Author: Joe Gresh

What Really Killed The Motorcycle Industry

I don’t know if it’s true (and in today’s environment I don’t even care if it’s true) but I read somewhere that ATVs are outselling motorcycles. This makes sense as ATVs or Quads or whatever you want to call the things are low-skill devices that anyone can ride off road.

Back in the early 1970’s the big boom in motorcycling was started in the dirt. Kids like you and me bought mini bikes and enduros by the zillions. An entire industry sprang to life and that industry supported all levels of riding. Collectively, we learned the difficult art of steering a wiggling motorcycle across sand and mud and rocks. It wasn’t easy. It took a lot of talent to keep from crashing and we lost a lot of good people to concentration lapses or simple bad luck.

The first ATVs were 3-wheeled contraptions that took even more skill than motorcycles to ride in the dirt. It didn’t take long for manufacturers to figure out 4 wheels were a lot more stable than 3 and that was the beginning of the end for motorcycles in America.

Since children cannot operate motorcycles on the street, dirt bikes were like a Pop Warner league feeding well-trained riders into the Bigs: The Pavement. Harried on all sides by nearly unconscious automobile drivers our generation’s ability to ride a motorcycle in that buoyant area beyond the limits of traction became a right handy survival skill. And so a huge bubble of capable motorcycle riders surged through the land buying motorcycles at a clip never before seen.

Meanwhile, the Quads kept getting bigger and safer while dirt bikes were safety-limited by their very design: They fell over. Anyone can steer a quad. It takes no skill whatsoever to trundle along following the huge ruts made by thousands of other quads. Trails were ruined by the excessive width and sheer quantity of idiots driving their miniature cars. Dirt bikes were hard to ride and safety concerns overtook the nation’s parents. As ATV’s filled the forests the available pool of motorcycle riders dwindled. The farm system began to dry up.

Now, Quads cost $25,000 and are the size of Jeeps. Four people fit comfortably strapped into a steel cage, safe from the environment they go about destroying. ATVs can go almost anywhere their bubblegum tires will support the vehicle’s weight and the weight of their passengers. Automatic transmissions erased the last vestige of talent needed to explore off road. On the trails I ride kids on motorcycles are the exception not the rule. Sometimes I can go all day and see nothing but quads. How many kids raised in a cocoon of steel bars would be crazy enough to start riding a motorcycle on the street? We know the answer: Very few.

It’s not the cost of new motorcycles; there are plenty of cheap bikes available. It’s not Gen X, Y, or Z being too chicken or into their cell phones. It’s not branding. It’s not lack of riding areas. None of these things killed motorcycles.

A safer, easier to operate dirt machine was built and human nature did the rest. ATV’s are capturing the kids at their most impressionable age. Motorcycles are not. Nothing we can do will reverse that trend.

Want more Gresh?  It’s right here!

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Indian Wars

Click the comments section of any post regarding the Indian Motorcycle Company and someone will be bitching that Polaris Indians are not real Indians. Within the first three or four replies you’ll see an outraged commenter laying out the perjury case on Indian. “It’s a lie!” they stammer. “Indian went out of business in 1953!” Along with constitutional scholars and threats of civil war Polaris Haters infest the Internet. Their selective-amnesia purity code and compulsion to complain loudly every time Indian tries to sell a motorcycle borders on fanatical. You couldn’t pay enough to get people so determined.

Clymer’s Enfield Indian from the 1960’s. One of the best-looking Indians ever.

Since it is presently impossible to go back in time to right all wrongs the Indian Haters would rather see Indian go out of business. Again. If the Haters are in a generous mood they may offer renaming the company as a way back into their good graces. Mind you, they still wouldn’t buy anything from parent company Polaris because they hate them too. I don’t see why Indian should give a rat’s ass about what these goofy product-junkies think. Indian is busy building motorcycles, not engaging in petty, low-effort Internet attempts to tear down other people’s hard work.

The thing that really riles the troops is when Indian puts 100-year badges on their bikes. The loonies go apoplectic. To them, an unbroken corporate line from 1903 to the present is the only acceptable scenario for Indian to exist. With the old brands like Norton, Triumph, Ossa and Benelli being bought up the Haters will have plenty of companies to be angry with for a long, long time.

Mid-1970’s Italian made Indian dirt bike.

The Haters aren’t solely responsible for the black hole at the center of their hearts. Vast quantities of intellectual capital have been expended on brand building in this country and in some cases it worked too well. We have created a monstrous humanity more concerned with defending brand-authenticity at the expense of reality. Haters have been sold to for so long that they actually care about the logo on a gas tank. It’s misplaced consumer loyalty created by Ned in the advertising department and it’s sad to see in action.

A Velocette-engined Indian that should drive the purists crazy.

Who cares what happened to Indian 70 years ago? Who cares how many times the company has passed through shifty hands? Who cares if clone engines were used or Italians made Harleys or if Clymer used Royal Enfields? Who cares about any of it? It’s a friggin’ motorcycle company, not a pledge of allegiance. When the history of the world is finally written the trinkets we bought to amuse ourselves will not even warrant a footnote. All you need to concern yourself with is that the Indian brand started in 1903 and here it is nearly 2020 and you can still buy a damn good American-made motorcycle with Indian written on the side of the gas tank. There’s your continuity, Bub.

Georgia O’Keeffe

I’m not a huge fan of Georgia O’Keeffe artwork. Her realistic paintings are well done but the fluffy subjects and flower erotica don’t appeal to my mechanical mind. The bright colors and simple shapes of her later work seem too easy, like anyone could do it. Except anyone didn’t. I suspect art is more complex than a watery brushstroke or an eye for color. It takes a lived life to steer that brush and experience to make the strokes tell meaningful stories. Art matters if people believe it matters and O’Keeffe’s stuff mattered to a lot of people.

Tradesmen like me are work-blind to creation. Wiping a solder joint to leave a clean copper pipe, or combing a bundle of wire so that each conductor peels off in the correct order is as close to art as we get. It’s a tunnel vision that divides hours into effort, a relentless pursuit of money and the next job and then the next. Until you either break down or die.

You can train a tradesman, repetition is the secret to success, but an artist must be born. O’Keeffe was an artist and the way she lived her life was a sort of performance art. She moved to New Mexico in 1949 at the then ripe old age of 62 and spent the next 36 years doing just what she wanted to do. Abiquiu, her home west of Santa Fe was a crumbling wreck when she bought it. The places she stayed became famous simply because she stayed there. She bequeathed to New Mexico a bounty of tourism and spawned museums and visitor centers all around the Santa Fe area.

Her place in Abiquiu is a traditional New Mexico adobe house. It has no interior hallways. To get from one room to the next you have to go through another room. Or maybe 4 other rooms depending on how far you are going. It’s not unusual to go through a bedroom, a kitchen and a pantry to get to a main salon. Every room has a door that exits to the outside: You never get trapped in an adobe. A central courtyard open to the sky lies in the middle of the house and the roof slopes towards this courtyard.

The houses were built this way in stages. Maybe one or two rooms to start off with then tacking on extra rooms as money and demand became available. The oldest section of O’Keeffe’s place is from the mid-1800s and the newest probably the 1970s. That’s over 100 years of creeping progress. The flooring transitions from from original smooth dirt soaked with egg yolks to bind the granules all the way to concrete with rug.

In the recent past people started restoring adobe houses with wire mesh and a Portland cement based plaster. It turns out this is the worse thing to do to adobe. The concrete pulls away from the adobe taking the wall with it. Then moisture and mineral salts wick up into the wall because the concrete doesn’t breathe like mud or lime. It turns into a crumbling mess. If you don’t want the expense of lime plaster, the only way to restore adobe is with more adobe. You slather fresh mud onto the exterior walls on a regular schedule to replace the mud that was ablated during wind or rainstorms. It’s a never ending process but if you stay on top of it your adobe house can last thousands of years. O’Keeffe’s place was concreted at some point. I fear the walls will turn to mush and salts will bleed through the interior walls.

Nothing lasts forever and one day Abiquiu will melt back into the same earth it came from but I hope the artwork created there leaves behind traces, a slight disturbance, a vibration that makes some future traveler pause and wonder what grand endeavors took place way out here in the New Mexico desert.

Product Review: iPhone 11 Pro

I’ve been a Mac fanboy since I bought my first Mac laptop computer. Coming from the industry standard PC/Windows environment the Mac was a revelation in simplicity. I had no routine tasks to perform, no re-stacking those little blocks, no blue screen freeze ups, no re-booting, no unplugging the power, no internet viruses and the thing worked for 10 years before it was too slow and space-limited to run a film editing program. My old Mac still works fine but it’s been softwared into obsolescence. Once I got the hang of never needing to do anything and learned the Mac Way of doing tasks I never looked back.

Mac users used to laugh about the bloatware that came standard with each new iteration of Windows. PC users had to upgrade their computers to fit all the useless junk that Microsoft stuffed into their multi-level marketing system masquerading as an operating system. Macs were clean machines: If you wanted extra programs you went out and got them.

With Apple fandom comes an Apple phone and I’ve had the 3, 4 and 6 models. For the most part the phones have been okay. The 6 I’ve been using for a long time was getting glitchy. I suspect the glitches are pre-programmed into the phone to drive sales of newer phones. The thing needed re-booting everyday. It was almost like Windows software had infected the thing. Web sites stopped displaying properly and the newer iPhone software versions (free!) were not compatible with the old 6. My wife decided that I needed a new phone and with Black Friday deals flying around on the Internet she secured a new phone at somewhat of a good price.

The biggest reason for choosing the 11 Pro over the other iPhone models is the camera. Or cameras. There are 3 separate focal length lenses built into the back of the phone: A super wide 13mm, a wide 26mm and a standard 52mm (all view angles 35mm equivalent). Note: These ranges are optical so you are not just zooming into an ever-decreasing pool of data. I don’t know if the three lenses share a sensor or if each lens has its own sensor. If you do digitally zoom there are a lot of pixels. I don’t know how many. You can look that stuff up online. Anyway, I don’t care about file sizes as long as they don’t get too big.

The new 11 Pro is supposed to be water resistant. I’m not going to test it out but that is a big improvement for motorcycle riders. No more digging around for a plastic grocery bag or a ziplock when it starts to rain.

Once you get past the great camera and the improved water resistance Apple has become Microsoft. This phone is full of bloatware and programs that I will never use. It’s the most intrusive thing you can buy. Everything you do or say is tracked. I spend my free time looking for ways to shut the junk off. If it’s not facial recognition it’s Siri butting onto the screen trying her best to seem relevant. The overly sensitive touch screen keeps taking me places I don’t want to go. Maybe there is a way to deaden the touch response.

The home button is gone so you have to tap out, but that motion sometimes takes you to another screen. I’ve yet to figure out how to stop the first open-screen from displaying my messages. Anyone can pick up my phone, tap the screen and see my latest communications. The home screen is two pages of junk I will never use. Maybe I’m not typical.

Everything seems to take an extra step or two. To screen shot I have to choose where to save the image; with the old 6 it went to photos automatically. The button functions are relocated for no good reason. I’m sure there is a way to work around this stuff. The thing is, I shouldn’t have to opt out of all this junk. I shouldn’t have to search through the extensive menu layout to find intrusive software and shut it off. I couldn’t even activate the phone without signing into iTunes. Apple isn’t selling you a phone any more; it’s selling a tracking device for advertisers. They should pay me to carry the thing. If someone invented a lead-lined, soundproof pouch to slip your iPhone into when you want to be alone they could make billions. Maybe print happy pictures of cats on the dead-zone pouch and call the thing “Garbo.”

“The best camera is the one you have with you.” It’s an old photographer’s cliché but so true. Get the iPhone 11 pro for the cameras.  There is no other reason to subject yourself to the bloatware. And the cameras are enough reason for me to put up with Apple’s nosy corporate attitude.  With this phone I’ll be able to rely even less on a real camera when I travel on a motorcycle. I’ve just got to watch what I say around the thing.

The Three Rivers Petroglyphs

It’s mid-November here in southern New Mexico, nights are cold but our mid-day temperatures are still in the 70’s. That will change soon. I needed a break from concrete so I texted Mike and asked him if he wanted to take a little ride before it got cold. Mike always wants to ride.

Mike lives in Carrizozo about 50 miles north from Tinfiny Ranch. 50 miles is not a lot of distance but the weather is much wilder up at his place. Located at the crossroads of Highways 380 and 54 right between a dip in the Sacramento Mountains the landform, there funnels a steady stream of wind across the strange little town. Even though it sits at a lower elevation than Tinfiny, Carrizozo is colder in winter. Hollywood has found the old buildings of Carrizozo picturesque and it seems like there’s always a crew shooting a funky scene whenever I go through.

“Can we get a couple coffees?” The lady working at the Three Rivers trinket shop says she will have to make some. Mike tells her that’s okay, we’ll wait. The coffee making process is interrupted by two black dogs coming in the front door. The dogs seem really glad to see us. They fall to the ground and beg to be petted. The smaller dog wants to kiss, needs to kiss, will die if he doesn’t get a kiss. That coffee pot is taking forever so I grab a cold drink. Mike is eating a bag of chips. When the coffee is finally ready and the dogs are thoroughly petted, we’ve killed an hour.

The road to the petroglyphs heads east towards the mountains, if you keep going it turns into dirt and ends at the beautiful Three Rivers campground. From that point Ruidoso is only a 20-mile hike: uphill all the way. You should go camp there.

The rocks here have some kind of iron oxide-like coating and the petroglyphs are kind of pecked into the rock. Dimpled could be used to describe it. The dimple knocks off a small chunk of the oxide revealing the stone beneath. There are thousands of them along a three-mile round trip path at Petroglyphs State Park. The images are still very clear with lots of contrast. You can mostly tell what the artist was representing with maybe 25% of the artwork being symbolic of something that made sense thousands of years ago.

These pictures from the past aren’t fragile cave paintings or fading lines scraped into soft sandstone. These suckers are exposed to the elements and some look like they were made last week. We don’t know a lot about the Mogollon People who made the petroglyphs but I can tell you they built their artwork to last. These stone images will go another 10 thousand years no problem.

It’s late afternoon by the time we get back to the trinket shop for more coffee. “There’s only enough for one cup and it’s gotten cold, I’ll have to make another pot.” The dogs can’t be bothered to lift their heads and acknowledge our existence. We are old news. The coffee brews its slow drip. A BMW rider sees our bikes out front and stops in to chat.

Conversation is easy.  The trinket lady joins in with strong opinions on which Medicare plan is best (Plan F). I snack on a bag of dry-aged peanuts and some hard candy. The BMW guy is staying at the Three Rivers campground. He trailers his motorcycle around the country stopping in different areas to ride. His wife got all the money and the 80-acre farm back in Wisconsin. We pay the trinket lady; she made 9 dollars from us today and it only took her 2 hours to do it.

It’s starting to cool down now. In a few weeks we will be getting started with winter here in Southern New Mexico. I don’t like riding at night so I say goodbye to the boys. We start our bikes and three motorcyclists go their separate ways: Mike to the north, me to the south and BMW guy to the east.

ExNotes Review: Ford vs Ferrari

Caution: Spoilers ahead!

When did two sodas and a bag of popcorn top 15 dollars? I mean, come on dude!  I’m not a big movie-goer because it seems like everything is either superhero stuff or some depressing Nazi thing.  Anyway, us gasoline burner types are starved for content when it comes to full-length movies. We get nothing on the big screen but engine sounds mismatched to the motorcycles and grease monkey stereotypes. When something like Ford vs Ferrari comes along we tend to fall all over ourselves praising the damn thing.  And it’s not a bad movie.  People are clamoring for Oscar nominations.  I don’t know, man, it makes us look kinda thirsty.

Matt Damon does a good job playing Carroll Shelby, although my wife says you never forget it’s Matt Damon as Jason Bourne playing Carroll Shelby. I didn’t recognize any of the other actors so I could accept that they were who they were. There were a few unpleasant characters planted by Hollywood to give the story a villain.

One Ford executive was made out to be petty and vindictive. I have no idea if he was that way in real life. Lee Iacocca was an eager sort, the company man trying to make stuff happen between the stuffy corporate world and Shelby’s hot rod culture. Henry Ford II was shown as cold and authoritarian, much like you would expect him to be. The Ferrari driver had a Simon Legree, comic-villain look that brought me back to the movie theater every time he glared at the hero Ken Miles.

Ferrari was a foil for Ford in this movie. We really don’t get to see much of them. After the Le Mans race begins Ford II flies off to dinner in a helicopter while Mr. Ferrari stays in his seat to watch. I guess that was to show the different level of commitment to the sport. It seems like old man Ferrari never slept the entire 24 hours of Le mans.

One of the movie’s main story arcs was how Ken Miles was forced off the team for Ford’s first attempt at Le Mans. That bad-guy Ford executive is to blame. Of course real life is less complex and Ken Miles ran that 1965 event breaking down after 45 laps due to a bad transmission. Little things like that make you suspect the rest of the story.

Ken Miles’ character was a sort of rebel against the car sellers. The Suits irritated him to no end. I know we are supposed to cheer for him but he seemed like a pain in the ass to me. I’ve known guys like that: Bitching about the company while drawing a check. I figure that if Ford is paying you stacks of money to represent them, suck it up, you know? At least fake it, man.

Some of the Le Mans race scenes were pretty hokey looking, like something out of the old CHIPs television show. “Ponch, we got a freeze up!” Don’t get me wrong: I enjoyed Ford vs Ferrari. I think you’ll probably enjoy it also. You shouldn’t watch a Hollywood movie expecting to get the facts (see Cinderella Man’s portrayal of Max Baer) and us gasoline burners don’t get many chances to hear the audio match the engines.

Wild Conjecture: Harley-Davidson Bronx 975

You’ve got to give The Motor Company credit. They are throwing tons of new models against the wall hoping something sticks. The Milwaukee Wrecking Crew is producing a slew of modern products, only one of them called the 975 Bronx.

To my admittedly untrained eye the engine looks similar to the new liquid-cooled V-twin used in Harley’s (also new) Pan American ADV bike. The Bronx will have less displacement but I’m sure it will still have enough power to unravel a man-bun at full throttle.

The Bronx styling is ok, kind of a standard-ish, street fighter thing. It looks good to me. The big pulley on the back wheel is probably for a belt drive. I guess I could do some Internet research and find out more hard facts about the Bronx but facts don’t matter, performance numbers don’t matter, and styling doesn’t matter with this effort.

What matters is Harley-Davison’s maybe-too-late arrival and the amount of money they are spending to play catch up in the broad, non-cruiser categories. There are so many market segments now: ADV-big, ADV-small, Scrambler, Streetfighter, Sport bike, Sport Tourer, Race replica and the list goes on.

I get that Harley is trying to outlast their dying customer base. It’s a smart thing to do but exactly how much cash do these guys have to burn? The Bronx is not available for a few years yet they have to have the equipment to build the thing, right?

I’m worried about H-D. I like to poke fun at them but I cheer on their to-date-futile attempt to make a competitive flat tracker out of the long and portly Street 750 engine. I don’t want to see Harley fail. Yet they keep cranking out new models nilly-willy, seemingly without asking anyone if it’s a good idea or waiting to see if any of them are going to be popular. At the rate they are going Harley will have their promised 100 new models done by next June.

Will Harley dealerships will be able to adapt to the flood of new technology being shipped to them from the factory? The customers for these new, modern bikes will be nothing like the old guys wanting a big Hog because they can finally afford it. Harley will be competing on price, performance and quality, three areas that they never had to concern themselves with in the past.

Throughout its history Harley-Davidson has always moved forward slowly, fearfully even.  Innovations like disc brakes or fuel injection take decades to become part of their story. It was almost comically conservative: The first liquid-cooled Hogs were only half liquid-cooled! This conservative approach has served them well: They sell a lot of motorcycles to guys who think like me. Any one of these new models would be a shock to H-D’s system: The Livewire, The V-Rod, the Streets both 500 and 750. When is the last time you’ve heard anything about the Street 500? Does H-D even make it anymore? It’s like they don’t have time to promote each new model and let it find some kind of stability in the marketplace.

I love that somebody at Harley is shoving stacks of chips onto the ever-contracting motorcycle industry crap table. It means that the humans are still in charge. I hope they have the money to sustain this betting strategy because H-D needs to win. They need to succeed. The motorcycle landscape would be a much duller place without those clumsy bastards barging around America’s roadways.

Lucky Boy

To me, the three most terrifying words in the English language are “Where’s the party?” I’m a homebody. I like it at Tinfiny Ranch amongst the trees, rocks and dirt. It’s a safe place. I’ve got my junk cars and junk motorcycles. I’ve got my tractor and shed full of tools. No one can see what I’m doing and I can’t see anyone else. It’s pretty much heaven.

Unfortunately the world has a way of forcing itself on you and my cool nephew Anthony is getting married. I can’t miss that scene, man. I like the kid. That means leaving the serenity of Tinfiny and taking trip to the neon gates of hell: Lost Wages, Nevada.

Chief amongst my pet peeves of this modern world is air travel. I used to enjoy flying but now it’s a trial to be endured. Every time I get on a passenger airplane it seems they have managed to make the restroom smaller. I had to use the toilet on the flight to Vegas and my head was bumping into the curvature of the fuselage while my butt was resting against the bi-fold doors. I’m not a large person yet I still had to remove my billfold, watch, and think of baseball to turn around in the confined area.

Mooing and kicking at the fences, we disembarked into the Las Vegas airport where we attempted to rent a mini van because our wilding days are over. Dollar was out of minivans so we ended up with a Ford Flex. The Flex is like a mini van with a snout. It’s easier to find the squared off profile in a parking lot. So that’s a plus.

It’s always the turbo-charged 1970’s in Las Vegas. The clothes, the hair, the Hugh Heffner value system. There’s a dusty, aged-vibe sucking the life force from fresh-faced youth that is creepy if you pay attention to it. Everybody has to make a living but I’m uncomfortable with the place, you know?

Our hotel is also a huge casino and between visits to CT’s rowdy family I’ve been busy working the electronic slot machines. In only two days I’ve made $4.05 doing nothing more than repeatedly pushing buttons. It’s like taking candy from a really stingy baby. I never bet large amounts. Every expenditure breaks down into bags of concrete. Do I take another spin on the machine or should that 50 cents be used to buy 10 pounds of mud? Maybe I’ll take just one more try.

Shovel Ready

The Kubota tractor is a little too large for Tinfiny’s expansive back yard. Long and narrow, the yard requires a multi point turn to get the tractor aimed in the correct direction for filling the side yard. Once there, it’s another 20-point turn to get the bucket dumped where I need it.

I was using the flat point shovel to load droppings into the wheel-buggy. It’s not hard digging and it’s actually faster than maneuvering the machine. I lean the shovel on the tractor between loads.

After the buggy is full I can wheel it to the side yard and place the dirt right where it needs to go. It’s a slow process but I’m at that stage in life, the hobbling stage, where I just enjoy being able to move.

The pile at the end of the yard was getting low and I needed to scrape another few inches off the back yard. I’m trying to slope the yard away from the house.

The Kubota runs great (thanks Hunter!) and as I pulled forward I heard a gunshot. The shovel. The thing was and busted in two pieces. Heavy equipment is called that for a reason. I never felt a thing.

Internet searches turned up shovel handles for $13 to $15 dollars. The big rivet that holds the shovel head in was another couple bucks. I went to the local Home Depot and they had a new shovel for $10.  It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out the situation and I’d have to be really attached to a particular shovel head to pay more for the honor of fixing it. Maybe a shovel handed down for generations or something.

They wear out, you know. Shovel heads get ground away in use. The center part eats away leaving the sides protruding. I guess what I’m trying to say is, in life, don’t lean your shovel on the tractor.

Gear’d Hardware ZX1 Watch

Gear’d Hardware sent ExhaustNotes.us a couple of their watches to review. Like guns, I’m not really into watches. I mean, if they keep time and have old-fashioned hour/minute hands I’m good. I told Berk that I’d review the watch and send it back to him since I already have two watches and didn’t need another one cluttering up my junk drawer.

Now that I’ve opened the Gear’d Hardware box, though, Berk is not getting this thing back. The ZX1 is huge and heavy. The numbers are gigantic. I can see the damn thing without having to hold my arm inches from my face. It’s a really nice piece of gear.

The watchband is a metal link type and it comes adjusted for George Foreman’s wrist size. I have skinny little wrists; I’m surprised I haven’t managed to break one or both of them yet so I’ll have to adjust the thing. There are two options that I can see: Reset the pins on the flip-close buckle or remove one link from the band. I’m going to take the thing up to the shed and sort it out today. I prefer a leather, belt, buckle-type watchband but the link band looks nice so I’ll keep it on there unless it starts grabbing my arm hair.

The ZX1 is easy to tell time on. The time is set by pulling out the big red, knurled aluminum knob. I love the hell out of that friggin’ knob. There’s no mincing around with tiny crap on this monster. There are four, small, blackish LCD displays for day-date, stopwatch function, 24-hour clock and alarm. Those are visible from some angles and just black dots from other angles. As you tilt the watch the reflection angle changes and the numbers will pop out making them easy to see. There is another button that energizes a cold, blue light on the LCDs. The four LCDs are actually easier to see at night than in the daytime. I’ll need to read the manual to learn how to reset all the digital stuff. Or maybe I’ll just ignore it.

There are four buttons besides that red knob, one for the light, a couple for the stopwatch and I don’t know what the other is for. The back side of the watch has more information: 3 atmosphere water resistant which is about 100 feet deep by my math, movement made in Japan, stainless steel case and sapphire glass. It’s all good stuff. Battery access is via a snap-type cover, there are a couple slits for inserting a pry bar to open the thing. I have a watch with a screw back that jewelers cannot open for some reason so I bought a watch vise and the adjustable watch wrench to do it myself. The snap off back will be a new experience for me.

The corporate attitude of Gear’d Hardware seems to be, “We are not messing around. We make a big ass watch that’s built like a tank.” I’m going to be testing the ZX1’s tank-like abilities in the next few weeks. There’s concrete that needs pouring and I’m not stopping to baby this watch.