Author: Joe Gresh

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.

The Bomber

Gearheads Road Trip stopped by Tinfiny Ranch to say hello. The poor guy ran right into a concrete pour as is likely to happen any time you visit our mountain lair.  Nothing stops mud, least of all visitors, so we trundled off to the Big Box store to pick up some concrete.

Lowes has a price break if you buy 70 bags of concrete or more. That ends up being 3500 pounds and the Bomber, my 1990 1/2-ton Suburban groans under the weight. The rear leaf springs invert to frowns and the truck sways down the highway alarmingly. You want to keep it around 45mph.

3500 pounds was a bit nerve wracking on the twisty mountain roads so I’ve since developed a new plan: I order two pallet loads of concrete which gets me to the 70 bag discount but I take the pallets home one at a time.  2800 pounds is a lot easier to haul, and the Bomber totes it nicely with no sway issues. You still don’t want to make any drastic maneuvers, though.

The 1990 Suburban was an oddball, the last year of the straight front axle 4×4. That axle, kind of like a Dana 44, was upgraded a bit for 1990 making it a one-year deal. It’s got the manual locking hubs, 6-bolt wheels and leaf springs. For a 1/2-ton ride it’s a real Dream Axle if you’re into that sort of stuff.

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I Never Got a Free Gun When Obama Was President

Foreigners have a hard time understanding America’s gun fetish. I admit, I have a little trouble with the craziness myself but that didn’t stop my wife from entering a local charity’s gun raffle. It’s like 50 bucks and they draw a winner once a month for a year. CT’s number came up and we are now the proud owner of a 17-round (with one in the chamber), plastic, meth-dealer’s friend, a Smith & Wesson 9mm.

The thing is a bit cheesy-looking with the plastic and all. Berk assures me it’s a good weapon and that it won’t explode in my hand. I’m a little leery of automatics as they give no easy indication of their status. Is it cocked? Loaded?  Who knows?  Give me a revolver any day.

When we picked the thing up at the Ace Hardware (they still sell guns at the hardware store in New Mexico) CT was entered into the store’s computer and in seconds the gun guy knew her entire life story. It was a bit creepy but I guess that’s the price we pay to keep tyrants at bay.

Coming from a revolver perspective the quantity of ammunition this thing holds is incredible. 16 rounds fit in the magazine, henceforth known as a clip just to piss off the gun nuts. Not only that but you can plop one in the chamber giving a total of 17 rounds! That’s nearly three reloads on my Smith revolver. It’s a lot of lead and with my aiming ability I need all the chances I can get.

We bought 50 rounds of ammo when we got the Smith and the clerk gave me a look that screamed Piker. “Is that all? Sure you don’t want more?” The S&W 9mm came with a nice plastic case that included the manuals and a second clip, meaning I can pack 33 rounds ready to go in a large jacket pocket. You won’t run out of ammo and have to throw the gun at any survivors with a Smith 9. This kind of legal firepower is what makes America the greatest country in the world. I better go pick up another couple hundred rounds of 9mm.

The Smith 9mm came with three different size grips to custom-fit the gun to your hand. The whole package is well thought out and it will be interesting to see if we can hit anything with all that ammunition. A trip to the gun range for a familiarization session is in order. CT will be taking a gun-specific class to learn about the new gun from shooting it to disassembling, cleaning and reassembly. I’d show her how to do all that stuff myself if I knew anything about it and didn’t yell all the time.

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Endurofest Five

A fresh, new Enduro rider joined Endurofest 2019 today, Husky Dave on his 1975 DT400.  We celebrated by scrambling around the trails behind Flagstaff’s miniature airport.

Only a few miles out of town the single-track through the trees was a new experience for me. The track itself was narrow, like 12 inches wide, and deep enough that if your tire got scrubbing along the wall you’d have to dab a foot to keep the front from washing out. The trees were both close and low. It was a place you had to pay attention or a branch would slap you upside the head.

We did ok there, or at least we thought we were doing ok until a kid on a modern T-2 Husky ripped past us. The guy was just flying through those woods, sticking in the rut and dodging trees like a humming bird.

The tight stuff was mentally exhausting so I was glad when we headed back up into the mountains north of town. The trails are wide up there and a guy can do a bit of sight seeing.  Until he hits a damn rock the size of a basketball, which I did. We were slowly climbing a mild grade, the trail was very dusty and the dust lingered. Big tree roots cut across the trail making a stair-step type of surface. I rode into the dust hopping over the roots and the next thing I knew I was on the ground. Godzilla kept popping away like nothing happened. I switched off the motor and looked back to see what the heck I had ridden over. I couldn’t believe the size of the rock.  It was huge. How could I not see the bastard?

I restarted Godzilla and continued the climb. The motor was bogging down. Turns out the brake lever was bent and the bend applied the rear brake. Meis stopped by and we had to loosen the brake adjuster to allow the rear wheel free movement.

After sorting out my crash we went through a few gates and found some interesting snowshoe trails, then we circled back to Hunter’s crash site. At the exact spot Hunter’s ribs augered into the ground Greg built up a wood and stone memorial and we held a mock ceremony to honor Hunter’s busted ribs.

Hunter is feeling much better now. We visited him in the hospital and when he saw the monument and photos of us standing around with our heads bowed he called us assholes. So things are returning to normal.

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Hey, want to catch up on the Yamaha Endurofest and Gresh’s ruminations on the whing-ding-ding-ding-dingers?  Well, here you go!

Endurofest One
Endurofest Two
Endurofest Three
Endurofest Four

Endurofest Four

What with Hunter going on injured reserve yesterday I didn’t get a chance to work on the now dead Godzilla, my 360 RT-B Yamaha Enduro.  There was a Flagstaff-morning nip in the air when I checked for spark at Godzilla’s sparkplug and found none. I then moved on to the spark plug cap, the coil wire itself and found no spark. I checked the coil windings, it had resistance so was probably ok.  Then I cleaned the points, but nothing worked: Still no spark.

One thing about riding old motorcycles at Endurofest, you’ll be with a bunch of guys that know more about Yamaha two-strokes than anyone else save for Yamaha.

Meis brought over his flywheel puller and we removed the flywheel to gain access to the points. We couldn’t get the points to break. It was like they were grounded all the time. We started unplugging harness wires trying to find the problem but no joy.

Don, our resident Enduro Guru took a look at our ohmmeter readings and said, “Something is incorrect.” Don got down on his knees and pointed at a tiny silver piece of wire, like something from a wire brush, that was shorting against the point connection nut and a part of the aluminum boss that the stator screws into. “That’s it, take that wire out and it will run.” I grabbed the needle nose pliers and removed the tiny wire bit. It was probably 1/16-inch long.

Godzilla had spark! After reassembling the bike I still couldn’t get it to start. I figured that one out by myself; it was out of gas. I switched to reserve and Godzilla roared into life. The wire must have shorted the points out at exactly the same time as the bike went on reserve. What are the odds?

While the rest of the crew ran down to Sedona for lunch and trail riding I went to the Flagstaff airport to retrieve Hunter’s wife Lori.
We were riding in Brumby. I was sure she wasn’t going to like the old rattletrap but she’s made of sterner stuff than I thought.  I could have gone riding and let Lori take a cab to the hospital but I felt I needed to make some brownie points with Lori. I’m not sure she’s all that into the Brumby-Godzilla schtick. Hunter and me are always playing around in the dirt on old motorcycles and here I broke her husband again.

At the hospital, Hunter looked much better. He wanted out now. I left those two to plot their escape.

Back at the motel I briefly considered trying to find the main group but with Godzilla acting up a bit I decided a nap was the better option. That’s how Endurofest goes, you’re free to ride or nap or do nothing. It’s a relaxed get together of like-minded dirt riders.

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Endurofest Three

I try not to be “That Guy” but sometimes being “That Guy” finds a way. Seven old Yamaha Enduros showed up for the first trail ride of Endurofest 2019 in Flagstaff and the sound of all those cackling dirt bikes was magical. I could listen to that carbon-based music all day long.

Our first stop was a gas station top up. One of the guys knew a short cut through town and we were going to follow him. In all the gassing up and bikes moving around I kind of lost the plot. I took off down the road following a guy on a motorcycle that I thought was one of our group.  That bike turned out to be a VStrom Suzuki so I pulled off the road and waited. And waited. Several motorcycles passed by but no smoking old two strokes. I turned around thinking, “Where the hell is everyone?”

I went all the way back to the gas station without seeing the group. I figured I’d make another slow run to see if I could find them and if I couldn’t I would just go for a ride.  I caught a glimpse of a bike down one of the side streets and it turned out to be one of our group. He led me back to the gang and they were not exactly glad to see me.

“Rule one: If you don’t know where you’re going, don’t go!” they told me. I felt pretty bad holding up progress and all. I tried explaining how I followed another motorcycle but it was pretty quiet.

My wing man, Hunter had gone off looking for me. We waited and waited. The thing turned into a cluster and we had not even make the first turn. Once Hunter returned we headed up into the mountains north of Flagstaff. The trails were fairly smooth but you had to stay alert because often a big rock would be in the middle of the trail. Also it was hunting season so a big, lifted pickup truck might be coming the other direction and you don’t want to end up a hood ornament.

With all seven strokers ripping through the woods I’m sure more than one hunter drew a bead on us after we spooked their game.

Don’s 1973, hot rodded 175 Enduro broke its kickstarter stop and the lever was bouncing against the frame making a hell of a racket. He sorted it with a bungee cord.

In areas with trees the shadows on the trail made it hard to see rocks. It all looked like rocks! Hunter nailed one and it knocked the front end sideways. The bike went down and Hunter landed hard.

I was the 4th rider to get there, Hunter was on his knees hunched over cussing so I figured he was ok. We kind of stood around, asking Hunter if he was ok. He mostly just cussed.

“Help me up.” We got Hunter vertical. I knew he was hurt bad because he said we better call an ambulance. I’ve seen Hunter ride one-handed with broken bones through some rough trails. We got the ambulance on the way.

Hunter asked me, “Can you go get my Jeep and take my bike back to the motel?” Another rider, Larry, and I headed back to town. It was a rough couple miles to get to pavement and I was wondering how that ride in an ambulance would feel.

Four-tenths of a mile from our motel Godzilla died. No sputtering, no hint anything was wrong. It was like someone turned off the key. I kicked the bike until I could kick no more. Then Larry have it a few hundred kicks. It was dead. I could see the Motel 6 but to get there I had to push down Prospect Street over to Butler Street. It was a round about way because of all the fences blocking a direct route. I was fairly gassed so Larry pushed me the last few hundred yards.

We got Hunter’s Jeep and drove back out to the crash site. The boys were still there waiting. Hunter uses one of those bumper mounts to tote his motorcycle and with the rough trail we were worried about breaking the thing. Larry decided to ride Hunter’s bike back to the motel as it seemed undamaged.

Everyone made it back safe and sound but Larry said Hunter’s 1975 DT400 handled like crap. It wasn’t until we were loading the bike onto the bumper carrier when we noticed the entire rear section of the frame was broken. Did it happen before the crash, after the crash or on the ride home? We didn’t know but we blamed Larry and said he was riding too fast.

Hunter is in the Flagstaff hospital with 6 broken ribs on one side. I’m not sure how many ribs there are per side but that seems like most of them.  We are working on logistics, sorting out how to deal with Hunter’s stuff. Hunter’s wife is flying out to take charge of the situation.

Hopefully the rest of Endurofest will be less exciting.

Endurofest Two

After Payson, Arizona and just a little past Pine, Arizona there’s a steep grade that climbs up into the mountains. Hell, it’s all mountains out here in northern Arizona.  Ahead of me was a older Chevy truck, one of those faded metallic burgundy ones that is only burgundy underneath. The topsides were more of a peeled silver with just a hint of grape jam.  The truck was struggling on the grade; it sounded like three or more injectors had lost their tips and raw fuel was pouring into the cylinders. Thick, black smoke flowed out of the tail pipe and I could hear the engine stuttering from 150 feet back.

Brumby, my 2.5, 4-banger Jeep smelled blood. This had to be the first and best opportunity to pass a car on the entire 500-mile trip to Endurofest.  A series of tight corners opened into a short straight. I shoved Brumby into 3rd gear and gunned the little 2.5, neatly slotting Brumby alongside the old Chevy. I could see the driver of the Chevy now. He was long-haired, thin, with no shirt. He resembled one of those backwoods reality TV stars and when he saw Brumby’s hood hove into sight his expression changed from complacent anger to rage.  He gunned the Chevy and a noxious cloud of almost pure dinosaur squeezings engulfed the road behind us. Damn it! That Chevy was picking up speed! I dropped Brumby into second gear and mashed the throttle to the floor. My efforts were rewarded as the Chevy dropped back, still missing and smoking.  All this was happening at about 15 miles an hour. It was slow motion road rage for sure but Brumby passed the test.

Me and Hunter arrived late to the party and as we pulled into Endurofest headquarters several cackling two-strokes were already on their way out to explore our new digs. Next door to the Flagstaff Motel 6 was a combination Subway sandwich franchise and massage parlor. I thought that was pretty cool. I considered going into the massage parlor after eating a foot-long veggie delight but I had pretty good cell reception so I just looked at them on the phone.

Tomorrow I’ll get Godzilla started and join the fun.

Endurofest One

Things have been hopping and getting ready for the 2019 edition of Endurofest has only increased the load on our fragile infrastructure. The Toyota started shaking in that now-familiar way that indicates a bad driveshaft U-joint. And it was. The front joint was a mess and the others looked ok so I went to the auto store and picked up a joint.

While I was at it I figured I’d change the center bearing just because it had a zillion miles on it so add another hundred. The job went as well as any U-joint replacement, kind of a brutal war and a finesse combined to accomplish what needed to be done. Except that the middle u-joint had to come out to split the front drive shaft (to replace the center bearing) and It didn’t look so hot. Another trip to the auto store and I managed to button up the Toyota without further drama.

I turned my attention to Brumby, tackling a loose exhaust system that was an easy fix: One of the rubber hangers had deteriorated letting the pipe swing around playing a tune under Brumby. Another trip to the auto store and a slick-jiffy had the pipe suspended like a proper off road weapon.

The soft top on my tow rig, Brumby, had been damaged by a hailstorm earlier in the year. The ice balls went right through the windows and generally made a mess of things. Amazon sent along a nice Sierra soft top and all I had to do was send them a cool $250. The top went on without issue except for the rear door latch became stuck in the locked position.

The linkages for automobile locks are small bits of bent wire rod and they are held in place by tiny pieces of plastic that snap into the rod. The problem with this system is that after 20-30 years the plastic becomes brittle and breaks. When they break the link rod falls off whatever mechanical device they were supposed to operate.

The fix would be to dismantle the door and replace the plastic bits, assuming you can find them. I don’t have time for this hokey-pokey so I drilled two small holes in the link rod. Using a couple small washers and cotter pins I reattached the link rod and I could open the rear door and finish the soft top installation.

But that’s not all! The Harbor Freight trailer had been sitting in the sun for about a year and the wiring to the lights was rotted off in several places. Luckily there was enough wire to cut out the bad section and splice in new. I really have to replace the entire lighting system on that trailer but it will have to wait for another day.

The trailer was looking a bit like a shantytown and I had some house paint solidifying in their cans so I dumped the stuff onto the trailer in an attempt to make it look a little less distressed.

With the tow rig out of the way I could get Godzilla, the 360cc Yamaha ready. It needed a new tire in the rear but of course I’m not spending the kind of money they are asking for new tires nowadays. I managed to borrow a slightly used M21 from my buddy Hunter when he momentarily turned his back on me. The tire was relatively easy to install. Which really threw off my plans for the day.

I also fitted a new tail bag and assembled a new concrete mixer, the mixer having nothing to do with Endurofest.

Finally all was ready and loaded. Only one small problem remained: somewhere in all this messing about I lost track of the days and I am actually a day ahead of schedule. Ah well, it’s too late to change things now, this train is leaving the station. Next stop Flagstaff, Arizona.

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