Category: Gear

Becoming Vulcan Part 3: Yeswelder Cut-55DS Pro Plasma Cutter Review

By Joe Gresh

Anyone who wants to become Vulcan must learn how to cut metal. There are many methods available like bandsaws, oxyacetylene torch, abrasive wheels, hacksaws and the old reliable, bend-it-back-and-forth-until-it-breaks. One of the relatively newer methods (in relation to the age of the Universe) is a machine called the plasma cutter.

Plasma cutters used to be very expensive. The plasma machine we use at school cost around 4000 dollars and is rated at 60 amps. The global economy (AKA China) has driven down the cost of plasma cutters dramatically. The Yeswelder cutter in this story cost me under 200 dollars and is rated 55 amps. Shipping was free.

In use, a plasma cutter works much like an oxyacetylene cutting torch. The big difference is that you don’t need any fuel: no acetylene gas to buy or bottles to rent. The only thing burning in a plasma cutting system is the material you are cutting through.

The plasma cutter uses regular compressed air and a bunch of ions and magical stuff inside the cutting head to create a super-hot, narrow stream of plasma. It’s sort of like having your own pocket-sized northern lights shooting out of the torch to cut material.

Unlike oxyacetylene, there is no waiting for the material to heat up. With a plasma cutter you set the torch near the material and pull the trigger. A jet of plasma shoots out of the torch and you can start cutting immediately. The plasma cutter cuts at about the same speed as an oxy cutter so you can move right along.

The 55 DS Pro Yeswelder plasma cutter will operate using 120 or 240 volts AC using the included adaptor. The machine auto selects for the voltage you are plugged into. At 120VAC input the machine will only go to 30 amps. You’ll need 240 VAC to access all 55 amps of metal slashing power

My air compressor is too small for the plasma cutter and is located too far away from where I cut so there’s a long air hose involved; with a long hose line pressure drops fast. I made a remote air tank out of a defunct water pump to give me a little more cut time and eliminate the line drop. I can cut 6 to 10 inches before I have to wait for the compressor to catch up. If you’re going to be doing a lot of continuous cutting with a plasma cutter you’ll need a decent sized air compressor.

With the compressor and the plasma cutter operating simultaneously, my smallish off-grid inverter struggles and spits out a low voltage alarm when the compressor starts. To get around this problem I use a fossil fuel powered 10KW Honda generator. The big V-twin Honda doesn’t even notice when I cut with the plasma torch and the air compressor kicks in.

Most everything you need to get started is included with the Yeswelder Cut-55. You’ll need to provide the air compressor and connect an air hose to the built in pressure regulator/filter on the back of the Yeswelder. Unless you cut through the torch hose or spill a Big Gulp container of Pepsi Cola inside the cutter, normal consumables are only the bits inside the torch that churn out ions.

The controls are pretty simple on the Yeswelder Cut-55. There is an amp setting, an air pressure setting, 2T or 4T trigger actuation (on-off with squeeze and release or squeeze on, release, torch stays on, second trigger pull turns off) an indicator for input voltage and not much else. It’s a simple machine to operate.

I haven’t used the machine very much; it cut through 1/8-inch steel like a hot jet of plasma through 1/8-inch steel. There’s not as much slag as with oxy cutting so clean up is easier. It should handle ¼-inch steel without a problem and I don’t work with anything thicker.

The prices on these Chinese plasma cutters are so much lower than the old line companies something must be sacrificed. I’m guessing in a full time metal shop the cheapo versions wouldn’t last long but for guys like me or you who just want to cut out a metal silhouette of a buffalo once in a while the Yeswelder looks like the goods. I give it a 5-star rating on the Hacksaw Chi-Com scale. That being said I have only one caveat: The thing may go up in a ball of exploding ions tomorrow. If it does quit I’ll be sure to report it in a follow up story.

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ExNotes Product Test: Easyberg Wheel Balancer

By Joe Gresh

I usually use two jack stands with a long piece of ½” rod through the wheel bearings to balance a motorcycle tire. It works ok but there is a bit of drag on the bearings that makes balancing a sticky affair. You can get the wheel close but minor amounts of weight (like ½ ounce) won’t have much effect.

Since I got the Harbor Freight tire machine I’ve been happily changing tires as needed. I’ve done around eight tire changes and I’ve got the system somewhat down. The only thing I was missing was a dedicated tire balance stand. This is where the Easyberg (no relation to Joe Berg) tire balancer comes in.

An Amazon search will return about two dozen motorcycle tire balancers, and most of them look exactly the same. The Easyberg was the cheapest at the time I bought it, but prices sway back and forth depending on which seller is having a sale or coupon deal. I paid $36 for the balancer and there is no way I could build one as nice for that amount of money.

My Easyberg came unassembled. It was Easybarrak to assemble the thing, requiring only an open end wrench and a hex wrench. A tiny screwdriver was needed to tighten the bubble level.

Once assembled, the Easyberg I received was slightly tweaked. The axle did not run parallel to the base making the tire sit crooked in the stand. The Easyfoil material is thin enough that I could tweak it straight. Any warpage of the base due to the tweaking process can be taken out by the four, adjustable feet. I used a four-foot level on top of the axle to check the bubble and it was fairly accurate. I’m not sure being perfectly level is all that critical, but I set it up that way.

Using the balancer is Easyberg as pie. You slide the axle through the wheel and snug up the centering cones using the supplied Allen wrench to lock the cones into position. This next step is where the Easyberk…I mean berg, is better than jack stands. The four ball bearings supporting the axle spin much Easyburger than the bearings found in your motorcycle wheel; this free movement allows a finer balance. ¼ ounce of weight will cause the wheel to move.

I give the Easyberg four stars (out of five) subtracting one star due to the thing being crooked. Otherwise it’s Easilyberk worth the $36. I’m now fully set up to change motorcycle tires. At the speeds I run, usually less than 100 MPH this balancer does a good enough job and my limited riding skills can’t detect any wheel vibration at highway speeds.

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ExNotes Product Review: The Orient Panda

By Joe Berk

Some time ago, I wrote a blog about panda watches.  In it, I mentioned the Orient Panda.  I’ve been wearing one for several months now and I thought I’d share my opinions.

From an accuracy perspective, it just doesn’t get much better than what this Orient provides.  I set it to the U.S. National Institute of Standards and Technology (NIST) official time site, and it is still spot on after several months (no gain, no loss; it is accurate to the second).  The watch has a solar-powered quartz movement; you can’t realize that kind of accuracy with a mechanical watch.

I didn’t care for the Orient Panda’s stainless steel bracelet.  The bracelet’s appearance is good and the construction appears to be of high quality, but it was uncomfortable.  Maybe that was due to the bracelet’s relatively sharp edges.  I played around with the adjustment by removing links and then putting them back in, and also by moving the pin to different positions on the clasp, but I couldn’t get it to fit my wrist comfortably.  It was either too tight (which made it even more uncomfortable), or it would swim around on my wrist with the watch going from the top of my wrist to the opposite side (I hate it when a watch does that).

Orient and Breitling Pandas. The Orient is $160; the Breitling sells for $7,300.  For me, it was an easy decision.

I addressed the fit and comfort issues by ordering an inexpensive alligator style leather band from Strapsco (it was less than $20).  The band is black with white leather stitching, and when I put it on the Orient, the watch’s personality changed completely (and for the better).  The band matches the watch perfectly and it is much more comfortable.  I think it looks much richer (it’s very similar to the $7,300 Breitling Panda mentioned in my earlier blog).  I think Orient may be missing the boat here; the Orient Panda should ship with both bands.

The Orient’s solar power feature doesn’t need the sun; interior lighting is good enough.   I’ve left my Orient Panda unworn for weeks on a shelf in my office and my office light kept it going. I like the idea that the watch won’t die in the middle of an overseas adventure because the battery gives out.  That’s happened to me before.

The Orient Panda can be had in three different colors. I like the one on the left best.

Although I love the panda concept and look, on the Orient Panda the contrast between the hands and the watch face doesn’t work for me.  The hands should stand out so that the time is apparent at a glance.  It is not on this watch.  Maybe me being an old fart is aggravating the issue.  I have to stare at the watch to see the hands against the watch face.  The hands should be black, I think, as was the case on my 1970s-era Seiko Panda.  Maybe the Orient colors will work for you.  Orient offers this watch in three different colors, but I don’t care for the look of the other two.  Interestingly, the Orient Panda with the gray face is only $135 on Amazon, undercutting the price on the other Orient Panda color options by $25.

The Orient Panda has bits of lume on the numbers and the hands.  The lume is small, though, and like me, they are not terribly bright. I found the lume tough to see at night.  It’s also tough to determine where 12:00 on the watch face is at night.

The Orient Panda has a date feature.  I’ll chalk this observation up to being a geezer:  I found the date to be so small it was useless.  Plus, the date is set back from the watch face, which throws a shadow over the numerals (further obscuring the date).

The Orient Panda has three subdials, which I think is one too many.  Like many over-subdialed watches, the 24-hour subdial is a dumb thing.  I think I can tell the difference between night and day, I know when it’s a.m. and when it’s p.m., and I can do the mental math instantly to convert 2:00 p.m. is 14:00 hours (I don’t need a subdial for this).  If Orient had made the subdial hours settable in hourly increments independent of the main dial’s hourly settings, that would be a cool GMT feature that would allow knowing the time in two different time zones.  But like every other watchmaker that includes a 24-hour subdial, you can’t set the subdial separately, so to me all it does is add complexity where none is required.

With regard to the chronograph feature, there is a smaller subdial at the 6:00 position that tracks up to 60 minutes, and seconds are recorded with the watch’s main face second hand.  That approach is okay, I suppose, but the second hand really disappears against the watch face due to the aforementioned lack of contrast, and the 0-60 minute subdial is too small.  I think Orient would have a better product if they eliminated the 24-hour subdial at the 3:00 position and used that real estate for a larger subdial for the chronograph’s 0-60 minute feature.   That would knock the Orient Panda down to two subdials, which I think is just right for a panda watch.  It would look more like a panda.  But hey, what do I know?  Orient sells a lot of watches.  I don’t sell any.

At an Amazon price of $160.84, the price on the Orient Panda is impressive, especially when viewed alongside the $7300 Breitling Panda.  My complaints notwithstanding, the Orient Panda is a beautiful timepiece at an affordable price.  It is both a nice piece of jewelry and a usable everyday watch.

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Nikon’s N70 35mm Film Camera

By Joe Berk

I visited with my sister a couple of weeks ago and she gave me four 35mm film cameras.  You know, the ones we used to use before everything went digital.  One was a point and shoot Minolta, another was a Chinese copy of a Minolta single lens reflex non-autofocus camera, another was my Dad’s old Honeywell Pentax ES (with four Takumar lenses that were known as some of the best glass available back in the 1960s and 1970s), and a fourth was my old Nikon N70, complete with a Tamron 28-105mm zoom lens.  I had given the N70 to my sister when I bought a Nikon F5, which was a huge top-of-the-line film camera when film ruled the roost.   The N70 made the full circle, coming back to me again after being gone for more than 20 years.  The N70 is the focus (pardon the pun) of this blog.

The N70 and it’s Tamron 28-105 zoom lens. I can use some of my other Nikon digital camera lenses on the N70, too.

The N70 was the second camera I ever purchased.  The first was a 35mm Minolta X700 that I bought a week before my first daughter was born because my wife told me I needed a camera to record the occasion.  I bought the Minolta because it was what the store (a large Fedco, which is no more) sold and everything was automatic (except for focusing, which no one offered at the time).  And, it was what my brother-in-law shot (he was a photography enthusiast, so I figured it had to be good).  The Minolta was a far better camera than I was a photographer, but I really wasn’t getting the eye-popping photos I saw in the photography magazines (and I did a lot of my learning through magazines; there was no internet in those days).

The N70 had what Nikon called a command dial. It wasn’t well received in the market back then. I’ll have to relearn how to use it. It was one of the first film cameras to have an LCD screen interface, a common feature on today’s digital cameras.

Nope, in those days, my Minolta was a manual focus camera, and I figured what I really needed was autofocus.  The ticket in for me was the Nikon N70 (the very one you see here) sold to me by a very competent young salesman at our local Ritz camera store.  It used to be that every major shopping mall had a Ritz camera store; with the advent of the internet, they’ve all disappeared, too.

I didn’t know very much about photography back then, but autofocus really made things better.  My pictures (all print, of course) were turning out great.  I liked the reaction my little 4×6 prints were getting at family dinners, and I started reading more and more about the art of photography.  You know, all the stuff the camera did automatically.  Apertures.  Shutter speeds.  Different ISOs.  How to use the flash, even in daylight.  And then I learned more.  Composition.  The rule of thirds.  Lighting.  The more I learned, the more I shot, and the more I shot, the better my photos became.  Then a funny thing happened. I went back to my old Minolta (without autofocus) and my photos with it were way better, too.  Who would have thought?

The world continued to change.  Ebay became a thing, and so did digital photography.  I resisted digital photography, partly because I am a cheap SOB and partly because I thought I was a purist.  Until I tried digital.  The difference was incredible.  I sold all of my film cameras and the lenses that went with them.

With my sister’s generosity and my newly-rehomed collection of four film cameras, though, I am regressing and I hope to soon be rediscovering the wonders of film photography.  Or going back to my roots.  Or becoming more traditional.  You can choose the words you like.

Nikon didn’t do an adequate job selecting the rear camera door rubberized covering. As it aged, it turned to a sticky, gooey mess.
Where the film goes. The N70 didn’t require threading the film in. Simply plop the film in the camera with about three inches pulled out of the canister, close the camera back, press the shutter button, and the film feeds in automatically. It advances automatically after each shot (a cool feature 30+ years ago).

Anyway, the topic du jour is my N70.  I just ordered a few rolls of Fuji ISO 200 film for it from Amazon, and I’ll put the old Nikon through its paces when the film gets here.  When I picked up the N70 from my sister, I thought she had spilled something gooey on the back cover because it was all sticky.  But it wasn’t her doing.  I did a Google search and it was a common complaint.  Apparently Nikon had applied a rubber-like material on the cover, which degraded over time.  I had that happen on a Bell motorcycle helmet one time (a shame, really; I loved the artwork on that helmet).  One of the guys who wrote about the Nikon N70’s gooification issue said that the rubber goo came off with alcohol, so I’ll try that on mine.

The Nikon feels good in my hands (the gooey cover notwithstanding).  I packed it on a lot of motorcycle rides, including the Three Flags Classic nearly 20 years ago.  Handling it is like coming home to an old friend. Watch for my photos with the N70; I’ll post them in a future blog (if I can find a place that still develops 35mm film).

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Spiders

By Joe Berk

I’ve always been afraid of (and morbidly curious about) spiders, so when Bobbie Surber posted the photo you see above of a spider in her Ecuadorean hotel room’s bathroom, it had my attention.  I don’t think I could stay in a hotel room where a spider like that put in an appearance.  I know I’m a big tough guy who rides motorcycles and made it through jump school in a prior life, but spiders creep me out.  I’m deathly afraid of the things.

Which doesn’t mean I’m going to pass up an opportunity to get a photo of one.  Baja John and I were rolling through Baja a decade and a half ago on our KLRs (I loved that motorcycle; it was one of the best I ever owned).  We were doing maybe doing 60 mph when I somehow spotted a tarantula creeping along the pavement’s edge.  I had to turn around and get a photo (it’s the one that sometimes graces the scrolling photo collection you see at the top of every ExNotes blog).  Baja John, being a curious sort, did a U-turn and parked his KLR by the side of the road, too. I had my old D200 Nikon with its first-gen 24-120 Nikon lens (not a good choice for a spider macro shot, but it did the job).

The KLRs of Baja John and yours truly stopped along the Transpeninsular Highway for an impromptu tarantula photo shoot.  Those KLRs were great bikes.
A Baja tarantula minding his (or her) own business.
Cover and concealment, tarantula-style.

Before you knew it, I was snapping away while Baja John and I were crouched down in front of the hairy thing.  The tarantula’s ostrich-like behavior was kind of funny.  It hunkered down with a weed over its six or eight (or whatever the number is) eyes, thinking because the weed covered its eyes it was concealed.  At least for a while.  Then it realized we were still there and it charged.  I’m not kidding.  The thing charged at us with startling speed.  Both of us did our best impersonation of Looney Tunes cartoon characters, our feet moving faster than we were, trying to run backwards from the crouched position, screaming like little girls.   We made it, and the spider scurried off to wherever it thought was a better spot.  Baja John and I, thoroughly adrenalized, laughed so hard I thought I was going to pee my pants.

I’m an old fart who really doesn’t give a rat’s ass about what anybody thinks of me anymore, so I’ll tell you that I am scared of spiders on some basic, fundamental, hardwired-into-my-psyche level.  That said, I know that some of you younger guys who read ExNotes probably still worry about being perceived as tough macho men (you guys who haven’t achieved my level of self-awareness and acceptance yet).  Because of that, I’ll share with you a technique I’ve used for decades.   You know the deal…your significant other spots a spider, usually in the bathtub, and the job of sending it to the promised land naturally falls to you, the man.   You’re as scared as she is, but your ego won’t let you admit it.  There’s a spider there, and militant feminism be damned, it’s your job (as the man) to “get it.”

Here’s where the story turns to my other favorite topic:  Guns.  I’m helping you out here, guys.  Here’s an excuse to pick up another firearm.  You can thank me later.

What you need is a pellet pistol.  Preferably a manually-cocked model that doesn’t require a CO2 cartridge.  My weapon of choice is the Daisy 777 air pistol.  It’s a fantastic gun and it is quite accurate (I used to compete with one in bullseye air pistol competition, but I digress…back to the story at hand).

When your lovely significant other comes to you announcing a spider in the bathtub, choke down those feelings of fear, revulsion, and inadequacy. Here’s what you do:  Grab your air pistol.  Cock it, but (and this part is very important) do not put a pellet in the chamber.  While maintaining a firm grip on the weapon, point it at the offending arachnid with the muzzle approximately one inch away from your target.  Do not stand directly under the spider (for reasons that will become clear momentarily, this is also very important).  Take a deep breath, let it halfway out, and while maintaining focus on the front sight and proper sight alignment, gently squeeze (do not jerk) the trigger.  A high-speed jet of compressed air will  exit the muzzle, strike the spider, and break it up into legs, thorax, abdomen, and other body parts.  They will float to the ground and in most cases, the separate parts will continue twitching (adding to the excitement, the thrill of the hunt, and proof of your masculinity).  Mission accomplished, as old George W liked to say.  Your job (which was to “get it”) is done.   You can now turn to your sweetheart, smile, and ask her to clean it up.

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Becoming Vulcan: My Journey Into The Modern Welding Landscape Part 2 (School Is In Session)

By Joe Gresh

You can learn only so much from watching Utube videos. To get proficient at welding you have to actually weld, and weld a lot. This is where New Mexico State University comes in handy. I signed up to be an Aggie for Welding 102 with Mr. Hurt in the hope my shabby attempts at welding could be improved.

Welding 102 is the NMSU starter course, ground zero. For the first few classes we dwelt on safety stuff and spent the time gathering the needed tools of the trade. Steel toe boots were required and I couldn’t find a pair cheaper than $200. I had most of the other stuff: welding helmet, fire resistant shirt, chipping hammer, pliers, safety glasses, welding gloves and a wire brush. It’s a lot of gear and if you’re starting from scratch you’ll be $300 or more into the deal before striking a bead.

Welding 102 is not cheap either. The course runs $500 and is two days a week, 1 1/2 hours each class. I’m not sure how long a semester lasts but I plan on going until they tell me to stop. Most of the cost of welding 102 is materials. NMSU provides all the steel, gas, welding rods and other consumables. It’s fair: I can burn up $20 worth of rod in one sitting.

Arc welding (or MMA, Manual Metal Arc) is the first type of welding we are learning. It requires the least expensive equipment and the fewest bits and pieces. You have a buzz box, the rod, and the material to be welded. The first thing we did was run 6-inch beads on a 3/8-inch plate of mild steel. You started at the top and ran a bead across then started a second bead just below the first bead and overlapping onto the first bead a little. We used 6010 rods, which is a fast freeze metal. The rod makes coarse ripples as you move along, freezing only a fraction of an inch behind the molten puddle.

I had a hard time with 6010. After I finished filling my plate with beads Mr. Hurt said I needed to work on my bead width consistency. So I turned the plate 90 degrees and started again, bead after bead. I still sucked. Turning the plate once again I laid beads over the other two layers of metal. My plate was getting heavy and was warping like a taco.

Mr. Hurt opened the welding shop on a Saturday for us uncoordinated kids who need more practice. I welded on my 6-inch square plate of mild steel from 9:00 a.m. until 1:00 p.m. and the thing was approaching ¾ of an inch thick when Mr. Hurt said that it was enough. I could never weld that many hours with the Vevor 130 welder I bought on Amazon.

Through all the practice I was getting better at seeing the welding process. I still couldn’t see where I was going but I could see the puddle, puddle width and was getting the tiniest bit more consistent.

7018 is the next rod we are tackling. It’s the same process: cover a 6×6 steel plate with beads overlapping beads. The 7018 was easier to control and the beads have a more uniform appearance. 7018 is more liquid (slower cooling?) than 6010 so the ripples between the puddles are less pronounced and not as coarse. 7018 is a low-hydrogen rod, whatever that means.  It is kept in a 250-degree oven so that the flux doesn’t absorb hydrogen from the atmosphere.

Each student has their own welding booth complete with a table, smoke extractor and arc shielding curtains to keep from flashing other kids. A blind welder isn’t much use to anyone.

Our class of 13-ish started out with two women but they both dropped out after the third class. I don’t know why. There is no gender-based physical limitation to be a welder. Eyesight and a steady hand are more important than brute strength. There is one other geezer in our class; the rest is made up of younger guys looking to get into welding as a trade. I just want to know how to use the machines I bought.

The university provides Miller equipment and these things are beasts. They will do arc, wire feed with gas and TIG welding. You can run them 24 hours a day. They don’t overheat or shut down. If you were running a welding shop this is the way to go.

I feel like I’ve made some progress with my welding. That long Saturday session really helped. Welding 4 hours straight will calm your nerves right down. I’m still nowhere close to being Vulcan. There are a many more types of welding to learn. NMSU has three more welding courses, each more advanced than the previous. If you manage to complete them all you will be Vulcan at the end. Live long and prosper, my brothers.

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ZRX1100 Carburetor Cleaning: The Second Time’s The Charm

By Joe Gresh

The first time I cleaned the carburetors on the Kawasaki ZRX1100 everything went well except for the part about removing and installing the carbs back on the engine. The ZRX had sat for 9 years and it wasn’t running all that well when I parked it. The first carb cleaning saw new float needles installed and a general poking and cleaning of all jets and orifices.

The bike started up okay and ran fairly well, if a bit ragged at low RPM. This I chalked up to the four carbs needing synchronization. I didn’t have a carb sync tool so I just ran it like it was. It ran pretty good for 7000-8000 miles but became harder to start and really rough at any RPM below 2500. I put up with it because I dreaded removing the carbs again.

The old, original fuel hose started leaking where I had installed an inline fuel filter. No matter what clamp I used it leaked. Giving it a through examination I discovered the hose itself was rotten and the inner liner split. I pulled the hose off and sealed my fate. It was impossible to reach the hose connection buried between the carbs to install a new hose. Things had finally gotten so bad I had to fix the situation.

Removing the carbs was as dreadful as I remembered it to be. There’s not a lot of room between the air box and the intake rubbers so it was a bear (like an Ossa!) to remove the bank of four constant velocities.

Once on the bench the Kawasaki ZRX1100 carbs are pretty easy to work on. I ordered new carb kits and new fuel pipes that go between the carbs to supply fuel. The old pipes weren’t leaking but I didn’t want to go through this ordeal only to have them start leaking.

To install the new fuel pipes you have to un-rack the carbs and split them into individual units. The old pipes looked pretty crusty and I can see them puking fuel because I disturbed them once too often. I also wanted fresh plastic to replace the 24-year-old pipes. While I was at it I bought factory coolant hoses to replace the silicone ones that leaked when it was cold. The new hoses fit much better and should last the rest of my life. All in, I spent three hundred bucks with Dave at Southwest Suzuki/Kawasaki out on Highway 70.

Two of the pilot jets were clogged solid. I had just cleaned them a few months or 8000 miles ago. Possibly the rotten fuel line sent debris down stream and clogged the jets. In addition there are supposed to be tiny washers between the o-ring and the tension spring on the pilot jet adjusting screws. Three were missing and I must have lost them the last time I took the carbs apart. Without the little washers the tension spring digs into the o-ring shredding the thing. Any pieces of o-ring go right into the tiny idle transition holes on the floor of the venturi. So that’s on me. I swear, I never saw the things.

When I say the pilot jets were clogged I mean clogged. I soaked the pilot jets in Evaporust and tossed them into the ultrasonic cleaner: No joy. I had to use a single strand of copper from a fine strand electrical wire and work it for 20 minutes to get the things cleared.

The new Parts Unlimited carb kits came with all the stuff I needed, even those tiny idle mixture screw washers. I usually don’t use the jets out of kits because the quality is so suspect. In this case I decided to use them to be sure the pilots were clear enough. Besides, it couldn’t run any worse. I rechecked the float levels, one was a millimeter off, and assembled the entire mess.

The next day it occurred to me that I had installed the new jets without making sure they were actually drilled all the way through or that a bit of machining swarf hadn’t been left inside. So I took the float bowls off and ran copper wire through all four pilot jets and the main jets. It was good for my peace of mind. I also sprung for an OEM Kawasaki fuel line at a reasonable $12.

Because they are so hard to remove I try to be sure the carbs are not leaking by bench testing the floats and needles. This will save you a lot of work in the event something isn’t right. There’s nothing more depressing that fighting the carbs back into place only to have the things leak when you turn the petcock to On.

As you may have heard I was banned from the ZRX owner’s forum because I posted an ExhaustNotes light bulb review. It didn’t sit well with the members that were selling light bulbs. My new ZRX hangout is on Facebook called Banned ZRX members, or something like that. A lot of the same guys who were on the other site ended up there due to disagreements with the admin. Anyway, these ZRX guys suggested a thin piece of material between the air box and the rubber intakes to make replacing the carbs easier.

I had some thin sheet metal from a filing cabinet and used it to make two carb slider thingies. The sliders are held onto the engine by small bungee cords. I put a 90-degree bend in the sliders so they wouldn’t slip down in use. Those ZRX guys know their stuff, as it was a breeze to slide the carbs into position then remove the sheet metal. That’s half of a hard job made easy.

The Kawasaki ZRX1100 has a lot going for it in the maintenance department. The valves are easy to set clearances. The carbs use three simple, spring-loaded adjustment screws for synchronization, and there are no lock nuts to cause changes when tightened. The procedure is simplicity: You adjust the left set of two outside carbs, then adjust the right set of outside carbs, then adjust both sets of carbs to each other using a middle adjusting screw. It actually takes longer to write the carb sync procedure than to do it.

With all four idle circuits functioning correctly the ZRX starts up first push of the button. The bike pulls smoothly from idle all the way to redline. Having the carbs synced makes for a smooth transition coming off a stop and I don’t think the bike has ever run as good as it does now. I’ll be heading to Utah in June for the Rat Fink convention. It will be a lot more fun with the bike running like Kawasaki intended.

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Lobo

I recently posted a Wayback Machine blog on riding in the rain, and Carl Bennett (a new friend from the UK) added a comment about one of his rain rides.  Carl’s input was interesting on several levels, one of which was the included web address.  I poked around a bit on Carl’s site and found a blog post titled “Lobo.”  Well, one thing led to another, with the result being Carl’s permission to publish “Lobo” here on ExNotes.  I enjoyed reading it and I think you will, too.

– Joe Berk

By Carl Bennett

As a name for a motorcycle it’s okay. It means timber wolf, in Spanish, but maybe that means Mexican. Oooops, I meant Microsoft Spanish, for whom Spanish means Old Spanish. Obviously in global internet land, Microsoft’s 14-year-old-in-Ohio sensibilities reign supreme. Which is a whole other story. And this one is about me. Like all my others, as yours are all about you and Charles Dickens’ were about him. And especially Martin Amis’s were all about him. God, were they about him. I don’t know if he ever had a motorcycle. Hunter Thompson definitely had several, but as he wrote himself, Mister Kurz, he dead.

Lobo was the name of the band that sang A Dog Named Boo, so long ago that I can’t even admit I know the tune. I heard it during my formative years, the ones still a-forming.

Like Arlo Guthrie on his motorcycle I don’t want to die. Despite drinking kettle de-scaler yesterday morning, calling NHS 111 and having a not-great day thinking I might actually die of this, which wasn’t helped by eating a whole packet of spicy beetroot. I love that stuff, except they really ought to put a reminder on the packet of what happens when you look in the toilet bowl, to tell you that you almost certainly will live more than another three days and if you don’t, it won’t be anything to do with beetroots, unless a beetroot lorry runs you over. The gist being that I’d quite like to stay alive for the foreseeable future.

So obviously, I bought myself a motorcycle for Christmas. Unlike the song, although I’ve got my motor running, first time every time, but hey, it’s a BMW. On which I have no intention of hitting the highway like a battering ram, nor like anything else.  What did you expect? I’ve absolutely no wish to hit the highway because I know from past experience it bloody hurts. Thankfully, my off-bike excursions were few and decidedly minor, but I remember spending an afternoon in Gene Fleck’s Meadow Inn bar in Wisconsin with the road closed while an emergency crew searched against the clock to find someone’s foot. I’d seen him and his girl earlier in the day on a Harley, riding like an accident looking for somewhere to happen, which it duly did.

I wasn’t prepared for the change. And no, that wasn’t why I got a motorcycle again. I did it because life is short. I did it because I wanted to smell the grass and the trees and the fields I passed through. I did it because I wanted to do it again before I die.

Where I began the process I laughingly call growing-up, there wasn’t any public transport to speak of. There were infrequent busses, taxis weren’t a thing for a 16 or 17-year-old in a Wiltshire town and even if being chauffeured to places by my Mummy was an option the way it seems to be for kids today, I’d have died of self-loathing to ask. Probably. After I had the lift, obviously. All of which meant that at 16 I did what was the fairly normal thing and bought a Yamaha FS1-E. It wasn’t just me. Look at the sales figures. Back then, you had a moped only as long as it took to get a motorcycle, which was your 17th birthday. Thanks to some bureaucratic insanity, or more likely in England, nobody could be bothered to check the sense of the rules, or read them properly, a 17-year-old could perfectly legally if predictably briefly stick a sidecar on a Kawasaki Z1, stick L-plates on it and set off for the obituary column of their local paper, when there were such things.

Not me, baby. I bought a Honda CB 175. I had an Army surplus shiny PVC button-up coat. It felt like, it looked like, it probably was something a dustman on a motorcycle would look like, as a friend of mine thoughtfully pointed out in case it was something I’d overlooked. It had to go, even though it didn’t very fast. I put it in the Wiltshire Times. Nobody even rang the phone number. I put the price up 30% the next week and got about 20 calls. I sold it to the first one who came to see it, even though he asked for a discount. Which he didn’t get. I didn’t bother to tell him about the 30% discount he could have had the week before.

Then it was probably my favourite bike, the Triumph T25, the kind of thing that now sells for over £4,000 any day of the week and which then you felt lucky if you could raise £200 on it. It was fun, and I learned some good lessons on it. One of them being that if you ignore that little triangular sign warning you there’s a junction ahead then you’ll go about three-quarters of the way across it before the twin-shoe Triumph brake stops you. Nothing came. Nothing did on back lanes around Tellisford in those days.

The Triumph got swapped for a Norton 500 that ran for two weeks out of the two years I had it. It sent me spinning down the road like a dead fly in Cardiff one black ice night, after I’d left the electric fire warmth of some girl’s flat (nothing doing there; never was, with anybody), lost the bike out from under me at about 5 mph, came to a halt against a parked car and had some Welshman peer down at me to tell me “Duh, it’s icy mind.” I left Wales as soon as I could and bought another Triumph, a real 1970s post-Easy-Rider identity crisis machine. It was a 650cc Tiger engine, shoehorned into a chrome-plated Norton Slimline frame. Instead of the rocker clip-ons you’d expect, it had highish handlebars and cut-off exhausts. Just header pipes in fact, but with Volkswagen Beetle mufflers smacked into them in a Bath carpark, with Halford’s slash-cut trim bolted on the ends. I wasn’t a rocker, but I thought it rocked.

It took two weeks to get the petrol tank the way I wanted it, a deep, deep black you could lose your soul in, sprayed on then sanded, sprayed on then sanded, sprayed on then sanded about fifteen times in the kitchen of my definitively smelly Southampton student flat, the kind of place that gave Ian McEwan the idea for The Cement Garden, only a bit less appealing. On the first trip out on that gloriously glossy bike I rode up to Salisbury, escorted by a girlfriend whose parents purported to believe that she had her own spare room at my university halls of residence, the ones I’d left months before. We got to her parents’ newish house in the summer sunlight, said hello, put the bike in the driveway. Then decided we’d go to a local pub because a) Wiltshire, b) nothing much else to do until her parents went out, or c) that’s what people did.

I started the bike, but it didn’t fire first time, so I tickled the Amal carburetor and tried again. There was no air filter on the carb – there often wasn’t in those days – so when it backfired the spurt of flame came straight out into the open air and set light to the petrol that had trickled down the outside of the carb float bowl. I appreciate that these are words that younger readers won’t even recognise, but we had to.   I had my leather jacket on, a full-face Cromwell ACU gold-rated helmet, and long leather gloves, so I just reached down nonchalantly to switch the fuel tap to Off. No petrol, no fry, as Bob Marley didn’t sing. Except I didn’t turn the petrol off. I managed to pull the rubber petrol feed line off instead. The flames came up to chest level.

My first thought was to run for it, but my second was that I’d just put three gallons in the tank and I seriously doubted I could run faster than that. All I could think of to do was reach into the flames and turn the petrol tap off, so that’s what I did. I couldn’t see past my elbow in the flames, but it worked or I wouldn’t be telling this story. The insulation on the electrics had burned off so the horn was fused on until I got out my trusty Buck knife (something else we took entirely as normal in the West Country) and cut what was left of the wires. My girlfriend’s mother saw the whole thing from the kitchen. She waited until the flames had gone out before she came out to tell me I’d dropped oil on her driveway.

There was a break after that, for university and unhappily London then Aylesbury and Bath until luck and an unusual skillset saw me in Chicago, on a 650 Yamaha that might or might not have been technically stolen, blasting around Lakeshore Drive and the blue lights area, under half the city, overlooking some huge American river, me and an Italian buddy from summer camp on his bike, living if not the dream then certainly some kind of alternative reality. To this day I don’t know why I did that. No insurance, no clear provenance to the bike, certainly no observance of the speed limits, and only my trusty grey cardboard AA international driving licence that didn’t mention motorcycles. But nothing happened. Back then that was all that mattered.

A gap of some years and then a BMW R1000, a bike that vibrated so much that a trip from London to Wiltshire left me literally unable to make a sentence for about fifteen minutes. It felt good though, that lumpy, dumpy, so-solid bike. I traded that one for a Harley-Davidson Sportster which is what I thought was the ultimate motorcycle ought to be before I found out that I needed to spend £200 a month pretty much every month to get it the way it ought to have left the factory before their accountants had a say in the recommended retail price. It got stolen, we recovered it and instead of putting it back in showroom metal flake purple turned it jet black, bored it out to 1200, and put Brembo four-pot brakes and a fuel-injector on it before it transmogrified into a laptop and a laser printer, when laser printers were a long way from the couple of hundred a good one is now.

And somehow that was 30 years ago. This time the iron horse is a BMW F650, almost as old as when I stopped riding for a while, but with a documented 13,000 miles on it. My idea of common sense says changing the oil and the filter and swapping out the original brake lines and replacing them with stainless steel would first of all look cool but possibly more importantly, be quite a sensible way of not relying on thirty year old rubber. I mean, would you? On any Saturday night?

In the intervening coughty years I’ve either sold or given away my original Schott jacket, the gloves, the Rukka, the Ashman Metropolitan Police long boots and the Belstaff scrambler boots. The Cromwell helmet and the Bell 500 open-face are long gone. I need everything, from the toes upwards and I find that most of the names I grew up with such as Ashman or Cromwell just don’t exist any more. I bought another Bell, but a full-face ACU gold Sharp 5-rated lid this time. I got some gloves, some chain lube and a tube of Solvol Autosol to keep the chrome shiny. I found some leather jeans and my old not-Schott jacket that I bought in Spain and after only three applications of neatsfoot oil and old-fashioned dubbin and hanging it over a radiator it’s now soft enough to be wearable and looks, I think, pretty darned good, even if it doesn’t have a single CE rating to its name. I’ve skipped the red Hermetite that used to decorate every pseudo-serious biker’s jeans.

Of the kids I knew that got in Bad Trouble on a bike, one was drunk and showing off. He died. My cousin lost his job and an inch off one leg when he was swiped by a car that ignored him on a roundabout. One in Wiltshire rode his bike under a combine harvester. He died too. It wasn’t really funny and I try not to think of him looking like SpongeBob SquarePants, with his arms and legs sticking out of the straw. He’d had a 20-year break from bikes and had just picked up an early retirement pension payoff. He didn’t read the T&Cs that said you still can’t ride like an arse. The American guy I didn’t ride around Chicago with lost his foot and they didn’t find it in time to put it back on. For all I know it’s still in a field in Wisconsin.

CE-rated armour wouldn’t have helped a single one of them. I’m certainly not saying safety gear isn’t worth the effort, or I wouldn’t have specced out my new helmet so carefully. But motorcycles aren’t the safest thing. You have to watch your sides, your front and what’s underneath you, as well as your back.

Like what you read hear?  Check out (and subscribe to) Carl Bennett’s blog at Writer-Insighter.com!

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Huber World Tour Stop 1: Auckland, New Zealand

By Mike Huber

Having chosen New Zealand as the first stop on the “Huber World Tour” was probably the easiest of the decisions I have made.  Especially since the runner up was India and buying a Royal Enfield and roaming through that country for five to six months.  Pipe dreams, but somehow I knew that would be too much to do solo for my first adventure (it surely isn’t out of the question for the future though).  My sister had visited New Zealand and Australia last summer for the Women’s World Cup Soccer Match and couldn’t say enough good things about the countries, so I decided why not dip my toes in the travel waters instead of going off the deep end with a lead-weighted belt.  So in October I bought a backpack, booked airfare, and passed a couple months with family and friends prior to leaving.

I left JFK on January 8th with a lot of anxiety and second guessing my decision on the long flight to Auckland.  The flight was tolerable, not great, but I managed. Upon landing I was amazed at the efficiency of the airport. It was all digital entry and the walk off the plane took longer than passing through immigration and customs. Normally when I land in a foreign country I take off like a rocket and usually make several mistakes in my haste.  I have no timeframe on my travels and I forced myself to sit, have a coffee, and fully gain my bearings before paging an Uber to bring me to a hotel I had pre-booked for two days in the event I had bad jet lag.

Arriving at my hotel around 11:00 a.m. I knew it was way too early to check in and for some reason I had a lot of energy. I found a local island on a map and saw ferries frequented it. What a great way to spend my first day. The island was like a little Martha’s Vineyard with shops, restaurants and bars.  It also had a short hike up to the highest point on the island, Mt. Victoria. The hike got my legs moving again after my long flight.  Once I began feeling tired I ferried back to Auckland. Upon disembarking the ferry I was starting to feel a bit tired so I thought taking one of those Lime Scooters would be a great idea.  Well, I now know how I am going to die.  It will be on a Lime Scooter.  Not only was I starting to fade fast but the traffic drives on opposite the side of the road.  Fortunately for me people are super nice here and I didn’t hear one F-Bomb as I clumsily navigated my way back to the hotel on the scooter.  I was asleep within an hour.  What a cool first day in New Zealand.

The following day I was still in a bit of a fog but felt I could do a 2-mile walk to the War Museum and learn to navigate the bus system.  The War Museum was spectacular.  I guess I never realized they were even involved in World War II.  They even had a paratrooper regiment.  After spending a couple hours it was time to grab a coffee for a much-needed boost. The thing I learned in college (maybe the only thing) is that coffee will physically wake you up but mentally it rarely does anything to get your brain flowing.  Nonetheless, I felt refreshed and coherent enough to purchase a bus pass online.  It was time to aim towards my next objective, a beautiful city overlook called Mount Eden.

Again, everyone here is super nice and welcoming. Upon boarding the local bus my pass didn’t work and I showed the pass on my phone to the driver.  He laughed and told me to sit down and not to worry about it.  I was scrambling to find out why it didn’t work and began talking to other passengers.  This is when I learned I had bought a bus pass for Portland, Oregon.  The bus passes had similar names.  Okay, I will figure this out later and just focus on getting to Mount Eden for some photos.  That didn’t happen.  I was on the wrong bus and by this point it was a 2-hour loop to return to a bus stop near my hotel.  I was pretty upset with myself for most the ride but in hindsight I had a free bus tour of Auckland and a story.

Clearly another solid night of sleep was required.  However, before I could sleep I had to decide where I was going and would be staying the next night. I had heard of an island called Waiheke that was a 45-minute ferry ride away and thought that may be a good spot for a few days to relax as I continued to slowly lift the vail of jet lag. After booking an AirBnB for two nights and confirming the ferry schedule, it was time to sleep and prepare for the following day of travel to Waiheke Island.

Read the Mike Huber New Zealand posts here:

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ExNotes Product Review:  Carb Tune Carburetor Synchronizer

By Joe Gresh

A long time ago I had a carburetor synchronizer that used mercury to measure engine vacuum. The synchronizer had four plastic tubes about twenty inches long, each tube was about a quarter-inch in diameter. On top of the rig were four rubber tubes that connected to your intake ports using the little hose barbs molded into the motorcycle’s intake manifolds. This machine worked well, the heavy mercury kind of dampened the vacuum pulses so you could get an accurate reading.

One problem with the mercury gauges was that sometimes, if you revved the engine too much, mercury would get sucked into the engine. The mercury never seemed to hurt an engine but it would pop and miss a bit, then toxic smelling fumes would come out the exhaust pipes for a while. The cure for this problem was to not rev up the engine with the mercury sticks connected.

My mercury gauges went under water in one of the floods that were common in the Florida Keys. Who knows where the mercury that was inside the gauges ended up. Probably in my fish sandwich 6 months later.

Another type of vacuum gauge uses four needle-and-dial mechanical gauges to measure the vacuum. These gauges would jump all over the place reacting to each vacuum pulse. The mechanical type came with plastic clamps that you would fit over each vacuum hose. By adjusting the pinching action on each hose you could slow down the needle reaction enough to be able to read the dials. I didn’t like this type so I threw them away after they sat on my shelf 27 years.

The Carb Tune vacuum gauge uses steel rods and springs inside plastic tubes. They are mostly like mercury gauges except the rods replace the mercury. There are clones of the Carb Tune available (maybe the Carb Tune is a clone of some other brand) but the clones are near enough in price that I sprung the ten bucks extra for the brand name unit.

The Carb Tune need a little work before you can use it. Included in the set is a blue plastic tube with a tiny hole through it that serves the same purpose as those hose clamper deals on the dial gauges. You have to cut the tube into four pieces and then cut each vacuum hose about 100mm from the end to insert the plastic tube into the hose. It’s no big deal but I wonder why Carb Tune didn’t go ahead and complete this final assembly step.

Once put together the gauges work great. The Carb Tunee is very stable and easy to read. Get all four rods even across the top and your carbs are synched. The third rod was stuck on my set but a light tap freed it up to move in the tube.

Normally the actual number of the gauge doesn’t matter; you are going for even-ness. If you had a bad cylinder or your valves were way out of adjustment it might show up on the vacuum gauge so that’s another good use for the Carb Tune.

I rate the Carb Tune gauges 5 stars even if it is a little expensive for what you get. I’m guessing the things are made in China and probably cost Carb Tune a couple bucks a copy. Still, that’s the capitalist system and I was a willing participant for many years so it would be hypocritical of me to bitch about it now.

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