride was over.
Like I said above, I always have mixed emotions when these rides end. It was indeed a grand adventure, and I don’t mind telling you that I mentally heard the theme from Raiders of the Lost Ark playing in my head more than a few times as we rode through this wonderful place.
In the next few days, I’ll post more impressions of the trip. In a word, our AKT Moto RX3s performed magnificently. The RX3 is a world-class motorcycle, and anyone who dismisses the bike as a serious adventure riding machine is just flat wrong. I’ve been riding for over 50 years, and this is the best motorcycle for serious world travel I’ve ever ridden. Zongshen hit a home run with the RX3.
I’ll write more about the minor technical distinctions between the AKT and CSC versions of this bike, my experiences with the Tourfella luggage (all good), and more in coming blogs. I’ll tell you a bit about the camera gear I used on this trip, too (a preview…the Nikon D3300 did an awesome job).
Today I’m visiting with the good folks from AKT Moto to personally thank them for the use of their motorcycle and to see their factory. It’s going to be fun.
More to come, my friends…stay tuned!
Get all of the blogs on Colombia here. If you want to read the book about this ride, pick up a copy of Moto Colombia!
We own a lot of motorcycles and cars. There are two Jeeps, a Toyota truck, a 4×4 Suburban, an MGB GT, three Kawasakis, a golf cart, a Yamaha and a whole bunch of other motorcycles. I can’t afford to insure or repair all these vehicles so many of them sit around and collect dust. You may wonder why I keep all this junk. It’s optically distressing and hints at my unearned, depression-era, scarcity mind-set. But it’s not simple hoarding that litters my view. It goes deeper than that. I don’t want to own all these wrecks. The junk stacks up because of my twisted sense of fair play.
This misfit collection of vehicles didn’t happen accidentally or overnight. They were each bought and mostly used as directed but somewhere along the line their purpose became obsolete and other, more capable or more enjoyable vehicles took their stead. And that’s the spot where the free market fouled everything up.
We don’t really need the Toyota pickup truck. It has a couple hundred thousand miles on it but the thing still runs perfectly fine. It’s our go-to vehicle when we want to get somewhere fast. With a 4-liter V-6 pumping out 200 horsepower the lightweight Tundra will cruise at 90 miles per hour all day long. Its soft, car-like suspension coddles the driver and one passenger. And there’s the rub: The Tundra is a standard cab so two people are all you can realistically fit inside, out of the weather. On those long trips your luggage will be wrapped in garbage bags then tossed in the bed. The Tundra was fine when it was my work truck but it’s no longer optimal.
So why don’t we get rid of it? We tried once but it’s worth next to nothing on the free market. The 14-year-old truck has a few minor dings and a manual transmission. We tried to sell it for 3000 dollars but nobody wanted it. We had a few offers under 2000 dollars but I stomped my feet and said, No! I mean, where am I going to get a truck this good for under 2000 bucks? The Toyota stays because it’s not worth selling.
It’s the same with my Kawasaki ZRX1100 or as I like to call it, The Coat Rack. I let the bike sit for a year when we went to Australia. In that year everything hydraulic froze. The front brakes, the rear brakes and the clutch all need repair. The engine still runs ok but the carbs are clogged up from our crappy, alcohol-laden fuel. With only 23,000 miles the ZRX is overdue for a valve adjustment. It needs a new chain, sprockets, a throttle cable and I can never seem to find time for the bike because I’m having so much fun on the 1975 Z1 that I won’t sell.
So why don’t I dump the ZRX1100? I tried to get 2000 dollars for the bike once but no one wanted it. It’s worth even less now. The basic bike is solid but if you took the ZRX to a shop the cost of repairs would exceed the value of the motorcycle. That winnows the pool of eligible buyers down to people who know how to fix motorcycles. Those handy-types traditionally hold out for a super low selling price because they know how a few unknown problems can kill the budget on a project motorcycle. Besides, you can get a showroom condition ZRX1100 for 3500 bucks. Why bother with all the issues on my bike?
When I look at it in the garage, the perfect bodywork, the glossy green paint, and the totally original everything I say to myself, “That’s a great bike, I love the styling. A week’s work would have it running like a champ again. What would I do with 2000 dollars anyway? I’d rather have the non-running Kawasaki!”
And so it goes. The Suburban was bought for its engine and drivetrain but has proved so much better than the Toyota at hauling heavy loads it has taken the place of the pickup truck that I refuse to sell. If I did unload the Bomber it wouldn’t be worth 1000 dollars on the free market. Why bother?
The MGB GT could be worth a pretty penny if it were restored. I see nice GTs going for over 10,000 dollars but then again it would probably cost 9,999 dollars to restore it. At one time I offered it for 250 dollars but couldn’t get a single taker.
After walking past the little blue sports car for several years I’ve grown to love its classy British/Italian mash-up styling. I’ve spent a couple hundred dollars getting a clear title to the MGB. My buddy Lynn managed to get the hood open and everything looks intact in the engine room. I think I can get it running. Wait, I know I can get it running. You can bet I won’t be selling the MGB; its potential as a prop in my fantasy world far exceeds any real-life street value.
I’ve got a Kawasaki 250 that I only use once a year for Bike Week at Daytona. It’s paid for and in pieces at the moment. The KLR always starts first or second kick after sitting for a year. It’s not bad in the dirt, if a little underpowered. I bought it used with very low miles and the sunk cost has long been absorbed. I’d be lucky to get 700 bucks for it and 700 bucks won’t buy much of anything nowadays. The KLR250 stays at our shack in Florida so that I always have two-wheeled transportation whenever I visit. That feeling of moto-security is worth whatever small amount of money I could get for the bike.
You’re starting to get the picture by now. I don’t really want all this junk; it’s just that The Man and society places so little value on my treasures I keep them out of spite. I’ll go to my grave clutching my outdated ideas on what my things are worth and to whom. Sure, it’s a sick way of approaching life but I can think of much worse things, like accepting Market Value.
My first-edition Citizen Blue Angels watch, the one you see above, is one of my favorites. There’s a lot going on in what the watch displays, including the time of day in three time zones (local, any other location in the world, and Greenwich Mean Time). The Citizen has a stop watch, a countdown timer, a calendar, and the ability to set up to three alarms. It also has a 24-hour clock. Those two LCD displays at the bottom of the watch face? I haven’t figured those out yet. I guess I could read the Owner’s Manual. Some day, maybe. And that complicated bezel? That’s a slide rule. I’ll explain it in a bit.
I travel overseas frequently (or at least I used to, before this Covid 19 business hit), and knowing what time it is wherever I am and what time it is at home is a feature I like. The watch has a digital display for every time zone and the analog hands display the local time. Or, you can reverse the displays. Press two buttons simultaneously, and the displays switch (what was displayed digitally displays on the analog hands, and vice versa). It’s a cool feature and it’s fun watching the hour hand sweep around to a new time zone.
One feature I use a lot is the stop watch. It’s handy when I’m cooking, which I like to do.
Ravioli alfredo, with mushrooms, timed to perfection by the Blue Angels. Three minutes on the boil for the ravioli provides the al dente texture I prefer.
The slide rule is cool, too. It’s the complex blue bezel with all the numbers and graduations. Go back 50 years and every engineer on the planet had and used a slide rule (we had pocket protectors, too, but that’s a story for another blog). My engineering class was the last one that used slide rules. Calculators had just been invented, and in the early 1970s a basic Hewlett Packard or Texas Instruments calculator sold for something north of $600. That was a lot of money, and I remember thinking that calculators would never catch on. Who needs a $600 calculator when you have a slide rule?
A few years ago we road tested the early CSC 150 Mustangs, and we hired a couple of my Cal Poly engineering students (guys who weighed 130 pounds soaking wet) to ride the things. We wanted to check fuel economy, and flyweight riders would register the best possible miles per gallon. At our first fuel stop we noted miles and fuel. I used my Citizen’s slide rule bezel and calculated the fuel economy while our young engineers were still fumbling with their cell phone calculators. One of them asked how I knew so quickly, and when I told them I used a slide rule, I had their attention. These two young engineers had never seen a slide rule, much less one built into a watch bezel. I showed them how the slide rule worked, and they had a lesson right there at the gas pump from their old engineering professor.
Steve (CSC’s CEO), Peter, and Joel by a historic bridge in the San Gabriel Mountain foothills. The verdict was in and my Citizen watch made it official: 98.3 miles per gallon.Citizen Blue Angels slide rules can be amazingly accurate. The outer bezel is the numerator, and the inner bezel is the denominator. We went 116 miles and used 1.18 gallons of fuel, so the calculation for mpg is 116 miles/1.18 gallons, or 98.3 mpg (as represented by the two arrows on the right). You read the answer on the outer bezel over the 10 on the inner bezel (as represented by the two arrows on the left). It’s 98.3. Easy, isn’t it?
Citizen Blue Angels styling themes have been applied to several iterations and styles of their Blue Angels series since I bought my watch. There have been titanium versions, solar powered versions, leather strap versions, GMT versions, radio-synched-time versions, and more. I checked the Citizen official US website as I wrote this blog and they show nine different models in the Blue Angels watch collection. That’s not counting models that have been discontinued (like mine).
I don’t need or want one of the newer Blue Angels watches. Mine is the original version and I like it. Like most quartz-movement watches, it’s scary accurate. Yeah, it takes a battery, but a battery seems to last about three years and I can live with that (spending $3.25 every thousand days for a new battery is doable). I think I spent about $275 for my Blue Angels watch when I bought it 20 years ago. That was in the pre-Amazonic era (which came after the Triassic, Jurassic, and Cretaceous periods), when dinosaurs like me ruled the planet. New Blue Angels Citizen watches today range from the high $300s to just under a thousand bucks. They seem to last forever, so your money will be well spent.
The funny part, I guess, is that the real Blue Angels, the guys (and gals) who fly F-18s for the US Navy and the US Marines, don’t wear Citizen Blue Angel watches, and I don’t know if they ever did. In researching this topic, I found that the Blue Angels’ official watch is an IWC (they go for a cool $10,900), but I don’t care. I like my Citizen.
The IWC Blue Angels watch. Got a spare $10,900? And just look at it: For that kind of money, you’re not even getting a slide rule.
I’m not sure what the relationship is between the Blue Angels and the Citizen company these days. I tried to find out with several search phrases on Google, but I came up empty. My guess is that the Navy allows Citizen to use the name for a fee, but that’s just a guess on my part.
Citizen also offered a Thunderbirds version of my watch, something they no longer do (the Thunderbirds are the US Air Force flight demonstration team). The Thunderbirds watch is an even rarer animal. I don’t think the colors work as well as the Blue Angels watch (they look better on an F-16), but hey, different strokes for different folks.
A used Citizen Thunderbirds watch that sold in Singapore a couple of years ago for 50 Singaporean dollars (about $40 US). Nice, but not as nice as the Blue Angels version.
I used to have a bunch of cool Blue Angels photos I shot at the Reno Air Races (photos of the real Blue Angels flight team in action), but I guess I deleted them (I looked, but I could not find any). I had posted the photos way back when on the old MotoFoto site, and a law firm sent me a registered letter reminding me that my ticket to the Reno Air Races included a prohibition against displaying any photos from the event. It must have been a slow day for the lawyers. I imagine with Instagram and Facebook that would never fly today. If you ever had an opportunity to see a Blue Angels or Thunderbirds flight demonstration, you should go. I’ve seen both, and they are impressive.
Last century I worked on a boat called the Attessa. The Attessa has worn many names since and was a steel Kong & Halvorsen dry docked at a National City, California shipyard for a fairly thorough refit. I think it was over 150 feet long by the time we added a stern section. For some reason we didn’t move the rudders aft at the same time, which was kind of weird. I always wonder if it steered well or crab-walked when you turned the helm? We also re-flared the bow to give the front of the boat a less navy, more-yachty look. A complete remodel of the interior was also done. That’s where I came in. I was one of three electricians on the job.
The other two electricians were from Montana and were sent from the yacht owner’s personal supply. The Montana boys were house electricians and had never done boat wiring so I was there to help them with the oddities of marine construction. All three of us got along well. One day I accidentally caught our lead electrician snorting coke down below in the new aft section. “I guess you shouldn’t have seen this,” he said. I didn’t care, there was so much work to do we needed everyone we could get. Besides, the painters were all speeded up. Why not Sparkies?
You may remember the Attessa as the boat featured in Goldie Hawn’s movie Overboard. The owner of the boat was an ultrarich Montana guy named Washington. The project was pretty massive. The boat even had two captains at one time. Something about overlapping contracts. I spent months just doing interior lighting. For some reason one captain of the boat hated me and would go around sabotaging my work. He bitched constantly even though I was getting more done than the other two guys put together. The other captain was fine and we worked well together.
One day Bad Captain cut out a low-voltage lighting transformer because he didn’t like where it was. I just followed the plans, man. The wires were cut at the worst location making them unusable, meaning I had to run new wires or splice them. Splicing is never good on a boat. I was pissed off. “What the F is wrong with you?” I asked the captain. “You just destroyed 8 hours of work! It was done! It was tested! Now I have to run new wires and re-do the transformer. Like we don’t have enough shit going on!”
I went to the main contractor on the project, Neil, and told him about Bad Captain’s constant needling and tampering. It caused a real hubbub. Neil was already under the gun for cost overruns and hearing about the sabotage made him mad as hell. We had a team meeting where Bad Captain was told to leave me the F alone and that if he had any problems with my work to go see Neil. We maintained a frosty relationship after that but Bad Captain let me work undisturbed.
The engineer aboard the Attessa also hated Bad Captain so naturally we hit it off in grand fashion. He was the cool kid aboard the boat. He was a lovable cad and everyone liked him, which should have tipped me off. He had a Jaguar sedan with the straight 6 and wanted to repower the car with a small block Chevy. I had a sweet, 400 cubic-inch small block Chevy trapped inside a giant green station wagon.
It was a pain in the ass to work in National City. You had to park far away and check in or out. It was like working at a factory. The shipyard had a huge floating dry-dock and did a lot of contract work for the Navy. The metal grinding was constant, every day you’d have to blow the iron dust off the decks or the next morning you’d have rust stains bleeding all over. When the new bow and stern were finished we launched the Attessa and took her to Shelter Island for completion. I was much happier on Shelter Island.
I sold the 400-inch Chevy Wagon to Attessa’s engineer for 400 dollars. He didn’t have the money right then but we were good friends, you know? He pulled the engine and transmission from the Chevy and installed it into the Jag. I guess there is a kit that makes this swap particularly easy. The Attessa re-fit job was starting to go sour. The budget was blown to hell and the owner was getting tired of shelling out so much money. In the afternoon Neil would come aboard and ask each of us what we did that day. I’d show him what I was working on and he’d tell me to speed it up as he was getting heat from the owner. Our lead electrician was fired for drug use. People were quitting. Good Captain was gone. The engineer left.
I started getting parking tickets for the Chevy Wagon. The car was abandoned without plates in downtown San Diego racking up charges. They cops traced the car to me by the VIN number. I guess the engineer never changed the title to his name and just shoved the scavenged car into the nearest parking spot. At the same time Neil was bugging me to get the old 6-cylinder Jaguar engine out of his shop. My engineer buddy had given it to me as partial payment for the small block. I had no use for the Jag engine but that didn’t deter his generosity.
The Chevy was towed followed by more bills and notices. I had a hell of a time convincing the department of motor vehicles that I didn’t own the Chevy. The tow company kept the car. Nobody knew where my engineer buddy had gone. I had nowhere to store the Jag engine and no one wanted to buy it. This was pre-internet days and advertising the engine for sale would cost more than it was worth. I called around but even Jaguar repair shops wouldn’t give me 25 dollars for the engine. I told Neil to toss the double overhead cam, inline 6 engine in his dumpster.
Everybody on the Attessa was starting to get on each other’s nerves. It wasn’t a happy workplace since the crew stopped using drugs. There was constant bitching about how long the job was taking. On lunch break one of the welders told me, “I don’t know why they’re bitching at you, you’re the only one doing anything on this boat.” Morale was falling apart. After 5 months of hustle and push the Attessa needed a fresh team. We were burned out. I got a better offer from another boat builder (twice as much per hour!) so I told Neil I was quitting.
Neil took it well, we are still friends today, and had me use my full two-week notice to get the remaining Montana electrician up to speed as best I could. We kicked ass and when I left the lower decks were all done and we were working in the pilothouse so the electrical part was nearly finished. Starting the next boat project felt like I was in a prison early release program. The new boat build was full of happy workers. Some of the welders and painters from the Attessa got there ahead of me. It was like a family reunion except you were being paid to attend. I never got a penny for the Chevy small-block and I never heard from the engineer again. Which is just as well or I probably would have given the lovable cad another damn car.
The thought came to me easily: The Patton Museum. We’d been housebound for weeks, sheltered in place against the virus, and like many others we were suffering from an advanced case of cabin fever. Where can we go that won’t require flying, is reasonably close, and won’t put us in contact with too many people? Hey, I write travel articles for the best motorcycle magazine on the planet (that’s Motorcycle Classics) and I know all the good destinations around here. The Patton Museum. That’s the ticket.
General George S. Patton, Jr., and his faithful companion, Willie, at the General Patton Memorial Museum in Chiriaco Summit, California.
I called the Patton Museum and they were closed. An answering machine. The Pandemic. Please leave a message. So I did. And a day later I had a response from a pleasant-sounding woman. She would let me know when they opened again and she hoped we would visit. So I called and left another message. Big time motojournalist here. We’d like to do a piece on the Museum. You know the drill. The Press. Throwing the weight of the not-so-mainstream media around. Gresh and I do it all the time.
Margit and I finally connected after playing telephone tag. Yes, the Patton Museum was closed, but I could drive out to Chiriaco Summit to get a few photos (it’s on I-10 a cool 120 miles from where I live, and 70 miles from the Arizona border). Margit gave me her email address, and Chiriaco was part of it (you pronounce it “shuhRAYco”).
Wait a second, I thought, and I asked the question: “Is your name Chiriaco, as in Chiriaco Summit, where the Museum is located?”
“Yes, Joe Chiriaco was my father.”
This was going to be good, I instantly knew. And it was.
The story goes like this: Dial back the calendar nearly a century. In the late 1920s, the path across the Colorado, Sonoran, and Mojave Deserts from Arizona through California was just a little dirt road. It’s hard to imagine, but our mighty Interstate 10 was once a dirt road. A young Joe Chiriaco used it when he and a friend hitchhiked from Alabama to see a football game in California’s Rose Bowl in 1927.
Chiriaco stayed in California and joined a team in the late 1920s surveying a route for the aqueduct that would carry precious agua from the mighty Colorado River to Los Angeles. Chiriaco surveyed, he found natural springs in addition to a path for the aqueduct, and he recognized opportunity. That dirt road (Highways 60 and 70 in those early days) would soon be carrying more people from points east to the promised land (the Los Angeles basin). Shaver Summit (the high point along the road in the area he was surveying, now known as Chiriaco Summit) would be a good place to sell gasoline and food. He and his soon-to-be wife Ruth bought land, started a business and a family, and did well. It was a classic case of the right people, the right time, the right place, and the right work ethic. Read on, my friends. This gets even better.
Fast forward a decade into the late 1930s, and we were a nation preparing for war. A visionary US Army leader, General George S. Patton, Jr., knew from his World War I combat experience that armored vehicle warfare would define the future. It would start in North Africa, General Patton needed a place to train his newly-formed tank units, and the desert regions Chiriaco had surveyed were just what the doctor ordered.
Picture this: Two men who could see the future clearly. Joe Chiriaco and George S. Patton. Chiriaco was at the counter eating his lunch when someone tapped his shoulder to ask where he could find a guy named Joe Chiriaco. Imagine a response along the lines of “Who wants to know?” and when Chiriaco turned around to find out, there stood General Patton. Two legends, one local and one national, eyeball to eyeball, meeting for the first time.
A Sherman tank, the one Patton’s men would go to war with in North Africa and Europe, on display at the General Patton Memorial Museum.
Patton knew that Chiriaco knew the desert and he needed his help. The result? Camp Young (where Chiriaco Summit stands today), and the 18,000-square-mile Desert Training Center – California Arizona Maneuver Area (DTC-CAMA, where over one million men would learn armored warfare). It formed the foundation for Patton defeating Rommel in North Africa, our winning World War II, and more. It would be where thousands of Italian prisoners of war spent most of their time during the war. It would become the largest military area in America.
General Patton and Joe Chiriaco became friends and they enjoyed a mutually-beneficial relationship: Patton needed Chiriaco’s help and Chiriaco’s business provided a welcome respite for Patton’s troops. Patton kept Chiriaco’s gas station and lunch counter accessible to the troops, Chiriaco sold beer with Patton’s blessing, and as you can guess….well, you don’t have to guess: We won World War II.
World War II ended, the Desert Training Center closed, and then, during the Eisenhower administration, Interstate 10 followed the path of Highways 60 and 70. Patton’s troops and the POWs were gone and I-10 became the major east/west freeway across the US. We had become a nation on wheels and Chiriaco’s business continued to thrive as Americans took to the road with our newfound postwar prosperity.
Fast forward yet again: In the 1980s Margit (Joe and Ruth Chiriaco’s daughter) and Leslie Cone (the Bureau of Land Management director who oversaw the lands that had been Patton’s desert training area) had an idea: Create a museum honoring General Patton and the region’s contributions to World War II. Ronald Reagan heard about it and donated an M-47 Patton tank (the one you see in the large photo at the top of this blog), and things took off from there.
I first rode my motorcycle to the General Patton Memorial Museum in 2003 with my good buddy Marty. It was a small museum then, but it has grown substantially. When Sue and I visited a couple of weeks ago, I was shocked and surprised by what I saw. I can only partly convey some of it through the photos and narrative you see in this blog. We had a wonderful visit with Margit, who told us a bit about her family, the Museum, and Chiriaco Summit. On that topic of family, it was Joe and Ruth Chiriaco, Margit and her three siblings, their children, and their grandchildren. If you are keeping track, that’s four generations of Chiriacos.
The Chiriaco Summit story is an amazing one and learning about it can be reasonably compared to peeling an onion. There are many layers, and discovering each might bring a tear or two. Life hasn’t always been easy for the Chiriaco family out there in the desert, but they always saw the hard times as opportunities and they instinctively knew how to use each opportunity to add to their success. We can’t tell the entire story here, but we’ll give you a link to a book you might consider purchasing at the end of this blog. Our focus is on the General Patton Memorial Museum, and having said that, let’s get to the photos.
The Patton Museum’s new Matzner Tank Pavilion. When we were there, one of the two M60 tanks you see in front was running. If you think a motorcycle engine at idle makes music, you will love listening to an M60’s air-cooled, horizontally-opposed, 1790-cubic-inch, 12-cylinder diesel engine. I drove an M60 once when I was in the Army. Yeah, I still want one.The business end of an M60’s 105mm main gun. This one has been out of service for a long time; hence the rust. Firing one of these settles disagreements quickly.The M4 Sherman, our main battle tank in World War II, on the right, with an M5 Stuart tank on the left.Don’t tread on me, or so the saying goes. Everything on a tank is big. You don’t realize how big until you stand next to one.When Patton’s men trained at the DTC-CAMA, they used mockup aggressor vehicles (jeeps fitted with frames and canvas) to simulate the bad guys.M60 main battle tanks parked behind the Museum. This was a shot I could not resist. If Joe Gresh was into tanks, this is what Tinfiny Ranch would undoubtedly look like. The Patton name was attached to the M47, M48, and M60 tank series. I asked Margit about these tanks, and she told me that when the Museum raises enough money, they’ll be made operational and put on display. For now, Margit said, “they stand as silent ghosts with General Patton at the helm.” I like that.The General Patton Memorial Museum outdoor chapel. The chapel was built using desert rocks. If someone is looking for a unique wedding venue, this is it.
When I first visited the Patton Museum nearly 20 years ago, there were only three or four tanks on display. As you can see from the above photos, the armored vehicle display has grown dramatically.
Like the armored vehicle exhibits, the Museum interior has also expanded, and it has done so on a grand scale. In addition to the recently-built Matzner Tank Pavilion shown above, the exhibits inside are far more extensive than when I first visited. Sue and I had the run of the Museum, and I was able to get some great photos. The indoor exhibits are stunning, starting with the nearly 100-year-old topo map that dominates the entrance.
The Metropolitan Water District’s scale map of southern California, Arizona, and Nevada. MWD brought this model to the US Congress in 1927 to secure funding for the California Aqueduct, then they stored and forgot about it for decades. An MWD executive overhead Margit talking about the planned Patton Museum in the Chiriaco Summit coffee shop one day, he remembered the map, and one thing led to another. MWD donated the map to the Patton Museum in 1988. The Big Map (as it is known) covers the area used by Patton’s Desert Training Center and the California Arizona Maneuver Area. It’s a visually-arresting display that is truly something special.Generals Patton and Rommel, the two key players in North Africa. If you’ve never seen the movie, Patton, you need to fix that oversight. It is a great movie.George S. Patton: The early years. Patton attended the Virginia Military Institute and the United States Military Academy at West Point. His family was from San Marino, California. Patton was born into wealth and could have done whatever he wanted. He chose a career in the US Army.One of the display rooms inside the Patton Museum. I could have spent the entire day in just this room. That’s an A-10 Warthog model in the foreground. It’s the airplane we used to take out Iraq’s Republican Guard tanks in Operation Desert Storm. I worked for the company that manufactured the A-10’s 30mm Gatling Gun ammo and Combined Effects Munitions cluster bombs that did most of the heavy lifting in that war.Another view inside the Patton Museum. A tripod, a Nikon, a wide angle lens, and having the room to myself. It was a grand day.A model of Patton’s command vehicle. Patton lived in a trailer and moved with his troops during most of World War II, unlike other US generals who mostly stayed in hotels. Patton was an RVer before there were RVs.The Patton Museum has an extensive World War II small arms display. I could have spent half a day just viewing this part of the Museum. I’ll be back.The Patton Museum’s small arms display included this beautiful Model 1917 Colt .45 ACP revolver. Most of the surviving specimens you see today (when you see them at all; they are not very common) have a Parkerized finish. This one has the original blued finish. I own a Colt 1917; mine has the original finish, too. There’s quite a story behind these revolvers.A beautiful British Infantry Lee Enfield No. 4 rifle. I grabbed a photo of this one because it had an unusually attractive stock, something you don’t often see on infantry rifles.A replica of General Patton’s ivory-handled Colt Single Action Army revolver. Patton carried different sidearms during World War II, including this Colt SAA and a Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum (also equipped with ivory grips). Patton’s Colt SAA had two notches carved in the left grip. Then Lieutenant Patton was part of the Pershing expedition that chased Pancho Villa in Mexico from Fort Bliss (my old stomping grounds). Patton personally killed two men in a gunfight during that action. There’s no doubt about it: Patton was the real deal, a genuine warrior.
In addition to the General Patton Memorial Museum, there are several businesses the Chiriaco family operates at Chiriaco Summit, and the reach of this impressive family is four generations deep. As we mentioned earlier, it’s a story that can’t be told in a single article, but Margit was kind enough to give us a copy of Chiriaco Summit, a book that tells it better than I ever could. You should buy a copy. It’s a great read about a great family and a great place.
I enjoyed Chiriaco Summit immensely. That’s Joe Chiriaco in the lower left photo, and Ruth Chiriaco in the upper right inset. Margit Chiriaco Rusche, their daughter, is seated in the 1928 Model A. Fourth-generation Victor (whom we met) runs a vintage car header company at Chiriaco Summit. Victor is the young man standing behind Margit.
So there you have it: The General Patton Memorial Museum and Chiriaco Summit. It’s three hours east of Los Angeles on Interstate 10 and it’s a marvelous destination. Keep an eye on the Patton Museum website, and when the pandemic is finally in our rear view mirrors, you’ll want to visit this magnificent California desert jewel.
Here’s one that’s pretty cool…a 1938 video from the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department. There are a few things in there that are a little scary, but I’ll let the video show all that. Enjoy, my friends…and kids, don’t try the chalk or cigar stunts at home (or anywhere else).
The Kawasaki 900 is a legend amongst savvy motorcyclists around the world. Back in the day the limited-to-paper Moto Press lavished high praise on Kawasaki’s top of the line motorcycle. They even called it the King of Motorcycles. And the praise was well deserved. On any greatest-list the Z1 pops up as one of the best motorcycles ever built. But what’s it like to ride today? How does it compare to modern bikes with their liquid cooling, fuel injection and zillions of horsepower?
As it turns out, not too bad. The first thing you’ll notice is the power. Or lack of power compared to a modern Ricky-Racer type of motorcycle. The Z-1 is fast but in a leisurely way. The revolutions build slowly through the gears allowing a rider time to enjoy the acceleration process. There are only 5 cogs in the smooth shifting transmission but you get to enjoy each one of them for a few seconds before going on to the next. With less than half the horsepower of a modern 1000cc motorcycle the Kawasaki Z1 has a human-scaled power delivery. You don’t need the vision or reflexes of Valentino Rossi to wring the neck of this willing old battlewagon.
There are plenty of options available to increase the Z1’s horsepower to near-modern levels but I don’t feel like the bike needs more power. The Z1 is plenty fast enough to keep up with today’s traffic situations and unless you plan on improving the brake system you really don’t want this old Kawasaki going any faster.
The brakes are where you feel the weight of all those years that have scrolled past since 1975. The brakes are not good. The single disc, single piston front brake is the culprit. It takes a healthy squeeze to lock the front wheel and the brake lacks the precise feel of a modern multi-piston caliper. The rear drum brake is better at its job than the front brake but that’s only because rear brakes have much less influence on stopping. Antilock brake systems for motorcycles were unheard of when the Kawasaki 900 was made and you won’t miss it. I say all this for informational purposes only. It’s not like you can’t enjoy the 900 on a ride or you’re fearing stop signs. In regular use the brakes are borderline but acceptable.
A big surprise is how well the Z1 handles. When the Kawasaki first came out most moto-magazine reviewers praised the handling or at worst didn’t complain about it. Since then the un-illuminati have managed to change the narrative. Today the general consensus is that the Z1 is a widow maker, a bike with a hinge in the middle. Unsafe at any speed. I call BS.
The Z1 has a wonderful, lightweight feel through corners. The wide handlebars help with the easy steering. Large diameter wheels may also contribute to the stable, enjoyable ride. Leaned over the Z feels planted and neutral as long as you don’t hit any mid-corner bumps. On straightaways at speed the bike does not wobble. My Z1 has 45-year-old shock absorbers and so an upgrade might help but I’m not going that fast anyway.
This whole, canyon carving, race bike for the street thing has gotten annoying and probably explains the popularity of adventure motorcycles. Riders who blitz around on public roads feel like they’re really hauling ass but that’s because they are the only ones racing. Everyone else is just out for a ride. I get it: it’s hard to keep a 170-horsepower motorcycle under the speed limit or anywhere near it.
Marc Cook, an editor I worked for, once told me the 200 horsepower 1000cc BMW sport bike would be unrideable without all the electronic nannies. Modern bikes have gotten much better than modern riders. That’s where the human-scale power of the Z1 shines. You can whack it open without activating any rider aids because there are none because the bike doesn’t need them. Traction control for the Z is in the right twistgrip.
The Z1 is a mostly comfortable bike to spend the day on. Those high, wide bars that make steering so easy work against you at high speeds. If it didn’t mean replacing the cables and hoses I’d lower the bars a couple of inches but leave them wide. The big, long, cushy seat on the Z1 is a marvel of comfort. I slide way back for fast highway touring and scooch up tight to the gas tank in the twisty stuff. The mid-bike foot peg location is a good compromise and suits the Z1’s multipurpose nature.
Since the Z1 engine is a non-counterbalanced, inline 4-cylinder bolted solidly to the frame some vibration is transmitted to the rider. Personally, I love the way it moves but everyone has their own level of vibration tolerance and the quality of the vibrations changes with different engine layouts. The Z1 is smooth up to 4000 rpm. Above 4000 the vibration takes on different shapes and affects different areas of the motorcycle. None of this is very strong or detracts from the ride. There’s a sweet spot around 4700 to 6000 RPM where the Z1 feels as smooth as it needs to be. I wouldn’t call the Kawasaki a buzzer but if you were to jump onto the Z1 from your modern bike you may think the old Kawasaki is kind of raw. I think of that rawness as being alive with possibilities.
Fuel economy on the Z1 is so-so. I average between 38 and 40 miles per gallon but live at high-ish altitude and it’s been very hot. Heat and altitude kill mileage. I will check again in cooler weather when I expect a slight improvement. Fueling, the way the bike responds to throttle input, is slushier than an injected motorcycle. There are no abrupt engine responses. Things happen slightly slower right off idle but that may be my carburation setup. At a steady cruising speed the slushiness means you don’t need to keep strict control over the throttle. This bike is not nervous or skittery.
You’d think parts would be hard to come by for such an old motorcycle, but no. There’s a thriving Kawasaki Z1 restoration movement afoot. It’s mostly driven by demand, as the Z1 is commanding a premium price in the vintage motorcycle market. The Z1 is right at home in the middle-aged, empty-nester-loaded-with-cash, nostalgia-boomer’s wheelhouse. That demographic has and generates the most dollars. It’s actually easier to get parts for a 1975 Z1 than many more recent models and the prices aren’t unreasonable. With an abundant supply of repair parts easily obtainable the Z1 scores high for livability.
Compared to a modern 1000cc motorcycle the Kawasaki Z1 is slower, takes longer to stop and is worse in tangible ways. On a racetrack, that is. In ways intangible the Kawasaki Z1 is the better street motorcycle for simply enjoying a motorcycle ride. It’s easy to fix, reliable as any new bike (maybe more reliable) and a joy to possess.
I never feel like the Z1 is tolerating my incompetence. Instead we work together, both of us not in our prime, and we get places, you know? Riding Kawasaki’s Z1 feels like springtime and affirmation and young, anxious wonder. The bike is a time machine that radiates happiness. And when we get to the place we were going milky-eyed old men walk up and tell me how wonderful my motorcycle is and how much they loved the one they owned back when they were strong. That kind of reverence and emotion is not going to happen with just any motorcycle. The Kawasaki Z1 900 is much more than a collection of parts assembled in a factory. It’s industrial art that inspired an entire generation of motorcyclists. Long live the King!
