I remember hot summer days mixing concrete with my father. I remember the two-holed hoe oozing mud like Play-Doh through a Fun Factory press. Back and forth you shoved the concrete with each hard pass plasticizing a frustratingly minor amount. The demand never ceased, more concrete was required all the time until the sun and the humidity and the sweat burning your eyes (combined with the resistance of the aggregate) lulled your body into a Zen state of denial. The only way to push on was to pretend it wasn’t happening. “I am not really here,” I’d tell myself.
“More mud!” Dumping another 80-pound bag of concrete into the wheel-buggy I quietly promised that I would never, ever, under any circumstances, become a concrete finisher.
Harbor Freight. Cement mixers. Life is good.
With the $180 purchase of Harbor Freight’s 3-1/2 cubic foot concrete mixer I broke that promise made so long ago. I got mine at one of Harbor Freight’s closeouts. Or maybe it was a parking lot sale. Come to think of it, could it have been one of the 4357 tool disposals that brought my attention to the mixer? These events are held almost daily at Harbor Freight and if you ever pay full price at that store you’re no friend of mine. The mixer came out of the box in a million pieces and it took the better part of three hours to assemble the thing because I am not genetically disposed to look at directions.
I mixed about 400, 50-pound bags of concrete before the key in the larger of the two pulleys fell out. The parts landed inside the motor box so I stuck the key back onto the pinion shaft and swabbed a bit of lock tight onto the screw holding the key. I’ve since mixed another 800 bags with no further problems. In total, about 15 cubic yards of concrete have been run through the little mixer to date.
Gears. Lube. Like the innards of a Rolex, but on a grander scale…Industrial grade. Good stuff, Harbor Freight is.
Maintenance on the HF mixer consists of lubing the drum pivots, greasing the large stamped ring gear and oiling the sealed drum bearing with whatever dregs of slippery stuff I have laying about the shed. I do all these things before each use whether I’m mixing 3 bags or 100.
The drum is sized for 150 pounds of concrete mix. Any more and the tilt angle becomes too vertical and the mixing action slows to a crawl. Depending on which size bag of pre-mix concrete is cheapest, I have mixed as high as 180 pounds in the thing but mixing performance suffered with each additional pound. These are nitpicks. I spent less than a week’s rental to own the HF mixer. I give it high marks.
High tech tilt angle control. Who needs instructions?Warnings? I don’t need no stinkin’ warnings!
It’s funny how life works out. I enjoy mixing and finishing concrete now. I love the smells and textures and the sound of a steel trowel scraping across a smooth burnished surface. These are simple motions that bring back sweet muscle-memories of working with my father and those hot summers when I was young and strong.
Tough gear for tough jobs…the Duluth Flex Fire pants are great!
I didn’t know about Duluth’s cargo work pants 40 years ago. That’s how long I have crawled around in the bilges of boats and after many thousands of patella-miles my knees are shot. Towards the end it got so I’d have to work on my side, putting weight on my hips because my knees hurt pretty much all the time.
Sure, I tried kneepads. Every brand or style of pad cut the circulation to my legs or if they didn’t restrict blood flow they’d fall to my ankles as soon as I stood up. The best solution I could come up with was a chunk of packing foam and I kneeled on that sucker whenever I could remember to drag it into the bowels of the boat I was working on. Unfortunately, memory was the second thing to go in the boat-fixing business.
Kneepad inserts…a fabulous idea.
Duluth makes many styles of pants but the ones that caught my eye are the Ultimate Cargo Work Pants with kneepad inserts. By the simple act of sewing on a hook-and-loop-pocket large enough to hold a foam pad Duluth solved both the sore knee and the blood circulation problems in one fell stoop. The pants run $59 and you’ll need the pads (Not included? Why the hell not?) at $10. 70 bucks was a lot of money 20 years ago. Today, it’s the going rate for any heavy-duty work pants.
The things aren’t perfect. The pad pocket may slide off to one side or the other when you kneel down but it’s not a problem to re-situate them. The material is a stretchy, hot blend that will have you sweating in temps over 75 degrees. Still, it was a revelation to kneel down without pain. The pants put a spring in my knee and I had a newfound confidence in my ability to connect with floors and low-slung mechanical contraptions on a deeper, more meaningful level.
Duluth Flex Fire work pants…good for work and good for riding.
The Duluth pants would work great as knock-about motorcycle riding wear and I plan on using them for just that purpose as soon as it gets a bit cooler. If you are a tradesman or tradeswoman that must work from your knees don’t wait 40 years like I did. Let Duluth’s built-in pads cushion (and save) your knees and extend your career. If I had used these pants from the get-go I could have been one of the lucky ones who kept working on boats until their backs gave out.
As our generation ages off this mortal coil there seems to be a strong conservative trend among motorcyclists. By conservative I don’t mean politically, although most of my rowdy friends have settled on the putative conservative party. I mean in their actions and words.
Post a video of kids popping wheelies or burning up motorcycles and the comment section rapidly fills with sour, tsk-tsk and rote complaints about using proper riding gear, safe riding practices or endangering others. Quite a few commenters will wish death upon anyone not head-to-toe in safety gear. Organ Donors, an insult once used by straight citizens to describe motorcyclists in general, has been co-opted by ourselves and liberally used to describe riders not wearing hi-vis green, stifling gloves, helmets, boots and one of those silver blood-type/medication allergy bracelets sold in high schools throughout the mid-1970’s.
Realizing that the depressing safety-crats were doing the exact same wheelies when they were under 100 years old you have to wonder what changed. Responsibility to the group, to all road users or the prospect of injuring an innocent bystander is regularly trotted out by safety mongers. They sound like lower case communists instead of riders living free like it says on their belt buckles and t-shirts.
So is it fear or wisdom? With death imminent, I suspect fear. Our motorcycles are becoming sodden with anti-lock braking systems, rev limiters (God forbid we blow an engine!), traction control and power management systems. The price we are willing to pay for a motorcycle less inclined to kill us is in the tens of thousands of dollars. If we are so concerned about staying alive to drag down future economies with our failing bodies why not forgo motorcycles and drive a truck?
Our generation believes, as have previous generations, that we know best for the next guys. A do-as-I-say, not-as-I-did type of thing that must drive the young ones insane. We think a motorcycle with less than 100 horsepower is unrideable yet we expect others tap into maybe 50% of that power. If they actually twist the throttle then they become the irresponsible ones.
We are, in a nutshell, full of baloney. We rode without helmets, we rode in shorts and t-shirts, we popped wheelies on public roads, we drank and took drugs and then got on our motorcycles and crashed. We died and we were injured. We cost society money way beyond our true dollar value. And now like bit players in the song “Cats in the Cradle,” we sit behind our screens scolding others for being just like we were.
Smell is the main reason I bought Harbor Freight’s 700-watt 120-VAC Tailgator generator. Mixing oil and gas for the 63cc prime mover and then burning that gas in the Tailgator is an olfactory Garden of Eden. For motorcyclists of a certain age or anyone who has owned an early 20th century gas-powered clothes washer the Tailgator’s smokey aroma triggers long dormant pleasure centers.
And it’s not a bad generator either. 700-watts isn’t a lot of power but it will run my normal shed load of 11, 4-foot long LED light fixtures with enough power left over to charge 2 Ryobi 18-volt lithium batteries at the same time. If you’re thinking of arc welding or running an air conditioner with the Tailgator disabuse yourself of that idea toot sweet.
The Tailgator is supported by a lively YouTube community and naturally I did some of the modifications the gang recommended. I swapped the standard Torch brand sparkplug for an NGK and replaced the OEM spark plug cap with a much better made NGK cap. I also relocated the foam air filter within the air box to achieve a better seal. After a few weeks I added a digital hour meter to log the run time per tank.
A hot-rodded 63cc generator.The runtime meter.
With 140 hours on the Tailgator she’s been stone-ax reliable. Two gentle pulls on the delicate starter rope and the beast settles into a staccato 62 hz, no load. Under the full 900-watt load the rpm’s will drop to a smooth 58 hz but who’s counting?
The pull starter.
The gas tank holds one gallon the first time you fill it but only around ¾ gallon from then on. Some you tubers modify the fuel pickup to access that last ¼ gallon. Unmodified, a tank will run 4 hours at 400-watt load so I leave it alone.
The YouTube consensus is that the Tailgator part number ending in #24 is slightly better built than the one ending in #25. I bought a #24 and ran it 5 hours a day for a week to expose any weaknesses while the thing was still under warranty. Nothing went wrong.
Reasonably quiet and very dependable power, and inexpensive. Harbor Freight rules!
The Tailgator is not quiet but it’s not all that loud. From 13 feet away I got 60 decibels on my Cateater App. The sound of a two-stroke engine is energetic and endearing so I don’t mind the racket; it’s a plus in my book. The Tailgator responds poorly to ham-fisted treatment. You’ve got to treat the thing like the finely crafted musical instrument it is. For only 89 dollars with a HF coupon the Tailgator is a fantastic bargain.
Tinfiny Acres came completely furnished with a junkyard. There were motorhomes, cars, boats and motorcycles lying about the place, all in a shocked state of disbelief. When the previous owner died it was like a plug had been pulled, freezing the many projects in situ. I’ve been cleaning up for a few years now yet still the twisted piles of scrap metal and softly rotting sheets of oriented strand board found on Tinfiny’s extensive grounds yield surprise and enchantment.
I was working on a two-Harbor-Freight-trailer-load of broken fiberglass garage doors that had been squatted by a company of freeloading pack rats when I first uncovered the Merry Tiller. Previously, I had seen parts of the thing, the handlebars, maybe a transport wheel and had caught a flash of chrome between the thicket of brush that had found much success around this particular pile of trash. But now the full tiller was exposed to daylight.
The Merry Tiller
And what a tiller it was. The first thing I thought was, “That’s a nice chaincase.” Long and thin with an oil filler hole two-thirds the way up the case there was no comparison to the clunky, surface-floating drives found on lesser tillers. No, this chaincase was made to knife through plowed earth like a long board skeg grooving down a mountainous wave. This chaincase has soul, my brothers.
The real deal: Briggs & Stratton!
The Merry Tiller is configured engine-over which places the fulcrum directly over the digging tines. This set up allows minor weight shifts at the controls to precisely control forward motion. Sporting a 5-horsepower Briggs & Stratton powerplant this tiller should be able to plow granite, slowed only by the drag bar’s deep bite into the soil.
The engine is a real Briggs & Stratton, the one with the straight carburetor and the diaphragm, crankcase-pressure-operated mini-dip tank inside the gas tank. On the left side is a huge reduction pulley and belt-tension clutch assembly. The frame consists of two heavy angle iron sections bolted together at fortuitous locations.
My Merry Tiller…a mechanical masterpiece!
Having said the above, I’ve never actually started the Merry Tiller. I’ve got a bit more debris to move in order to wheel the tiller out into the open The thing is a classic and might be worth more money in its barn-find trash pile. Maybe I could hire a few archeologists to remove the ground surrounding the Merry Tiller and ship it complete to the new owner.
Who am I kidding? Unconsciously I have shouldered Tinfiny Ranch’s legacy to the world. His projects have become intermixed with my projects. I can’t tell which project belongs to whom. I’ll never sell the Merry Tiller. It’s like a vintage Barbie doll in her original, unmolested packaging, except this one is gas-powered.
I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings but us oldsters are through. Our time has passed. No one cares if we like electric motorcycles or have range anxiety or just don’t like the silence. They don’t care. Bemoan the new kids all you want but we are dead-generation walking and the future always bats last.
Harley-Davidson, having had their finger on the pulse of the American motorcyclist for more than 100 years, can feel that pulse weakening. They get that Easy Rider means a mobility chair to anyone under age 50. With the Livewire H-D is busting out of the leather-fringed, concho-ed cage they so carefully crafted for themselves and it’s about time.
Electric motorcycles just make more sense than electric cars: City-centric, short range, narrow and easy to park. E-bikes comfortably fit into the existing technology envelope as it stands today. While always appreciated there’s no need for advancements in battery technology. E-motorcycles work right now, man.
Generation X, Y, and Z are down with plugging in electronics equipment wherever they go. They grew up watching battery level indicators like we grew up watching fuel gauges. They don’t have the same history or values that we have and they’d be a pretty sorry generation if they couldn’t come up with their own idea of fun.
As usual on Wild Conjecture we have no factual information on the Livewire so the first thing I noticed is that the thing actually looks good. The heavily-finned battery compartment is kind of huge so maybe range will be decent (100-miles would do it for me). Large diameter dual discs means this may be the hardest stopping H-D yet. More than likely the rear disc will be assisted by regenerative braking because it’s fairly easy to do and adds a few miles to the range.
The rear suspension resembles Yamaha’s Monoshock system from 40 years ago except with a much shorter shock absorber. The frame appears to be cast aluminum, a construction method that eliminates costly, complicated robot welding machines and messy human interaction. Forks appear standard and I don’t see any way for the front wheel to charge the battery under braking.
One of the problems I see with electric motorcycles is that they try to be like internal combustion motorcycles. They measure their range against gasoline mileage. They pit their performance against machines that have had 100 years of refinement. For the most part they stack up so-so. E-bikes should embrace a less costly approach; give up a few miles of range and a few miles per hour for a faster charge time. Maybe cheaper, quick-change batteries so commuters could keep one at home, one at the office and one in the motorcycle thereby eliminating the wait time for charging.
The Livewire is an even bigger leap of faith for H-D than their ADV bike (which breaks no new ground) and I’m not sure it will sell out of a traditional motorcycle dealership. Maybe sell them from kiosks at Red Bull events? The Livewire should appeal to a younger audience but it’ll have to be less expensive and carry less emotional baggage than Harley’s oil burners to do it.
Much like when your old granny starts using Instagram or throws down internet slang terms like LOL, Harley-Davidson’s new, Pan America concept motorcycle is a sure sign that the out-sized ADV fad has played itself out. It can’t come a moment too soon for me because these giant dirt motorcycles are the worst idea to come down the pike since Thalidomide. I won’t list the moto-journos that have injured themselves on these bikes but it’s a who’s who of two-wheeled typists. Remember, these are the pros!
H-D has ignored the segment these last twenty years for good reason: It’s simply not their bag. Change comes slowly to The Motor Company. They’ve been very successful building and selling a cruiser lifestyle. People tattoo H-D logos onto their bodies! Who else but a Batdorf and Bronson coffee fanatic would do that?
Back on topic: The Pan America. Harley doesn’t keep me in the loop so I have nothing but a promotional photo to go by but the thing doesn’t look half bad. There’s just a hint of Royal Enfield Himalayan in the styling but that’s not a bad thing. The fairing is kind of goofy, a requirement for ADV bikes. It’s got a decent-looking skidpan and a nice flat seat that looks comfortable.
The engine looks like a restyled version of H-D’s 750cc liquid-cooled Street power plant but with displacement rumors swirling around 1200cc, maybe not. Maybe it’s a V-Rod engine. Anyway I can’t see Harley building a new engine just for the Pan America unless it’s the beta test of a wholly new Sportster power plant. There’s almost no way the thing will weigh less than 600 pounds, again, seemingly not a problem for the chuckleheads who plow these big bikes through the trails.
I haven’t heard of any major reliability issues on the 500cc-750cc Street models or the V-Rod so if it’s either engine the thing should be more reliable than the class-leading GS BMW’s. I’m hoping the thing is chain drive as toothed belts squeak like crazy in the dirt and shaft drives seem to snap in half with alarming frequency.
The rest of the cycle parts look really modern, Japanese even, and the Pan America shows that Harley can build a bike that rivals the Europeans and Asians anytime they feel like it. They just haven’t felt like it. Until now.
A gentle rain of cinders descends upon passengers in the open-air cattle car. Shifting side to side, now a hard lurch, has you reaching, drunk-walking to the beat. People sway in time to the rails and the rails play a tune older than wax-cylinder recordings. Engine Number Four-Sixty-Three chuffs black, riot-grade smoke as the tracks gradually rise into the tailings of the Rocky Mountains in northern New Mexico and southern Colorado.
It’s beautiful, isn’t it?
Fire is the driving force behind the Cumbres & Toltec line. The tender hitched to Four-Sixty-Three glistens with dark, crumbling coal trailing a peat-tane scent. This is the good stuff, before coal became clean and beautiful. The tracks steepen; Four-Sixty-Three’s breathing becomes labored. The chuffs are farther apart in time but not distance. The fireman shovels more coal into the boiler. Steam pressure rises, pile it on man, let’s get this iron horse moving.
Tenderly stoking the fire…I think I can…I think I can…Adding new meaning to bore and stroke.
We climb higher, waxy shrubs and rabbits give way to deer and pines. The air cools and each sigh from Four-Sixty-Three’s smokestack hangs in the air marking the exact spot it escaped the inferno. The little train spews water vapor from several ports. It drools water near the drive wheels, jowly and unpettable. Geysers of high pressure water shoot out the side of the engine at random, but no doubt necessary, intervals.
We left Antonito, Colorado three hours, twenty-five miles, and thousands of gallons of water ago. The scenery is aboriginal: landslides, mountain streams, hard cuts through solid rock and lonely cabins pressed to the ground. We are burning our way across eons of metamorphic western land.
Great rides on great rails…A magic ride through amazing lands…
The Cumbres & Toltec stops for lunch midway between Antonito and Chama. Of the two options, I pick meatloaf because turkey is for Thanksgiving. It’s an assembly line operation but the food is tasty, old style and all you can eat. Fitting for a vintage steam train ride.
Water pours out onto the ground. Between the elbow of the tower and the chute there’s a 6-inch gap. Four-Sixty-Three guzzles the water as fast as it can flow into the boiler. The steam whistle blows twice and steam-torque pulls us away from the feed bag higher into the mountains where the spruce trees are dying from beetles and fungus.
The line into Chama is bumpy and downhill. In places Highway 17 parallels the railroad track. Old men stop their cars to photograph Four-Sixty-Three comin’ round the bend. The whistle blows and camera shutters release to freeze a moment from the past today. Four-Sixty-Three pulls into Chama a half-hour late. Missing the schedule is death to a train man. They apologize and ask forgiveness.
For people not staying in Chama a modern motor coach whisks passengers back to Antonio in one hour. The same voyage that took us nine hours by train. I feel sorry for those poor people, they’ll never get that hour back.
It’s March in central Florida, cool and clear. I get the call from Ed in the late afternoon. A couple of his California friends are racing motorcycles in the 600cc class. He wants me to help them out. The sun is setting low over Lake Schimmerhorn, the sky a blood-orange deepening to cobalt blue high overhead. White, high-persistence contrails cross the sky in an Atlanta-Orlando direction. The scene outside the Love Shack looks like a flag from The Republic of Kodachrome. “Yeah” I say, gently pulling the wrapper of a grape Jolly Rancher. The candy rotates clockwise between my fingers. “I’ll go.”
“Cool, you met Jeff and Beaver at the retirement party held after the anniversary party,” Ed said. “Remember Torrance?” In the background I hear a machine scraping metal: another of Ed’s big-block Moto-Guzzis. The man can’t leave motorcycles alone.
“Torrance? Yeah, I remember, my wife said Jeff seemed kind of depressed. Happily married, good corporate job; didn’t he give up racing?”
“He did, then he didn’t,” said Ed. “Look for the Baby Appleseed pits. Get there early tomorrow, I told them you’re coming.”
It’s 38 degrees in the morning. My Italian-era Husqvarna 510 stumbles and stalls, then lights off on the fourth push of the button. I rev the engine and slip the clutch on the Husky’s tall first gear. A sloppy, brapp-brapp snarls out of the pipe and ricochets from aluminum singlewide trailers to sway-backed modular homes. I turn right onto Highway 40. Open the throttle and the Husky’s tachometer rips past 9000 rpm, front wheel climbing on the surge. Two, three, four, five, six, shift as fast as you can, man.
I’ve got to keep the front down. It’s dark. Highway 40 is damp with morning dew. The headlamp flickers intermittently between low beam and parking light, low beam and parking light. It’s a random problem and one I can’t solve. Oncoming cars dip their headlights, thinking I’m flashing them. I wish I could stop and explain Italian motorcycle electrical systems but there’s no time. It’s cold. My hands hurt.
At the very end of Pit Row the black, the white and red Baby Appleseed logo is splashed across two huge gazebo tents. I guess with Ed involved I expected one rusty Craftsman toolbox and a mid-eighties Moto-Guzzi Alfresco. I’d find Jeff and Beaver slumped over, gently sobbing. Beaver’s greasy jeans would have holes in both knees.
Pit row, Daytona.
“What’s the problem, boys?” My confident tone would instantly buck them up. “The bike has a high rpm miss, Gresh, we’ve been trouble shooting the damn thing for days.” I’d get in there and clean the fuel filter, maybe straighten a bent metering needle and the bike would run perfect, you know, save the day.
Baby Appleseed’s pit has two mechanics, electric tire warmers and a second rider, Neils, owner of the high-end baby furniture company sponsoring the team. There’re computers to track lap times, 120 volt AC generators and air compressors.
Both Appleseed motorcycles are decked out in Baby Appleseed racing colors. Back in the dry pits there’s a motorhome with a full-body Baby Appleseed wrap parked in front of a dual-axle Baby Appleseed trailer stocked with Baby Appleseed race parts. The mechanics wear Baby Appleseed logoed race shirts. Jeff has qualified in the front row for race one. To the untrained observer it appears they’re doing ok without me.
“My wife was worried about you.” I tell Jeff, “At that party in Torrance she said you seemed unhappy, settling for security.”
Jeff looks at me, grins, “I’m down to 140 pounds, I’ve been training every day, running. You’ve got to be light to keep up with these kids.”
“She’s sort of an Empath.” I explain, “Like Deanna Troy on Star Trek. When I told her you were racing again she got a little teary-eyed.” Jeff nods, unsure of the protocol. I better close it out. “Anyway, people tell her everything, man. I mean, people she’s never met spill their life story within two minutes.”
“Um,” Jeff says, “Tell her I’m ok. Tell her I’m happy.”
We’re watching the race feed one of the pit monitors. Jeff’s dicing for the lead, the crew is wound up tight. Two laps in, the front tire pushes and Jeff wads the Baby Appleseed bike, a hundred mile per hour get-off. Mostly we see a cloud of dust as the bike tumbles through the infield. It’s hard to tell what’s going on with the monitor. There’s Jeff walking away. Collective relief: “That’s all right then, we can fix the bike.” I think that was Neils’ dad.
By the time I get to the dry pits the bodywork on Jeff’s bike is already gone. Every part that sticks out is either broken, bent, or ground off. One mechanic is removing forks, the other removes the mangled sub-frame then goes back to pit row. Neils is still racing. Jeff surveys the damaged bike, “Damn. We don’t need this extra work.” The bike has to be fixed by 7 PM, when the dry pits close. I better help sort things out.
The bike is down to the frame and motor. “Can I do anything to help?”
The mechanic stops wrenching on the triple clamps, thinks three beats. “Uh, yeah, drain the gas from the wrecked tank.” I grab the tank, “What do you want me to put it into?”
The mechanic looks up again, “What?”
I hold the tank up, “The gas. Where you want it?”
He looks around the pits, “ Um, I don’t know, see if you can find an empty can in the trailer.” He goes back to the triple clamps. Jeff is sweeping the work area, picking up small bits of motorcycle. The mechanics dodge around us to work on the bike.
The trailer is locked. I go back to the pits. “Sorry to bug you again, man, the trailer is locked. Do you have a key?” Water runs from a radiator hose into a plastic, 5 gallon bucket.
“The key? It’s locked?” Hands dripping, “Lemme see if it’s in here.” He searches the top tray of his rollaway toolbox. “Damn, it was here.” He scans the pit area, “I don’t know where it went. Listen, I got to get this radiator off.”
I find Neils, still in his leathers. He just pulled in after a solid race, finishing 20-something out of 60 bikes. I ask him if he has a key to the trailer.
“What?” Sweat runs down his face, “Find my dad, I think he has one.” I wander past the trailer. The door is open. Beaver is inside. There’s an assortment of cans.
“Which can should I use to drain the gas from the smashed tank?” I ask.
“What?” Beaver replies, putting down two replacement wheels.
“I need to drain the gas from the old tank.”
“Oh, um…take this one.” Beaver hands me a can.
“You got a funnel?” The other mechanic is back. He’s sliding a new fork leg into new a new set of triple clamps.
“What?” He stops sliding the leg.
“A funnel, to pour the gas into this can.” I hold up the can Beaver gave me.
“Don’t use that can. Use the one under that pile of bodywork. I don’t want it mixed up.” I move a broken plastic tailpiece and there’s a can underneath. The fill opening is one inch wide.
“Man, I hate to bug you, I need a funnel.”
The mechanic stops working on the forks and gives a hunted look around the pit area, “Jeff, find this guy a funnel.”
“Look in that box on the rolling tray.” Jeff says. I find three big, red funnels. I fit the funnel and begin to pour the gas from the bent tank into the can.
“Hey! Put a sock on that funnel!” The first mechanic yells at me, putting down the handle bar he was about to install.
“A sock?” I have no idea what he is talking about. Jeff hands me a cloth filter with a sewn-in elastic edge to stretch over the wide end of the funnel. I fit the filter and pour the gas.
“Watch what you’re doing!” There’s a puddle of gas on the floor. I’m so intent on not missing the funnel mouth I don’t notice that the tank’s internal vent tube is pissing gas. It’s a like a frigging geyser, man. Tipping the tank upright increases the flow, broadcasting a liberal dose of high-octane race fuel around the pit area. Both mechanics drop their tools and run over with rags. They start mopping up the spill.
“We got to clean this up! If the AMA guys see this they’ll freak out, you can’t have pools of gas laying around in here!”
Beaver appears beside me and guides me by the elbow away from the spill. “Can you give me a hand moving the gear from pit row?” We walk out to the Baby Appleseed tents on pit row, a distance of some 300 yards. Beaver hands me two cartons of water, I walk back to the trailer. Next trip Beaver hands me three tires to carry, I take them back to the trailer, then a big stack of sprockets.
There’s one of those folding carts parked at the tents. Beaver hands me the portable generator. The damn thing is heavy. “Can I use that cart?”
“No.” Beaver says, “It’s easier to carry the stuff.” I move gear back and forth from pit row to the trailer. Late in the afternoon I glance over at the pits, Jeff’s bike is rebuilt and has passed tech inspection.
The next day Jeff’s rebuilt bike runs near the front all day long and in a photo finish misses the podium by inches. I call my wife with the results. She’s happy, she tells me Jeff is doing what he’s supposed to be doing. The sky turns blood-orange deepening into cobalt-blue high overhead. The Baby Appleseed team is upbeat, they’ve got an entire racing season ahead of them. I only hope they can do as well when I’m not around.
I admit, I went full geek on camera gear for a few years. I spent thousands of dollars securing professional-level gear and studied photography online with the fervor of a Bit Coin disciple. I bought lenses, flashguns, radio-controlled shutter releases, more flashguns that communicated with each other via optical signals. I bought tripods, then heavier tripods, then sexto-pods with so many legs it was like wrestling an octopus trying to set the things up.
My gear kept getting bigger and bigger, like modern adventure bikes. Cameras got so large and unwieldy I stopped carrying them. I can make a good picture now but it takes 50 pounds of gear and forty-five minutes to set up the shot. I wasn’t enjoying events because I was lugging camera junk around and photographing stuff instead of seeing stuff. I need to experience a thing to write about it and camera gear was adding a wooly layer of techno-neediness over my senses.
I’ve since downsized to a Canon Rebel XS with an 18-200mm zoom lens and nothing else. If I can’t get the shot with that setup I’ll take a picture of something else. Taking great pictures is not important to me anymore. I need photos that help tell a story but not become the story. I run Canon gear because it’s cheap (relatively) and plentiful on the used market. Owning a Canon is like driving a Chevy Malibu; it’ll get you there but no one will be thrilled to see you pull up in the thing. All the pros use Canon gear. I imagine it’s because they always have, not due to any inherent superiority of function.
A camera is a tool, like a hammer but not as sturdy. If you can’t hit a nail the best hammer in the world will not help your aim. Nikon vs Canon? Until those guys start making phones I’ll choose an Iphone. The thing fits in my pocket and is nearly indestructible. It takes pictures that would be considered unbelievably good twenty-five years ago. It shoots decent video and if it’s not windy the audio isn’t half-bad, a must in today’s multi-media, everything-all-the-time landscape.
I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings but us oldsters are through. Our time has passed. No one cares if we like electric motorcycles or have range anxiety or just don’t like the silence. They don’t care. Bemoan the new kids all you want but we are dead-generation walking and the future always bats last.
Much like when your old granny starts using Instagram or throws down internet slang terms like LOL, Harley-Davidson’s new, Pan America concept motorcycle is a sure sign that the out-sized ADV fad has played itself out. It can’t come a moment too soon for me because these giant dirt motorcycles are the worst idea to come down the pike since Thalidomide. I won’t list the moto-journos that have injured themselves on these bikes but it’s a who’s who of two-wheeled typists. Remember, these are the pros!
I admit, I went full geek on camera gear for a few years. I spent thousands of dollars securing professional-level gear and studied photography online with the fervor of a Bit Coin disciple. I bought lenses, flashguns, radio-controlled shutter releases, more flashguns that communicated with each other via optical signals. I bought tripods, then heavier tripods, then sexto-pods with so many legs it was like wrestling an octopus trying to set the things up.