Author: Joe Gresh

What’s The Bright Idea?

The Husqvarna 510 SMR came stock with a 35-watt/35-watt incandescent headlight bulb that was nearly useless. I say nearly because when it was lit it provided a weak beam limiting nighttime speeds to 30 miles per hour. But it was worse than that because for some reason the motorcycle constantly blew the bulb leaving me to get home using the little parking light bulb (which never blows out). The plastic headlight fixture shows signs of melting even with the standard bulb so I set about trying to find a better idea.

Husky uses an S-type light socket base like you’ll find in scooters and mopeds. This bulb was used as my baseline for temperature and current draw. I figured if I didn’t exceed the standard bulb on these two measurements the plastic headlight should survive and the electrical system would be able to keep up with the program. Baseline was 2.5 amps @ 13-volts and 230 degrees. I did all the tests using highbeam.

The stock incandescent light surprised me. It’s the oldest technology, they’ve been around more than a hundred years, yet it wasn’t the worst of the bunch. I had to try and find something better, though.

I bought the LED bulb off of Ebay and I have no ratings on it because I can’t find it for sale again. The bulb has no markings. It was like a one-shot deal I guess. The reason I chose this one was that unlike the other LEDs it didn’t have the large heat sink or cooling fan behind the bulb. It was a direct fit for the Husky’s push-and-twist bulb socket. The LED used so little power I had to check a few times to believe it. Only 0.14 amps were required to fire the thing up! It also ran much cooler than the other bulbs, producing only 134 degrees. I’m thrifty so I loved the thing but there’s a reason those other LED bulbs have such a big big cooling system: The light output from the minimalist LED was weaker than the stock bulb by a lot.

The halogen was a 50-watt high and low beam. I tried to find a 35-watt halogen but couldn’t at the time. I’ve since found a 35-watt and I’m going to get one and try it. As you would expect, the higher wattage bulb drew more current and ran much hotter: 4.9 amps and 337 degrees (still rising fast). I stopped the test early because I didn’t want to melt my headlight shell. The Halogen was very bright and did a great job projecting all that power to the front. It was the brightest bulb by far. I’d love to be able to run the halogen but I think I’ll have a meltdown if I do.

I found a HID bulb-ballast combination with a multi-fit base that would fit in the Husky’s socket but I would have to gut the contacts to allow the harness passage through. I didn’t want to do this so I just held the bulb in the reflector housing. It was a disappointing bulb consuming more power and putting out less light than the incandescent bulb. If you’ve ever had one of those adjustable, wide/narrow beam flashlights you know how little it takes to change the beam pattern. Bulb position is critical for good output and the HID must not have been in alignment with the reflector’s focal point.

In the video link you’ll see the four bulbs I tested and the statistics on each one. All the bulbs had their pros and cons but none of them solved the problem. I ended up using the LED even though the bulb was the weakest. I was going on a trip to Utah and wanted to see if it would stay together longer than the incandescent. It is still going after 2400 miles. The stocker never lasted as long.

I think I will have to replace the entire headlamp on the Husky to get a decent light. The plastic construction limits how much wattage I can use and is borderline melting at stock levels of heat. I don’t ride much at night but sometimes you get caught out and have to muddle through. I added a bright off-road light to the Husqvarna just for those situations.

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Product Test: Progressive 412 Series Shock Absorbers

Most people I’ve spoken to are happy with their Progressive Suspension products. If you went by damping action alone I would be, too. The problem I had with the two sets of Progressive 412 shocks I’ve bought is that the damn things leak. When I say leak I mean like after a couple thousand miles of off road riding. Conversely, some of my riding buddies have the same exact shocks and report no leakage after several years.

Godzilla, my 1971 Yamaha RT-1B 360cc endure, has about 4 inches of rear wheel travel. When new, the Progressive shocks did a fantastic job damping that short distance. The bike would bottom out if you hit big ruts at speed but the rear end stayed in line and didn’t swap places with the front. It was a great boost to my confidence. I was able to gain some serious speed across open desert while the Progressives swallowed up big holes and bumps without spitting me off. I’m not saying it was a smooth ride, but it was controlled.

The shocks were great on hills. They helped the rear knobby tire follow the contours of the earth and allowed Godzilla to climb some really steep inclines. If I accidentally spun the wheel by feeding in too much power I could close the throttle and then bog the motor, taking advantage of the big two-stroke Yamaha’s grunt at low RPM without stalling the engine. It was a traction seeking beast, I tell you. I’ve replaced the 412’s with a cheap set of remote reservoir shocks and the difference in performance is huge.

The first set of Progressives lasted about 10,000 miles before one of them sprung a leak. I chalked it up to the rough trails Hunter leads me on. Since I liked the Progressive action so much I sucked it up and bought another set. The new set was just as good, except they started leaking after only 2,000 miles. The second set of Progressives failed dramatically: Both shocks went bad simultaneously and projectile vomited hydraulic oil all over the rear of the bike. I thought the engine crankcase had broken.

To give the shocks their due I was riding an extremely rough trail with lots of boulders and steep drop offs. The rear suspension was bottoming on the big stuff but I felt conditions were no worse than normal.

The leaking wouldn’t be a big deal if the shocks were rebuildable. Progressive 412 shocks are not. They roll the shock body over the upper shaft guide and seal. It’s a machine process that is difficult to replicate in the average home shop. Even if you did manage to un-roll the shock body, the seals are made by NOK and are proprietary to Progressive (and Progressive won’t sell the seal). The shocks are made in Mexico so I doubt they have any to sell. In my correspondence with Progressive the only solution offered was to buy yet another set of shocks.

At $250 a pair this was getting expensive, you know? Since I had so many leaking Progressive shocks I decided to cut one open to see if there was any way to modify the seal area to take a seal that is available. It looks doable. I will need to get my South Bend lathe up and running to spin out a new top bushing with an O-ring on the outer part to replace the crimped end. To keep the top bushing from popping out on full extension I’ll need a few screws around the circumference of the shock body. Any nitrogen charging will have to be replaced with air from a simple Schrader fitting.

I’ll do another blog on the seal/bushing refit but don’t hold your breath. None of this is going to happen in time for October’s Yamaha Enduro Fest held in Flagstaff this year. The remote reservoir shocks are so bad I’ve got a cheap set of Red Line shocks coming from Ebay to tide me over. For those of you keeping count, I’ve had the original shocks, two sets of Progressives, the remotes and now the Red Lines. Hopefully these last two won’t leak.

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Dream Bikes: Buell M2 Cyclone

I like all the Buell models and the Buell M2 Cyclone is my favorite Buell of the bunch. I mean to have one before I shuffle off this mortal torsion. Unlike most of the motorcycles I want to own, this is one Dream Bike that is very affordable. Even an Internet blogger wannabe can pick up a running, low mileage copy for a couple thousand bucks. And if I ever get a couple thousand bucks ahead I’ll get one.

The M2 was manufactured in that brief window of history before Erik Buell went totally crazy. After the M2 Buell started mixing up all the traditional systems on a motorcycle just to show you that he could. Yeah, it worked but the motorcycling public wasn’t ready for inside-out brakes and aluminum frames full of gasoline.

The frame on the M2 is plain old steel tubing with a sturdy rear sub-frame that can support a passenger or luggage. The value of a sturdy sub-frame was made apparent to me on a recent trip to Bonneville, Utah. The swaying luggage on my pencil-necked Husqvarna 500 frame was nerve wracking. Similar to an old Norton, the M2 frame isolates all the motorcycle parts a rider comes in contact with from the shaking, quaking Sportster engine. That feature comes in handy on a long trip.

Steel is relatively easy to bend and weld. Even the most basic repair shop will have a set of 0xy-acetylene torches that can fix anything on the M2’s frame. I also like the standard gas tank position and conventional forks. I don’t road race on the street so the added stiffness of a cool, upside-down front end is wasted on a peon like me.

The engine on the M2 is a hot-rodded 1200cc Sportster putting out around 90 horsepower. 90 horsepower is a lot of go-go from a half-century-old design that puttered along at 50 horsepower for decades. Just getting a new 883 Sportster engine up to the 90 horsepower level would cost more than an entire Buell! Later, crazier Buells had even more power and more Buell-specific engine parts while still being based on the Sportster. Buell even used, God forbid, Rotax engines! I can see parts for those engines becoming scarce within the 100-year time frame I like to operate. No such problems with the M2 engine as it’s mostly plain-old-plain-old and parts for the Harley-Davidson Sportster engine will be available on into the next millennia.

The M2’s styling has hints of Buell’s Blast but it looks good to me. I like a standard-style motorcycle, one that can go from touring bike to trail machine with only the removal of a few bungee cords. It’s a model I keep a weather eye on in case a steal of a deal pops up on one of the Internet for-sale sites. And yellow is the fastest color.

Product test: Lucas Fuel Treatment

I won’t feel bad if you don’t believe a word of this story. I don’t believe it myself and I was there.

Here’s the thing: my 2008 Husqvarna SMR510 single cylinder thumper has always gotten around 50 miles per gallon of gasoline. Sometimes it does 47mpg, other times 52mpg. These are mostly highway mile ratings because traffic doesn’t exist in La Luz, New Mexico. Rain or shine, for 12,000 miles the fuel usage has been consistent. That’s not bad mileage for a high-strung, near race bike engine so I’m happy.

The Husky seemed to be stalling more frequently than I like on the trip to Bonneville. The clutch was dragging a bit, the oil was overdue for a change, it was 100 degrees plus everyday and the 510 spins only the barest of flywheel to ensure quick revs. Added to all this is the Husky’s tall first gear, which requires a bit of slip to get off the line. I checked the intake system for air leaks and tightened the hose clamps and gave all the whatnots a good look over. Everything seemed ok. Maybe Joe Berk is right: Maybe I just don’t know how to ride a big 4-stroke single.

My riding buddy Mike and I were at the Pilot fuel station in Wendover and he suggested I try some Lucas fuel treatment. “That’s good stuff, pour some in the tank each time you fill up and see if the bike quits stalling.” Normally I put no faith in fuel additives. It’s all snake oil to me but I figured I’d humor Mike and pour some in for appearances. Nothing happened. The bike kept stalling. It ran exactly the same. I made a special effort to rev the piss out of the engine to keep from stalling in traffic and went about my business.

It was on the ride home that the strangeness started. I was getting well over 50 miles per gallon at our first gas stop. I dumped a little more Lucas snake oil in the fresh tank. The next couple gas stops I didn’t bother to check the mileage but each time I filled up I dumped a little of the Lucas sauce into the tank.

On the second day of our homeward trip the Husqvarna did 70 miles per gallon. I was stunned. I figured I must have been doing something wrong so I dumped a little more Lucas in the tank and ran 100 miles down the road. This next tank was only 67 miles per gallon. These mileage numbers kept up all the way back to La Luz. I’m out of snake oil so it will be interesting to see if the fuel consumption increases.

How is this possible? How can a few ounces of yellowish liquid increase mileage by 40%? What am I doing wrong? Get this: normally I can go about 150 miles before running out of gas. With the magic sauce I can go 210 miles! I can’t believe it. Has anyone else experienced this phenomenon? Tell me about it in the comments section, please. I need to know that I’m not insane.

Salt 8

It seems like tents get larger the more time they spend exposed to sunlight. But the thing is, man, camps were made to be broken. As much as I liked the hot sun, dusty gravel lot and 4-mile walk to the KOA facilities, we had to go.

I’m good with the two days we spent on the salt. I feel like we got a really good idea of the situation and the Southern California Timing Association had their hands full. They didn’t need me prowling around stirring up the troops. The salt was in no mood to be trifled with and we left it to bake and heave, a different salt from a few hours ago and different from that salt in a few more hours.

There’s no good route east from Bonneville except for the hard slog on Interstate 80. From there it’s a long hot day south and the Husky beat out a steady tune all the way to Moab, Utah. The place was an endless parade of tourists, every one one of them healthier than the last. Their bodies were so chiseled they looked like they subsisted solely on finely ground pumice. Their smiles were stretched over perfectly dazzling teeth. I felt like Quasimodo lurching among this mob of Fits.

We swung through Monticello, Utah, a place where 11 years ago me and Hunter left Dave at a motel room with a broken foot and two hamburgers on his night stand. The past days and present days are crashing together on this ride. If you let your mind wander it’s easy to lose track of where you are on the continuum. The hamburger place where we stocked Dave’s nightstand is still there. Maybe Dave is still in that room. 11 years has gone-and-went representing one tiny tremor of time. What happened?

I rode away from Monticello on Godzilla back then. It was a hard pull up the grades.  Sometimes the old two stroke held 55 mph. Now I rip up the same hills with the Husky spinning free. So much air pumping past 500 CC’s of modern 4-strokery. I’d still rather be on Godzilla. You earned a hill with that bike, man.

Tonight we’re giving Switchblade, the panhandler with a pickle, another shot at my ribcage in Window Rock. I wonder when I will be back to remember this place, to remember Switchblade. I wonder what the last place will be?

Get it while you can, boys.

Salt 7

During Bonneville Speed Week enterprising teens set up salt washing stations.

The rough wet salt did not bode well for the speed trials this year. After seeing how the situation unfolded yesterday Mike and I were in no hurry to get out to Bonneville and in fact it was almost 11:00 a.m. before we paid the SCTA man another $20 entrance fee.

The ticket man told us to avoid the start area as it was getting churned up and the competitor’s vehicles were getting stuck. It was kind of a pain because the start area was where we wanted to go. One thing I’ve learned in my short life is that there’s no sense in railing against mushy salt.

My hamburger-stand-at-noon meter told me there were fewer spectators and contestants than yesterday. Bonneville isn’t spectator friendly to start with as the courses are far in the distance. You pay to be surrounded by the ambiance: great things are happening just over the horizon.

The pits are very open, you can go bug the racers all you like. They really seemed to appreciate my helpful suggestions for grabbing that final 1/10 of a mile per hour.

I don’t know why my motorcycle brothers were being so obtuse on the track today. They consistently failed to clear off the course after their run much to the dismay of the hundreds of waiting competitors.

Even without the motorcycle guys gumming up the works wait times between runs stretched to 15 minutes. Multiply that by 100 or more competitors and you start to get at the immensity of the problem caused by Mother Nature shutting down three courses.

Bonneville is one of those events where it’s easier to compete in than spectate. After one really lengthy pause in the action we decided that racing may be over for the day. We headed back to camp feeling ill-used for our $20 entrance fee but it all goes to a good cause: The pursuit of speed.

Unrelated to anyone’s efforts on the salt, one of the bolts holding the luggage rack to the Husqvarna had fallen out somewhere on the trip to Bonneville. I removed the opposite side bolt for a sample and took the thing to Ace Hardware where they had no metric bolts. The next place I tried, CarQuest, had two of the small, 4mm bolts.

As soon as I located the correct bolts I should have known I was in trouble. The Husky uses those captivated-nut type of deals where a threaded nut is crimped into the aluminum frame tube. It gives you something sturdy and steel to screw into.

When the sample bolt was removed the captivated nut became a free range nut and it wandered off into the frame tube. Of course I had no idea any of this was happening.

I kept trying to screw the sample bolt back onto the Husqvarna. The thing would not start. As I became more confused I became more irrational. It was hot, Mike was making suggestions and I was not wanting to hear them: “I just took the bolt out of the F-ing rack minutes ago! Why won’t it start?” Semi-blind from sweat I removed everything off the back of the bike and it became clear that the bolt was never going to thread into the hole because there was nothing to thread into. It was a void, man.

Back to Ace hardware for a $35 drill motor, a $14 drill bit set, and assorted 1/4″-20 bolts and nuts. That bastard rack was going to be secured by any means necessary. I drilled all the way through the frame tube and into the plastic inner fender. Now the longer bolt was slotted through into a locknut on the other side.

This all sounds simple but it took three separate trips to the auto store and hardware store to achieve. I gave Mike the new drill motor hoping the shiny bauble would make him forget all that he had seen earlier. I spent the remains of the day sitting by the KOA swimming pool and drinking gin & tonics. Tomorrow we break camp and start heading back to God’s country: New Mexico.

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Salt 6

A Ukrainian guy crashed his 900-volt electric bike at 150 miles per hour. He’s okay but the bike is a bit bent. It’s been a hard day on the salt for motorcycles and not much better for the cars. The course is rough and soft.

I hear the grumbling as I cruise the pits. “No records this year.” “We might as well go home.” “They should call the whole thing off.” Conditions have restricted the racers to one course for experts and one course for rookies. At the start area the blue course lines are close together and they get wider apart the further down course you go.

A Buell rider was 5th from the start line when racing was called for the day. He’d been in line since 7:00 a.m. and the line is a mile long. It takes patience to go fast.

The Bonneville speed trials are spread out over 8 miles. There are thousands of rebars pounded into the salt and miles of yellow plastic tape denoting areas but it all seems so random. We ride over and under the tape. No one bothers us. The tape is just to give your mind something to work on in the featureless white plains. Mostly the pit area is near the middle and the course is a quarter mile away. Bring binoculars or all you’ll see is a tiny object speeding from your right to your left.

Walking the pits is a 6-mile proposition. It’s huge and the blinding white salt burns your skin from underneath. You really need two hats: one on top as normal and one with the center cut out and the brim circling your neck like a Queen Elizabeth collar.

The place is solid enough where compacted. Out towards the edges and further north the salt gets crunchy and damp. It feels like the water table is a few inches down.

2:30 p.m. and racing is over; spectators and racers wander away from the salt in dribs and drabs. It’s a slow exodus with a heavy flat head V-8 feel to it.

Old Salts tell me attendance is down this year but that guy who waited all day for his run thinks that there are plenty of people. I’m a rookie so it looks fine to me.

The track radio announcer who is from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan is also in charge of the Porta Potties. There are 74 plastic potties spread around the 8 miles. I told him number 68 out by Mile Marker 7 was not sitting level and could he shim the thing properly. He wants to set a record with a ZZR Kawasaki but has run out of money. Announcing is a slow business with 75% of the track closed but he makes a good job of keeping it interesting.

I met a chick with a turbo CB125 Honda. She was in the empty impound area where the record setters await a second pass to make it official. She said the track was rutted and bumpy but she managed 57 miles per hour. Somehow that was a record. The soft salt sucks power. It’s like racing through sand.

On the ride back to town you’ll pass hundreds of campers parked alongside the road. It’s a free camp area but the facilities are zero. It’s primitive but for the guys watching TV in motorhomes it all looks the same.

My buddy Old Iron says that to find a good restaurant in West Wendover look for salt in the parking lot. The more salt, the better. If there’s a turbine powered car parked up you’re golden. It works, my brothers.

Salt 5

West Wendover, Nevada.

Where else can you find an old flathead Ford Hot Rod and a 27-foot long turbine powered Liner parked up at the cafe?

So many talented builders are in Bonneville. The trailers are works of art, their suspensions complex links and air bags. It’s like a superior race of mechanics from another planet has landed on Earth.

We can’t go a block in the mini-casino town of West Wendover without stumbling on something cool, something Rod-ish.

Right now, in this town, the combined brain power could accomplish any task. And it would be accomplished with glossy paint and many, many holes drilled for light weight.

Salt is everywhere. The cars are covered in it. It falls off in fist-sized chunks and then the salt chunks are pulverized by passing cars.

But back to camping: my tent has changed shape in the 6 years since I last propped the thing up. The poles are all the wrong length and I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to cut large sections out of the walls to assemble the thing.

The tent is standing but it looks more like a pile of dirty laundry rather than a house. All these geniuses surrounding me. How do I tap into that knowledge?

The Husky is getting a bit cranky. At low speeds It’s stalling frequently. The clutch is dragging a bit and with no flywheel the thing will just pop and die. I think I’ll check the intake manifold rubber for tightness.

Had a great dinner at the Prospector Cafe: fried chicken with salad, bread and iced tea, cheeseburger and a Modelo dark beer totaled $20. A guy could get used to casino living.

Salt 4

Caliente, Nevada.

I moved my camping gear 510 miles today. The longest I’ve had to endure the Husqvarna’s ridiculous seat. I feel like the monk in that old joke.

This was the longest day. We covered a lot of miles so that tomorrow’s ride into camp will be short and sweet, leaving us plenty of time to ponder how the tent goes together.

Caliente is shut down. Nothing is open, the road into town is lined with old railroad cabins. The cabins are restored, Some people would call them cute. I see hard work. In a land of space, where the view goes on forever, the cabins are only feet apart. It must have felt safer together against the huge West. Tracks run behind the cabins rattling doors and windows. Man, I can sleep right through that sound.

So many elevation changes and temperature variations on the road. You can feel agriculture. The spot humidity rises, a quarter mile of cold runs alongside dark green crops, all alive against the tan dirt. And then you are back in the desert. Warm, dry air fills the road. I can look ahead and predict the local weather.

On the long days there’s not much human interaction. Ride, gas, ride, gas. Repeat over and over, each fill up is 150 miles of seat time. The long passages give you a lot of time to think great thoughts, maybe a new idea for land terracing or a way to move 60-lb bags of concrete more efficiently. I thought about the Husqvarna seat.

Did I mention the seat? Because it’s all I think about. It’s a major player in my dreams and nightmares. I imagine the seats in hell are shaped like the Husqvarna thing-between-the-frame-and-your-butt.

What are the odds? The guy running our motel wants to build one of those bicycle motor things. I kid you not. I whipped out cell phone photos of Huffenstein and we both got excited about the project, me for the second time. I’m sure he’s gonna buy a motor.

Bonneville tomorrow!

Salt 3

Window Rock, Arizona.

I thought the guy behind us was yelling at the black SUV. The SUV drove on but the guy kept yelling. Strange garbled words, some Navajo, some English, it was difficult to say if he was angry. He was smiling all the time.

The words kept pouring out as he bumped into me, wanting to shake hands. He didn’t care for the standard handshake and performed a fist bump/hand wrestling sort of ritual. All the while speaking fast, using unrelated words to string together ideas in an almost-sentence way.

I started to pick up a few bits of the conversation: He called me the N word, but in a nice, brotherly way. At least I think it was brotherly. Then he said that I was in his town then some vague broken bits about cutting people with a knife. “What language are you speaking?” I asked him. “It doesn’t matter,” he said to me and then showed me his drivers license. He was from Arizona.

Tall and good-looking, the guy may have been a great warrior chief in an earlier time. Now, he wanders parking lots jabbering at people in a confused muddle, his skill set woefully out of sync with life in 2019 America.

The guy kept stumbling into me, by accident or by design. It was annoying but he seemed happy as he asked me if I’d like to be stabbed and thrown into a ditch. It was the most non-threatening threat ever. Was he serious? There were a lot of ditches around. I made a mental note to start looking down for bodies.

It dawned on me that the guy was completely bonkers and then he asked me for two dollars. “That’s F-ed up, man,” I told him “I don’t want to be cut and thrown into a ditch.” He didn’t seem surprised at my refusal; I’m guessing his unorthodox panhandling method turns off a lot of potential marks.

We went into the only place open in town, a Taco Bell, the glass door 0f the Taco Bell seemed to frighten him and he drifted away towards the street. Still happy and still wanting to kill someone.

The rain started around 3:00 p.m. and kept a steady pace. It was a cool, 54-degree August day in northern New Mexico. So much different than the hot, dry morning. Now we were marooned with just enough gas in the Husqvarna to make 10 miles. The next town was 20 miles away.

I was waiting at a liquor store/gas station that had no electricity for Mike to return with a can of gas. Mike’s BMW can go 200 miles on a tank. The Husky taps out at around 150 miles. From my perch under the store awning I saw 700 to 800 cans of beer get sold in a few hours. Skinny people, fat people, old people, young people, no one bought less than 48 cans. They carried the stuff out by the armload. Thank goodness the cash register was on battery backup.

The power would come on and I’d run out to the pump then the power would go off. This happened about 20 times. One of the liquor store staff was an adorable woman complaining about menopause: “You don’t know what it’s like, one minute you’re fine, the next you’re on fire!” The power sputtered. All of us, customers and staff, started yelling, “Lights on! Lights off!” in synchronization with the flickering power.

“Would you like a hotdog? Free, I won’t charge you for it. They’re still kind of warm but we have to throw out the hot foods after a few hours of no power.” What a nice bunch of people. Free hot dogs, all the beer you could fit in a trunk, we had a good time, you know?

“Your friend has a funny accent.” said Menopause Woman. “Where is he from?”

“New Jersey, or somewhere back east,” I told her.

“I suppose he thinks we sound funny too,” she said in that rising, musical New Mexican lilt I’ve come to love.

Mike came back with the gas, we dumped it into the Husqvarna and lit the bikes off. Into the rain we motored on.  Gasoline is freedom, man. About 10 miles later we saw a lineman sitting in his truck, rain pouring down. For all I know the power never came back on back at the store. The lives we shared at that place didn’t matter to us anymore, we were back on the road.