Joe Gresh

The Wayback Machine: That’s Not How We Do It In China

By Joe Gresh

See that gap? That narrow space between the semi-truck hauling 20-foot long, 6-inch diameter solid aluminum rods and the BMW M6? I’m taking it, man, riding the horn button and twisting the throttle: zoom-zoom. See that intersection? The one with a whirlpool of scooters, three-wheeled single-cylinder diesel trucks and at least a hundred cars spinning left leaving eddys of pedestrians lapping at the edges? I’m a Hurricane Hunter riding straight into the maelstrom buffeted from side to side, tip-toeing around, swerving, cussing, sweating and focused, man, focused.

China’s city traffic requires all your intensity, taxes all your ability and is like nothing I have ever seen on the planet. There is no respite. There is no pause, You must lock on and track hundreds of individual trajectories from every point on the compass, constantly. Insane traffic scenarios unfold at a lightning pace, there’s no time to marvel at the stupidity. There’s only time to act.

The chaos is cultural: Chinese motorists drive like they’re riding a bicycle because they were only a few years ago. In less than one generation the Chinese have gone from pedals to 125cc Honda clones to driving millions of air-conditioned automobiles on surface streets designed for a sleepy agricultural nation. At any given moment dozens of traffic rules are being broken within 50 feet of your motorcycle. It’s a traffic cop’s dream.

Except that there aren’t any. For a Police State there are not many police in China. I’ve ridden entire days and not seen one Po-Po. My Chinese friends tell me the police show up for collisions but otherwise stay low-key. Because of this hands-off approach stop signs are ignored. Red lights mean slow down. You can make a left turn from the far right lane and no one bats an eye.

China uses the drive-on-the-right system but in reality left-side driving is popular with large trucks and speeding German sedans. Get out of the way or die, sucker. Painted lane-stripes are mere suggestions: Drive anywhere you like. Of course, sidewalks and breakdown lanes are fair game for cutting to the front of the cue.

China’s modernization process has happened so fast that the leap from two-wheeled utility vehicle to motorcycles as powersports fun never really occurred. In China there are millions of people riding motorcycles but relatively few motorcyclists.

If the cars don’t get you there are other strange rules that serve to dampen the popularity of Chinese motorcycling as a hobby. Motorcycles are banned on most major toll ways between cities. Law-abiding motorcyclists are shunted off to the old, meandering side roads. Which would be fun if they weren’t so infested with heavy, slow moving semi-trucks and near certain construction delays. In practice, since tollbooths have no ability to charge motorcyclists, Chinese riders blow through the far right lane, swerving to avoid the tollgate’s swinging arm. Ignore the bells, shouting and wild gestures of the toll-takers and roll the throttle on, brother.

Being banned from the highway is not a deal breaker, but being banned from entire cities is. In response to crimes committed by bad guys on motorcycles many cities remedied the problem by eliminating motorcycles altogether. Sales of new motorcycles in these forbidden cities is non-existent.

Rules designed to discourage motorcycling abound. Vehicles over 10 years old are not allowed to be registered, thus killing the used and vintage scene. Gasoline stations require motorcyclists to park far from the gas pumps and ferry fuel to their bikes in open-topped gas cans. Add to that the general opinion of the public that motorcycle riders are shifty losers too poor to afford a car.

So why do Chinese motorcyclists bother to ride at all? It’s not the thrill of speed; 250cc is considered a big bike in China and it’s really all you need to keep up with the slow moving traffic. I’ve spent a lot of time with Chinese riders and even with the language barrier I get that they ride for the same reasons we do: The road, the rain, the wind. After being cooped up in a high rise apartment (very few Chinese live in single-family homes) I imagine the wide-open spaces between crowded cities must seem like heaven. They did to me. Chinese motorcyclists and Low Riders ride a little slower, taking long breaks to smoke a cigarette, drink in the scenery or just nap. Every motorcyclist you meet is instantly your dear friend because we share this passion and despite all the minor regulatory hassles everybody knows love conquers all.

More epic motorcycle adventures? You bet!

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The Wayback Machine: Pit Noir

By Joe Gresh

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.

“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.

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Nose Job: 1971 Yamaha RT1-B Front End Refresh

By Joe Gresh

The Yamaha RT1-B 360cc that I call Godzilla has been my long haul dirt bike choice for years. The old Yamaha has criss-crossed the country on dirt and on pavement and I had it set up to carry a lot of gasoline and a lot of gear. Up front, I removed the non-functional speedometer/tachometer cluster and replaced it with a luggage rack. The rack worked great, it redistributed the weight of my travel gear and made the bike handle less worse than if everything was strapped to the back rack.

I crashed in Beaver, Utah a few years ago and mangled the front rack so I removed it for future repairs. While I was at it I got rid of the cheesy GPS mount that fit a GPS I no longer owned. Truthfully, I don’t need that stuff because haven’t been doing any long distance dirt rides lately. It seems like all my rowdy friends have settled down. Anyway, with that junk out of the way the view from the saddle was kind of sparse. I decided to freshen up Godzilla’s front end.

I rode Godzilla for many years with the stock handlebars (bottom bars) and they were fine. The last couple rides my wrists started hurting a bit and I think the sweep back angle was causing too much stress on my decrepit body. The bars on the Husky are almost flat across and very comfortable so I bought a new, lower, flatter bar (top bar). The new bar has no cross brace and is made of powder-coated aluminum; I’m hoping they flex a bit more to smooth out the really rough trails where I tend to crash.

After replacing the handlebars my horn quit working. I figured that the process of removing and replacing the switch must have disturbed the rust inside so I dismantled and cleaned out the three switches in the control module. The horn button was really rusty and the other switches looked none too good, either.

After all that work on the switches the horn still didn’t beep. The Yamaha wiring supplies the horn with power and the horn button grounds the circuit through the handlebars, triple clamps, and steering head bearings then on to the frame, which is grounded. This convoluted electrical path makes the horn go beep. I took the headlight apart and grounded the horn wire inside the headlight housing. It worked. Then I grounded the horn to the new handlebars: nothing. Turns out, powder coat is an effective electrical isolator. Instead of scraping the powder coat off to make a connection I ran an extra ground wire to the switch pod. Now I had a horn.

For a speedometer I decided to try one of those cableless, GPS, analog types from Amazon. The voltage input on the speedo is 9 to 32 volts and the thing powered up fine on Godzilla’s 6-volt battery. Since this fancy electronic wizardry was all new to me I also bought a 6-volt to 12-volt converter to make sure the speedo had plenty of voltage. All this junk needed to go somewhere so I made a LeCrox template and chopped the side out of a storage cabinet for sheet metal.

After bending and welding the gauge console I gave it a lick of spot putty and some black paint to hide the sins of my welding. Next all the pieces went into the housing and I pre-wired the speedometer so that it would plug into an unused, key-switched, 6-volt power wire inside the headlight.

I used the existing Yamaha speedo/tach mounting base by adding a couple rubber lord mounts and assembled the whole mess onto the motorcycle. It powered up fine and was ready for a test ride.

The test ride was a failure. Not because of the speedo (it worked great), but the cantilevered gauge console flexed the rubber mounts so much the gauge was dancing up and down like a set of those humorous, wind up chattering teeth. It was back to the shop for a quick brace on the front of the console.

I used the high beam indicator hole on the headlight shell and ran a short brace to another lord mount that steadied the gauge nicely. Now I can bang around in the dirt without the speedometer trying to slap me upside the head. Hopefully it won’t push the headlight aim down.

To finish off the front-end facelift I bought a new mirror to replace the crappy bar-end mirror. The old bar-end mirror was a bicycle part and never worked very well. It was there for legal, not visual reasons. The new mirror gives me a fairly clear view of what is going on behind me.

The GPS speedometer is smooth. You have to wait a few seconds while it acquires a satellite fix but from then on it seems just like a regular speedometer except it is accurate and the needle is steady. With no reception it won’t work indoors but I don’t ride far indoors. I zipped the RT1-B up to 75 miles per hour and all was well.

There are several functions you can access like different color backlights, Trip 1, Trip 2, odometer and compass. Trip 1 is sort of useless because it resets each time you turn the key off. Trip 2 supposedly saves the data and you have to hold a button for 3 seconds to clear it. The compass is a 360-degree type so you get a numerical reading instead of north, south, east and west. I’ll have to mess with the thing a little more to see how all this flimflammery works.

One thing I don’t like is that the mode and set buttons are on the back of the speedo. This is not a problem for a motorcycle because you can reach behind and push them. If the speedo was mounted in a car or boat dash this would be a deal killer. If I had it to do over I would try to find a unit with the buttons on the face. Also, it would be nice if the antenna could be incorporated into the gauge, eliminating the external antenna but that probably wouldn’t work in a car.

For a prototype my dash console works good enough. If the speedo holds up I may re-work the design a bit. If I flipped the mounting flange 180 degrees the mounting bolts would be hidden inside the console and it would move the speedo back a bit which I think would look better. As it is the gauge console has a clunky, AMF-era, Harley-Davidson look to the thing. I may remake the console using aluminum as the sheet metal one, while thin, is not very light. Godzilla is a high society motorcycle now with its modern, space age speedometer; I guess there’s nothing more for me to do but to join my peers down at the local Starbucks.

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The Wayback Machine: What do you have in your project bank?

By Joe Gresh

There are more ways to measure wealth than money. Sure, traditionalists rely on a strict net worth approach, adding up the figures on electronic statements in a system where the winner is whoever has the highest number. You can count all sorts of things, though. You can count friends, you can count grandchildren, you can count experiences: These are forms of wealth that won’t show up on that balance email from the bank.

When it comes to future projects I am a very wealthy man. I’ve got them lined up out the door and around the corner. And my account keeps growing; with compound interest my Project Bank doubles every seven years. Most of these projects will never see the light of day but they remain secure in my thoughts, if not in my actions.

On of my largest assets is the 4-speed Suburban project. When I bought the ’90 ‘Burb it came with a malfunctioning automatic transmission. I hate automatics and malfunctioning ones even more so. The 700R4 works in Drive and Reverse but not in 1-2-3. The truck runs fine and it will tote a 3000-pound load without complaint but that boring automatic has got to go. It’s a rare Suburban that came with a 4-speed from the factory and even rarer to see a ½-ton version. I’ve only seen one 4-speed ‘Burb and it was ¾-on. This project keeps earning interest and I’ve been training a weather eye on Internet sale sites for a cheap, manual transmission, 4X4 GM truck to steal the guts from. I found a late model, 4X4-IFS 1/2-ton truck with a 5-speed and a nice FI engine that ran well but the transfer case and transmission housing were broken and besides everything was on the wrong side for the old straight axle suburban.

The chalky blue, 1974 MG GT came with Tinfiny Ranch and was listed as an out building on the deed. This car was on the chopping block until I started reading about MG’s with Buick 215 cubic-inch aluminum engine swaps. I really have to stay off the internet. The Buick engine triples the horsepower, doesn’t weigh much more than the iron 4-banger it replaces and sounds cool as hell revved up to 6000 RPM. This is one asset I kind of wish was not in my Project Bank as I’ve never been that interested in cars. Still, it’s there waiting on me.

Tinfiny Ranch itself is a huge source of endless work, but beyond the physical plant The Ranch continues to deposit surprises into my Project Bank. This Merry Tiller project revealed itself as I was hauling away two, multi-panel garage doors. The doors sections were stacked with spacers in the popular rat-paradise fashion and I gave chase to a couple fat rats but they got away from me in the thick brush down by the ravine. The Merry Tiller looks like it will come in handy for the raised-bed vegetable garden (yet another deposit in The Project Bank) I’m planning for the back yard. The engine on the tiller is not stuck and being a Briggs & Stratton I’m sure it will run so I’m leaving it in The Bank for safe keeping.

I will never be bored or lonely. My Project Bank is overflowing with cool things that need time and attention. After I level the back yard I’m going to build a shear wall for the shed, then I need to get back on the Zed. After that I’d like to pop a 6-cylinder + AX15 transmission into Brumby the Jeep. The Suburban needs new paint; I’m going to change it from black to white so it will be cooler inside. Better yet I’ll fix the air-conditioner, it’s all there except for the compressor. I really need a second rain barrel, too, as I’m leaving water on the table with only 2500 gallons of storage.

The projects pile one atop the other and the magnitude of the undertaking gives me a great sense of importance. When I die I want to be buried like a Viking in his ship except my grave will be filled with all the unfinished projects that kept me company while I was alive. You really can take it with you, mainly because no one else wants your junk.

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Fighting Mud With Mud

By Joe Gresh

ExhaustNotes readers may think I pour a lot of concrete but that’s not really true. I do pour concrete frequently but only a little at a time. My limiting factor is how much total work I can get done in one day. That number dwindles as I grow older. I pour 30 to 40 60-pound bags of 4000 psi concrete on average. Any more and I start to have problems keeping up the finish work and any less is not worth getting the tools dirty. Cleanup takes a lot of time and if you don’t wash everything each time your tools become encrusted with dried concrete. It’s never fun to work with heavy, dirty tools.

Take my latest project, the driveway in front of the little shack we call The Carriage House. In an attempt to class up the place I am removing the existing driveway, which consisted of remnants of old rugs thrown over dirt. We acquired the rugs from a Physical Therapy training center. The PT rugs were in great condition and very sturdily constructed. Best of all they were free. The rugs served us well for many years by adding a semi-pervious layer between our feet and the dirt below. Engineered earth is the technical term, I think, for fabric-supported fill.

Of course, old rugs aren’t the most perfect solution for driveways or everyone would be using them. You’d see them in Beverly Hills or New York City, not just in poverty stricken rural areas. After several years the rugs become impregnated with dirt and are impossible to vacuum, much less shampoo. Being semi-pervious you still get mud underneath the rug although you don’t sink in as far as you would if going bare earth.

For this driveway I’m using a decorative finishing method called No Need To Square. No Need To Square means just that: the concrete is formed and finished in a random pattern giving the illusion of being made from many individual pavers. No Need To Square frees the concrete from The Man’s rigid, conformist hierarchy. It allows the finisher to follow the jagged contours found in the crystalline structure of cast Iron like you see in those electron-microscope photographs. The only constant is the slope that steers water runoff towards the drainage ditch running alongside The Carriage House.

Just as a cubist must master fine arts before experimenting with abstract art, the concrete finisher must master the square before leaving it far behind. Unfortunately, I am neither an artist nor a concrete finisher so things can go pear shaped quickly if you don’t mind your grades.

I’ve purchased a new tool for this driveway project: a belt-mounted tie wire spool. Tie wire is used to tie rebar together so that it doesn’t shift position when the concrete pours into the form or clumsy finishers kick it around when striking off. I owned a spool many years ago when I was a construction worker. My old one was more open, like a cage. You could see the wire in the spool, unlike this new one. I don’t know what happened to that old spool.

You’d think as often as I do little concrete pours I would have bought a wire spool sooner and I would have except for the price. The things are like $47 at Home Depot for an off-brand spool. I found a Klein brand spool on Amazon for only a dollar more than the clone version at HD. I’ve seen cheaper, plastic versions and they probably work fine.

There are basically two types of ties for re-bar: the saddle for tying re-bars that cross at right angles and the plain old loop for tying straight pieces together. I like to make up a bunch of each type before starting to tie. Real iron workers make up saddles and loops as they go so because it’s faster and they don’t have to carry a bunch of little, pre-made bits. I’m never in a hurry. Sitting in a chair with New Mexico’s warm, winter sun shining down on me gives the pre-tying process a sort of Zen-like quality. Sometimes I fall into a trance and end up making 600 of the things.

If you’ve tied much wire you know how easily an unspooled roll of wire can unwind and get tangled up. Pulling wire from the center results in a pig’s tail that you need to straighten out before using. I always double up my wires, as a single strand is easy to break when twisting the rebar tight. The doubling method uses twice as much wire but it makes for a secure grid of rebar. It’s also easy to get stabbed with tie wire and the spool allows you to wind it back inside for the safety of everyone involved on the project.

I’m going to tackle the driveway in two parts: the southern and northern wings. I’ll do the southern (higher) side first. That will give CT somewhere to park while I work on the northern (lower) section. I expect to be working on the southern section for a month or so before the weather gets too cold and I take a break and go back to tying up loose ends on motorcycles.

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Acid Reflux: Yamaha RD350 Battery Box

I’ve been putting miles on the 1974 RD350 in the last few months, almost doubling the 4100 miles that showed on the bike’s odometer when I first got it. As my confidence in the bike increases so do the miles racked up in a single ride. This increase in running time has led to a problem with the battery that was installed in the RD350.

The battery seemed to work okay; it held a charge and didn’t use too much electrolyte but the fill plugs located on top were seeping a bit of acid. The caps felt snug and the battery vent was not clogged yet after a long ride the acid-damp lay heavy on the battery and even started dripping down the sides. I sort of let it slide for a while. Riding the RD is too much fun and stopping the bike for maintenance seemed like a waste of good weather.

Now that it’s a bit cooler I tackled the battery situation. The acid had dripped down onto the swing arm and corroded the battery box along with the small coil spring that keeps the oil tank vent from kinking. My laziness always comes back to haunt me.

I took the battery box, along with the attached rectifier and voltage regulator out of the frame and washed everything down with a mix of baking soda and water. The affected paint fell off in large chunks. I dismantled the electrical components and soaked the battery box in Evap-Rust then wire brushed any loose paint.

It was a nippy week at The Ranch so painting the box in 50-degree weather was a challenge. I heated the rattle can and the battery box to within 2.8 degrees of each other (measured via a recently calibrated fingertip) then shot the box with primer and two coats of Krylon satin black. I used a brush to apply paint to the bare spots on the swing arm.

It all came out good enough and anyway, I’m riding this bike, not showing it. The electrical bits, being directly under the battery did not suffer any acid corrosion. I cleaned them up and reassembled the mess into the motorcycle.

Many older motorcycles do not regulate their voltage as precisely as you would like and my Yamaha RD350 is one of the many. With the headlights on and engine revving I measured 14/14.1 volts at the battery. This is ideal. With the headlights off 15 volts were going into the battery. 15 volts is a little too high for comfort but I decided that since I leave the headlights on all the time the original regulator would be okay.

My good buddy Deet told me about using sealed, AGM type, alarm-system/UPS batteries in old bikes. I have had one of them in Godzilla, the 1971 RT1-B for a couple years and it has been working great. These type batteries hold a charge much longer than flooded lead acid batteries. The new one I bought on Amazon has a high tolerance for high voltage; it can handle up to 15-volts charging. These AGM standby batteries can withstand constant trickle charging and long periods of inactivity, which describes vintage motorcycle riding to a tee. The small spade terminals on these batteries are not made for large current loads like an electric starter or lighting up the strip in Las Vegas but they can handle motorcycle lighting and ignition circuits without complaint.

At 4AH the new battery has a bit less capacity than the leaky old 5.5AH unit I took out but I think it will work okay. Close enough counts in hand grenades, horseshoes and motorcycle batteries.

The new battery is a skosh smaller than the old battery so I used some closed-cell packing foam to keep the thing from rattling around inside the battery box. The RD350 is once again ready to rumble. From my experience with the RT1-B, I’m not anticipating any problems with the RD350 but I’ll be sure to let ExhaustNotes readers know if I have any issues with the new AGM set up.

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Water Security

As mentioned in a previous ExhaustNotes story titled “Guilt Trip,” our water well at the ranch has become unreliable. In order to quickly bring some stability to the situation we decided to install a storage tank and re-shuffle the way water is delivered to our shack.

After pouring a slab to support the new, 3000-gallon water tank we had the local Tank Guy deliver Big ‘Mo to the ranch. Big ‘Mo cost $2800 delivered to our door and that’s a bit expensive but it seems like everything costs more since the Covid crisis eased up. Home Depot has a 2500-gallon tank that is slightly lighter construction for $2300 plus $80 delivery plus tax so the per gallon price is comparable. Buying local means the Tank Guy will spend his money locally. Anyway, I don’t like the way our local Home Depot stores their tank inventory. They put the tanks on their sides instead of the bottom. This makes it easier to move the tanks with a forklift but I suspect it does the tank no good having all the weight where it’s not designed to go.

The Tank Guy stores his tanks upright, just north of Tularosa in a big field across from the railroad overpass. Our tank showed up securely strapped to a trailer…on its side. But only for the time it took to arrive at the ranch. These tanks look huge but they are rotocast plastic and are not that heavy. The 3000-gallon tank weighs 500 pounds. It took the Tank Guy, the Tank Guy’s wife and me to slide the tank up a ramp I handily screwed together earlier for pouring the tank slab.

I installed two ball valves in the bottom of the tank, one ¾-inch for the output and one ½-inch to fill the tank. Tank filling can be done three ways: by water delivery truck, gravity fed from the upper level shed storage tank, or by pumping well water into the tank. A jumble of shut-off valves can be juggled to pressure feed the house from the well, from Big ‘Mo via a centrifugal pump or by gravity from the upper level storage. I’m into redundancy when it comes to water.

If you live in areas that freeze you’ll want to add a pipe heater and insulate any exposed pipe. The black tank helps keep the water from freezing and when the sun comes out we rarely get days under 40 degrees so water freezing in the tank has not been an issue so far.

I took this re-plumbing opportunity to eliminate the water softener and reduce the size of the very old well pump expansion tank. The water softener periodically runs a flush cycle and being on a fixed water supply we can’t waste water like that. The bladder inside the big expansion tank became porous over the years and water had migrated to the dry side causing rust. Plus it was too damn big. I’m thinking it will make a great stand alone fireplace or smoker.

From Big ‘Mo water is piped through a mesh screen filter, a one-way check valve and into a centrifugal pump that provides 40psi of pressure to a large 5-micron filter and on to the house plumbing. The pump has its own small expansion tank that seems to keep a fairly steady flow of water to the fixtures. You can see the flow increase a bit when the pump cycles but nothing a rough, tough, couple of pioneers like CT and I can’t handle.

Since we’ve moved from hot, humid Florida to a colder climate I’ve learned that PVC plumbing is not ideal in freezing conditions. Going forward I’m trying to use PEX plumbing in all my projects and I’ve been happy with the results so far. PEX uses a more flexible pipe that is crimped onto brass PEX fittings with brass/copper-ish crimp rings. You’ll need a special PEX crimp tool to compress the rings onto the PEX fittings. Once crimped, you can spin PEX pipe on its brass fitting (within reason) without causing a leak. I haven’t had one PEX-related leak yet, even when tight working conditions result in a less than optimal crimp. I wish I could say the same for the PEX-to-threaded-pipe connections. One thing to keep in mind is that PEX pipe is not UV resistant so cover any pipes that will see sunlight.

Like most plumbing systems PEX has to be cut and pipes replaced if you need to change anything. You’ll need a PEX removal tool if you want to reuse the brass PEX fittings and why wouldn’t you want to reuse them? The ability to reuse PEX fittings is a big deal. When is the last time you were able to reuse a glued PVC fitting or soldered copper fitting? The removal tool cuts the crimp ring without cutting into the PEX barb. Once the ring is out of the way you can crimp V-shaped depressions around the bit of PEX stuck on the barb. Crimping the Vee’s causes the PEX pipe circumference to expand and the pipe will slide right of the barb without causing undue stress.

It’s a bad feeling when your well runs dry. All of a sudden your shack becomes unlivable. But by building in a little extra infrastructure we have water security even if it means buying water from our local water delivery service. And I have plans on the table for catching much more rain during the next monsoon season that will nearly eliminate our reliance on bought water.

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Grind Me A Pound Of Reverse: Part 4

Putting a motorcycle engine back together is much harder than taking it apart. Staring at the boxes of gears and cams the other day I found my memory beginning to fade, where did this spring go? I figured I better get on with the reassembly because if I waited any longer I wouldn’t remember who left their Husqvarna motorcycle in my shed. The nerve! Reluctantly, I set aside my ongoing concrete projects for a few days and began work on the Husky SMR510.

The crankcases and all internal parts were washed with mineral spirits turning the skin on my hands a nice shade of chalky white. After the mineral spirits a liberal application of Gunk engine degreaser was sprayed into all the nooks and crannies. Then a blast of good, Sunoco rainwater (filtered to 5 microns!) from the garden hose hopefully flushed out any stray bits of metal from the broken transmission. My little 18-volt Ryobi grass blower did a fair job of drying the pieces and laying the stuff out in the warm New Mexican sunshine finished the cleaning process.

Since the old transmission was the part that felled the Husqvarna and I was using a second-hand transmission, I dry fit the transmission and crankcase halves together. Once the gear shafts and shift forks were in their proper positions I spun the shift drum and is seemed like all 6 speeds were selectable.

I think I mentioned in a previous episode of Grind Me A Pound Of Reverse that I didn’t like the gear spacing on the second-hand transmission. The gears didn’t quite line up right. They were offset a couple thousandths of an inch to my eye. Anyway, I went ahead and gooped up the cases with Yamabond4 and with the crankshaft, balancer shaft and gearbox in place, slid the two cases together. They went together easily. Of course nothing is ever really easy, now is it?

I tried to spin the clutch shaft and the transmission was bound up tighter than a (sexual innuendo of your choice). Quickly, before the Yamabond4 had a chance to set I took the cases back apart and cleaned all the goop off the sealing surfaces. This situation needed more study, more than I was willing to give at the time so I gave up and went outside to dig a hole.

The next day I took a look at photos I had made during disassembly. I saw a spacer under the clutch basket and knew this same spacer was now inside the transmission. Turns out I had this spacer on the wrong side of the clutch shaft. This was also why the gears didn’t line up quite right. After relocating the spacer to outboard of the cases and reassembling the transmission, shift forks and then re-gooping the cases and tightening up the mess everything spun freely. This is what I mean by memory fading.

While its transmission might be fragile the Husqvarna has a well-engineered engine. Everything that spins rides on ball bearings; even the shift lever rides on needle bearings. This engine could run without oil for longer than you’d think. At 20,000 miles the valve train showed little wear, the cams were unmarred and the cam chain tensioners were in like-new condition. The whole layout is fairly simple and logical.

The big piston slips into a sleeveless aluminum cylinder bore coated with some sort of magic stuff that still showed hone marks. One area of concern is the base gasket. The gasket set I bought had a paper base gasket and the original was metal. From my experience the SMR510 engine has a lot of crankcase pressure. Hopefully the paper gasket works.

Installing the cylinder head was uneventful; the kit gasket looked like the same metal-sandwich material as the factory gasket. While I had the engine on the bench I checked the valve clearances. They wanted a bit of adjustment and in an amazing stroke of luck swapping the exhaust shims to the intake valves and the intake valve shims to the exhaust brought everything into spec. The fact that both left and right exhaust shims and both left and right intake shims were the same thickness speaks to even wear, careful machining and accurate valve installed-height during factory assembly.

There are a million bits to strapping the engine back into the frame. I put mostly new water hoses on because the kit I bought was missing a few. Since the swing arm was off I dismantled the rising-rate suspension linkage and greased the needle bearings. The forks on the Husky don’t turn sharp at all. To get a bit more steering angle I shortened the fork stops in an attempt to get an inch or two less turning radius. The fork tubes just kiss the plastic gas tank now so I’m maxed out. All in, it took the better part of a day to finish the engine install.

Starting the bike produced a few pops and farts until the fuel injection bled itself out and then the bike fired up! I leaned the Husky onto the side stand, lifting the rear wheel off the ground and ran through the transmission. All 6 gears were present and accounted for.

A quick test ride confirmed that even a stopped clock is right twice a day: I managed to get it back together and the bike runs just like before. Almost. The valve cover gasket is leaking so I’ll have to take a look at that. Total cost for the repair was around $400. My time, of course, was free. That’s $5600 less than a new Suzuki DR650, which was my Plan A when the Husky spit up its guts.

I think the reason for the Husqvarna transmission failing in the first place goes back to the SMR’s roots of being a dirt bike converted to street use. In the conversion process Husky’s engineers failed to put any kind of cushion in the drive train. You don’t really need cushion in the dirt because dirt is never all that grippy.

The crankshaft has a straight-cut gear to the clutch basket, the solid clutch basket has no cushioning springs, and then it’s direct to the transmission gears, to the countershaft sprocket and on to the rear wheel where there are no rubber cushions. The sprocket bolts solidly to the rear hub. Think about that big 500cc piston pounding the gearbox while the bike is on asphalt. The only give in the entire system is the rubber of the rear tire.

Maybe Berk is right: Maybe I just don’t know how to ride a 500cc single. (Note from Berk: I said that?) Seeing how the Husqvarna is built will change my riding style. I’ll let the engine rev a bit more and not lug the thing down to rattle on the gears. I’ll also try to stay on dirt roads whenever possible. Or, maybe it was a fluke. Only time and miles will tell.

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Nobody Puts Baby In A Box: Tractor Supply Box Blade Review

Most people think of New Mexico as a barren, desert state. Much of it consists of broad expanses of high, scrabbly bush land. But that’s not nearly all there is here. New Mexico has two mountain ranges running north to south dividing the land into separate areas each with their own style of terrain, east of the Pecos River you’ll find the flat, oil-rich Permian Basin. This area is New Mexico’s Golden Goose that never seems to run out of eggs. The Permian Basin pays a huge amount of taxes to the state coffers. The odor of salt water mixed with oil is everywhere. It makes me a little homesick for the bilges of boats I used to build and repair in Florida.

Moving west from the Pecos River you come to my mountains, the Sacramento Mountains. Tinfiny Ranch lies on the western foothills of the Sacramento Mountains looking out over the Tularosa Valley. At 6000 feet Tinfiny Ranch is both wetter and cooler than the small towns down in the flat lands of the valley 1500 feet below.

Tinfiny Ranch has small trees, maybe 20 feet high and all of the plant life is larger and happier than the small shrubs you find at lower elevations. Within Tinfiny Ranch there are two different ecosystems: the relatively damper lower arroyo area where some idiot decided to put the shack we live in and the higher, just slightly more arid upper area where the off-grid trophy shed sits. The elevation change is only 50 feet but the trees are noticeably larger and the undergrowth denser down by the Arroyo. There’s even a little grassy lawn struggling to survive in the lower reaches.

The upper and lower areas are connected by a steep dirt road that is always in need of repair. Whenever it rains the water cuts deep ruts across and parallel to the road. Monsoon season makes the road 4-wheel drive only. UPS and FedX stop delivering when the road gets too bad. They leave packages by the entrance gate instead of at our door.

Tractor Supply’s County Line Box Blade is just the ticket for grading and smoothing out the ruts in our driveway. Five feet wide, the box blade connects to the 3-point hitch on the back of standard tractors and comes mostly assembled except for a few thick bars of steel that make up the top mount. It’s a heavy chunk of steel and I can only lift one side at a time to move it.

Five depth-adjustable scarifying teeth mounted ahead of the leveling blade allow the box blade to break up hard ground. These teeth will catch roots and rocks and rip them out of the ground making it easier for the following blade to level the area. If you didn’t have the scarifying teeth the blade would just bounce over some obstacles leaving behind an uneven grade.

Tinfiny Ranch has a lot of big rocks from softball size to larger than a shopping cart. Running over one of these big boys will kick the box blade into the air with a loud crash. Some rocks you’ll want to dig out of the ground with a pick and pry bar instead of beating up the box blade.

With the box blade it took just a few hours to straighten out the road leading to the upper level. I’ll need to do some more work on it to fill in some low spots and cut down some high spots but it’s still raining so I don’t get too excited about making it perfect. At some point we will either asphalt the road or pave it with concrete. I’m leaning towards asphalt since I won’t have to do it.

I give the Tractor Supply box blade high marks for its low-ish $1000 price tag and high quality. That seems like a lot of money but try to find a used one. If you manage to it will be a wreck and cost $500. This County Line unit is a well built, heavy tool that will last your lifetime and maybe more. Once you get a box blade you’ll start finding all sort of areas that need leveling. Soon there won’t be a plant standing and your yard will be a broad, featureless plain, like some areas of New Mexico.

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Be a Professional Writer For ExhaustNotes!

Berk and I were discussing the challenges of taking on additional writers here at ExhaustNotes. We print new stories about every two days and while we appreciate our loyal readers it wouldn’t hurt to drag a bunch more subscribers into the fold. We’d like ExhaustNotes’ popularity to reflect the quality of the content and to increase ad revenue to match our prodigious output. Plus, younger, less jaded motorcyclists who actually like all the electronic junk manufacturers strap onto motorcycles would be kind of cool.

So we’ve decided to try a thing: Berk says the best way to increase Internet hits and ad revenue is to publish interesting stories from insightful and entertaining writers on a regular basis. To do that, ExhaustNotes will need more than just two guys typing in their spare time. We may need three. Or four. Or more.

I don’t know about you but I’m ready for some fresh new perspectives on motorcycling and with Berk pushing 72 and me pushing a crusty 65 we tend to give fresh new perspectives a bit of the old stinkeye. You’ll notice we type a lot of dream bike segments and none of them are modern bikes. Do not stand on our lawns.

Perspectives don’t have to be young to be fresh, just different. Let’s hear how you love the way your motorcycle makes all the power and braking decisions for the rider. Hey, you still get to steer… for now. Tell us about the biker lifestyle and how it differs from the cosplay actors at comic-com. Exactly how do you use a 200 horsepower, full-race motorcycle on the street and stay alive? Tell us in an interesting way and you’ll get paid for doing it!

How much will you make?

Glad you asked: ExhaustNotes uses a simple formula to calculate how much we earn. We take the total site income from advertisers and Google ads and subtract the expense of running the site. That gives us a pool of money to pay the writers. You won’t get paid by the word. For example, if revenue after expenses is $100 and we publish 100 stories then each story is worth $1. Now, say Berk writes 70 stories and I write 30 stories then Berk makes $70 and I make $30. This is the part where you new writers will come in: If we publish 5 stories from you then the split will reflect your contribution. Berk divvies the money up twice a year, assuming there’s revenue.

On the surface this seems self-defeating, since you’ll be making the same amount per story as me and Berk then we must be losing money. Maybe not. The idea is to increase revenue, build the reader base and create a bigger pie. If it works we’ll all get filthy rich and go live with the prostitutes. Okay, maybe I can’t go live with the prostitutes but one of you guys might be able to.

We understand the unfairness of a 3000-word story earning the same as a 700-word story but life is full of unfair situations. Writing for ExhaustNotes is just one more. Try to picture this whole ExhaustNotes website thing as a grand experiment that we are opening up to a wider pool of participants. Who knows what will happen?

If you’ve already been a guest columnist for ExhaustNotes you won’t get any money from your past stories. That ship has sailed. This new deal is going forward from today. Mike Huber’s Romanian travel story is the very first one of our new system.

A few other things you should know: Berk is going to be the editor-in-chief and his word is final, meaning submitting is not the same as getting published. Punctuation and grammar matter. If Berk has to re-write your story to make it intelligible he probably won’t use it. ExhaustNotes only pays if we publish your story and we pay poorly at that. You retain all rights to your work and can do whatever you want with it. Remember: You are not going to make a ton of money doing this. If you feel our accounting methods are not strenuous enough don’t submit a story.

Having the proper mindset is critical. Berk and I write ExhaustNotes for the fun of it. If you factor in our time, we lose money doing it and I see no good reason why you shouldn’t lose money writing for us, too. Any beer money that happens to come our way is gravy that we use to buy mini bikes and reloading components. Topics are mostly motorcycle related with guns and construction materials thrown in, but any topic that is interesting will be considered. Everyone has to start somewhere; I started my writing career with a simple letter to the editor of The Key West Citizen. Let’s see what starts your writing career.

If you have a story you’d like to propose on motorcycles, guns, Baja, reloading, great rides, great roads, or any other topic you think would be of interest to our readers, email us with your story idea at info@exhaustnotes.us.

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