Category: Harley

ScooterScribes.news and more…

Ah, lots of good news and a few things to catch up on.  For starters, I was alerted to another top notch motorcycle site, and that’s Terry Roorda’s ScooterScribes.news site.  You’ll like it.

Terry is the former Thunder Press editor, and there’s lots of cool V-Twin stuff on ScooterScribes,  and you don’t have to be a Big Twin dude or dudette to appreciate it.  It’s good.  Trust me.

More good news…the ExNotes stickers are in, and the extensive Direct Mail arm of the ExNotes empire is busy sending them out.

We sent an email requesting your address if you signed up, so watch for it and shoot that info back to us.  We promise that as soon as we get your snail mail address and confirmed that you’re on our email list, we’ll shoot them out to you as soon as we get around to it.  Want to help us more?   Hey, share our site and get more folks to sign up for our automatic emails, or just get them to visit www.ExhaustNotes.us.   We think we’ve got a good thing going.  Guns, motorcycles, scooters, opinions, dream bikes, resurrected bikes, books, articles, Baja, and lots, lots more.   Let us know what you think by posting your comments here on the blog.   We get all kinds of inputs.  Folks want more on Harleys, they want less on Harleys, they want more political commentary (seriously?), they want less political commentary…hey, let us know.  There’s no guarantee we’ll take any of it seriously, but you never know.

Yet more news…several online pubs are breaking the news that Harley is working with a Chinese company to offer a small HD.

Hey, we saw a Chinese manufacturer making parts for Harley a decade ago.  But the recent news is this is going to be a complete small bike, just over 300cc.   I’m surprised Harley didn’t do this several years ago, but then, Gresh and I were in the catbird’s seat on the small bike thing from the gitgo.  CSC and Zongshen were way ahead of the curve on this one.  Dollars to donuts says that the small Harley will find its way to the US, and that’s a good thing.  I’ve seen the photos and I think it looks good.  I’m waiting for the inevitable jokes and the anti-China rants to start, but Harley, if you’re reading this, ignore those folks.  The only thing worse than a smartass is a dumbass, and anyone who criticizes a motorcycle based solely on its Chinese origin is most definitely in that latter category.

One last bit of news…make sure you pick up the latest issue of Motorcycle Classics magazine.   It’s got my feature story on our Enfield Baja trip, and my Destinations piece on Tecate.  Good stuff, Motorcycle Classics is.

The Crimes Men Do

Glenn sent me a few photos from the old days and one that got my attention was a shot of us building a Sportster in the living room of the shack we used to live in. Having a living room to work in was a luxury because prior to renting the shack I was homeless. I had an old Chevy truck with a bench seat that I could stretch out enough to get some sleep and I had a job that let me take a dry bath in the restroom after work. But when Admiralty Marine closed its doors for the evening I was on my own until the next morning. The boss let me know that the situation couldn’t go on forever and that I really needed to find a place to live.

It wasn’t so much lack of money.  I was working a lot of hours, but I was only 19 and landlords didn’t want to rent to a greasy, punk kid. I can’t blame them. I would do the same thing myself. Finally a co-worker who was a full-fledged adult vouched for me when his landlord had a vacancy next door. I shaved, dry-bathed, put on clean clothes and did everything I could do to look like a respectable young man with a future. I’ll be dammed if it didn’t work. I was in after paying first, last and a deposit. Cash.

After waiting for the dust to settle the first thing I did was to rebuild my Sportster in the living room. When I bought the 1968 Sportster I was kind of shocked at how archaic the motorcycle felt. It was cool and all but the front end was so wobbly it felt like silly string and the front brake might as well have been deleted and an AM/FM radio installed in its place for all the stopping it would do.

The engine seemed to run well but I was going to ride across country on the thing, so a freshen-up was in order. I don’t know if it was a good idea because the 900cc V-Twin had some strange things going on inside and I was destined to do even more stupid stuff to the poor bike.

Someone had replaced the stock Harley intake valves with huge, unknown-origin valves. The valves were so big they had to cut the seat into the dome of the combustion chamber. Once the giant valves were removed the old seats were revealed along with the stock porting. The only advantage I could see to the big valves was a bump in compression ratio due to the valves occupying more space in the combustion chamber and the circumference increase giving slightly more flow when the valve first popped open. Once into the lift though the stock ports would probably be the limiting factor.

I wasn’t having any of it. I bought standard Harley valves and guides and set about putting things right. Admiralty Marine had a Sioux valve grinding kit so I could do all the work myself. After the seats were re-cut to fit the new valves the installed height was wrong so I had to trim the ends of the valves and shim the springs. The heads were a mess.

The Sportster’s high dome pistons were ok so a quick hone job and a set of rings finished off the top end. After that you’d think I’d leave the engine alone but I had to have a tin primary cover like the XR750 flat trackers ran.

Opening and consuming a whole ‘nother can of worms, I had to get rid of the crankshaft’s spring and ramp style compensating sprocket. The compensating sprocket absorbs the 45-degree V-Twin’s power pulses before sending smooth, less spikey power on to the clutch basket, gearbox and rear sprocket. This vital part stuck out way toofar for my tin primary so into the trash it went.

A solid front sprocket was fitted to the crankshaft and the tin primary would still not fit so I had to make a 3/8’ aluminum spacer the same size and shape as the primary cover gasket. The ’68 XLH was electric start but I wanted to eliminate as much weight as possible. At an independent Harley shop I swapped the starter motor, big battery box and oil tank for a kick-start shaft, gears and kick lever. You can anticipate the next problem: the electric-start primary case had a square-ish hump on the back to accommodate the starter Bendix. I had to weld a flat metal part onto the tin primary to cover the hole.

Without an XLH-style starter motor there was another gaping hole on the other side of crankcase. I blanked off the hole where the electric starter fit with a large chunk of angle aluminum that doubled as a battery box for the much smaller kick-only battery. Now the engine was ready to slot back into the frame. And that’s yet another can of worms I’ll write about later.

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Ascot AMA Nationals

In San Diego I lived across the street from a Safeway food market. Man, I never ran out of anything. That Safeway is now a West Marine boat supply store. They got nothing to eat in the whole damn place. But back then, around 1980, it was a great food source.

In my pad I had a tiny refrigerator with one of those wine-in-a-carton things inside. My buddy Mark found it in the road, not far from the house. Nobody I knew drank wine, or at least that wine. There was a perforated cardboard section that you knocked out and inside was a hose that connected to the plastic sack of wine. It was practical as hell, like a battery acid container. The hose had a shut off thingy, you kind of rolled the shut off onto a ramp until it pinched the hose closed. The wine tasted bad. Maybe it got hot in the sun out in the street. No telling how long it was there before Mark found it. Whenever anyone would drop by I’d ask if they wanted some wine, that’s what adults do. It was still in the fridge a few years later when I moved away.

I’d leave my one bedroom, one bath rental house on Point Loma’s Locust Street around 5pm. My bike was a 1968 electric-start XLH Sportster converted to kick start. Because electric kickers are for Honda riders, man. From Point Loma I’d reel onto Interstate 5 and roll the throttle on, lane splitting for 15 miles to Gene’s house in Mira Mesa. Back then every subdivision in San Diego sounded like one of the wooden sailing ships that discovered America: The Nina, The Rancho Bernardo and The Santa Antiqua. I guess they still name California things that way. Streets are Calles or Avenidas. Townhouses are called Don Coryells, after a football coach.

Gene had a 1973 Sportster, the one with the crude looking steel bar bent into a U-shape to secure the top shock absorber mounts. The result of AMF cost cutting. My older Sporty had a beautiful cast part welded into the frame tubes performing the same function. You couldn’t see either one once the seat was installed but I knew it was there. Gene knew it too. Gene was my wing man, my BFF. We used to drink in bars and shoot pool after work. It was nothing to stay up late at night, I only needed a few hours sleep. In those years Harley-Davidson motorcycles had a terrible reputation. Their riders were no prize either. We liked the way the bikes sounded and the way they looked.

California traffic was just as bad in 1980 as is today. We lane split all the way to Oceanside where the northbound traffic would thin out for 30 miles or so then lane split to the 405 and past the “Go See Cal” auto dealership. Cal’s dog Spot was a lion. He was featured in Worthington Ford television ads. It was nerve wracking bumper to bumper riding all the way til dusk and the exit for Ascot park Raceway.

I saw my first Ducati Darmah in the parking lot at Ascot. It was the most beautiful bike I’d ever seen. The squared off crankcases were works of art. Our iron-head Harleys looked like civil war relics next to the Darmah. Like Genus Rattus, man. I didn’t envy the Ducati. I was still a hard core Harley guy. Pretty don’t mean nuttin’ to us. Fast, reliable motorcycles are for the weak. I still feel that way.

I may have this wrong but Ascot held two AMA Grand National races each year. Every race I went to was advertised as the final race because the track was closing to be sold. This went on for 12 years until the track really did sell. One National was a standard flat track race and one National was a TT, which is a standard FT track with a bump and a right hand turn. Usually by the time Gene and I got up there the heat races had already started.

Ascot wore its years well. The stands were uncomfortable and crowded. AMA Nationals are big deals. The restrooms were dungeons. We would eat bad food and drink beer and watch the best racing anywhere until 11pm at night. Being part of the hundreds of motorcycles leaving Ascot was a real thrill. The riders were fired up from the racing and we rolled it on to 405 and then 5 to the El Toro Road exit and the Bob’s Big Boy restaurant. Bob’s was a tradition for AMA Nationals. The burgers were small and nearly tasteless, the little triangle salads were frozen and the fries were thin as shim stock. Bob’s was a good place to feed your Genus Rattus.

Because we were riding so late, no matter what the time of year it was always cold on the way home from Ascot. Long, empty stretches of interstate 5 stuffed each gap in your leather jacket with a chilling, low hanging fog. The cold would quiet your mind. Focus on your breathing now, keep still, those iron engines loved the cold. I could see Gene’s Sportster chuffing away in the dark, tiny glints of chrome primary case flashed in sync with my wobbling headlight. Both our Sportsters ran straight pipes and Interstate 5 sounded like the back straight of Ascot. Except we never chopped the throttle.

South of La Jolla the air temperature would rise and dropping off 5 onto Rosecrans Street wrapped sea-warmth around my body. I loved that part of the ride. The shivering was over, I could smell ocean smells. My muscles relaxed. This early in the morning Rosecrans is deserted, I have to run the red lights because the sensors in the pavement cannot pick up motorcycles. The only sound is my 900cc Sportster slowly rowing through the gearbox, rumbling home.

My Optical Illusion

The Harley Electra-Glide Classic, as seen in Harley’s 1979 sales brochure.

It was beautiful, it was something I always dreamed about owning, and I couldn’t ride a hundred miles on it without something breaking. I paid more for it than anything I had ever purchased, I sold it in disgust two years later for half that amount, and today it’s worth maybe five times the original purchase price. I wish I still had it. I’m talking about my 1979 Harley-Davidson Electra-Glide, of course. That’s the tan-and-cream motorcycle you see in the photo above, scanned from my original 1979 Harley brochure.  The motorcycle is long gone.  I had the foresight to hang on to the brochure.

All of the photos in this blog are from that brochure. I wasn’t into photography in those days, but I wish now that I had been. The Harley’s inability to go a hundred miles without a breakdown notwithstanding, I hit a lot of scenic spots in the Great State of Texas back in 1979. The Harley’s colors would have photographed well. The only photo I can remember now is one of me working on the Harley with the cylinder heads off. It seems that’s how the Harley liked to be seen. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The 1979 Harley brochure cover.

So the year was 1979, I was young and single, and I was an engineer on the F-16 at General Dynamics in Fort Worth doing the things that well-compensated, single young guys did in those days: Drinking, riding (not at the same time), chasing young women, and dreaming about motorcycles. If you had mentioned gender-neutral bathrooms, man bun hairstyles, a universal basic income, democratic socialism, sanctuary cities, the Internet, or something called email in those days (especially in Texas), no one would have had any idea what you were talking about, and if you took the time to explain such things, you would have been run out of town after being shot a few times.  Texas in 1979 was a good time and a good place.

I stopped often at the Fort Worth Harley dealer, and Harley was just starting to get into the nostalgia thing. I had sold my ’78 Bonneville and I had the urge to ride again. Harley had a bike called the Café Racer and I liked it a lot, but I took a pass on that one. Then they introduced the Low Rider and I loved it, but when sitting on the showroom Low Rider I turned the handlebars and one of the handlebar risers fractured (Harleys had a few quality issues in those days). Nope, it wouldn’t be a Low Rider. Then they introduced the Electra-Glide Classic, that stunning bike you see in the photos here.  It was a dagger that went straight to my heart.  I was stricken.

The Electra-Glide Classic was Harley’s first big push into the nostalgia shtick and it stuck. At least for me it did. My first memory of ever being stopped dead in my tracks by a visually-arresting motorcycle was with a Harley Duo-Glide full dresser when I was a kid (it was blue and white), and the Classic brought that memory home for me. The Classic’s two-tone tan-and-cream pastels were evocative of the ‘50s, maybe a Chevy Bel Air (even though those were turquoise and white, a color Harley later adopted in the early ‘90s with its Heritage Softails).  The whole thing just worked for me.  I had to have it.

I sat on the Classic and it was all over for me. I fell in love. I knew at that instant that I was meant to be a Harley man. I turned the handlebars and nothing broke. There was a cool old sales guy there named Marvin, and I asked what the bike would cost out the door. He already knew the answer: $5,998.30.

A two-page spread featuring the bike I bought.

Hmmm.  $5,998.30.  That was a lot of money. I was riding around in a new CB-equipped Ford F-150 that had cost less than that amount (hey, it was Texas; Breaker One Nine and all that).  My internal struggle (extreme want versus $5,998.30) was apparent to old Marvin.

“You know you want it,” Marvin said, smiling an oily, used-car-salesman, Brylcreem smile (these guys all went to the same clothing stores and barbers, I think).  “What’s holding you back?”

“I’m trying to get my head wrapped around spending $6,000 for a motorcycle,” I said.

Marvin knew the drill. He was good at what he did. He probably made a lot more money than I did.

“Are you single?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“Working?”

“Yep.”

“Got any debt?”

“Nope.”

“So what’s your problem?”

“It’s like I said, Marvin,” I answered. “I’m trying to justify spending six grand on a motorcycle.”

“You’re single, right?”

“Yep.”

“Well, who do you need to justify it to?”

And, as Tom Hanks would say 30 years later in Forrest Gump, just like that I became a Harley rider.

Another two-page spread in the ’79 brochure, showing the entire Harley line. They were beautiful motorcycles.

Yeah, the bike had a lot of quality issues, the most bothersome being a well-known (after you bought one, that is) tendency for the new 80-cubic-inch Shovelhead valves to stick. I first stuck a valve at around 4,000 miles (all of a sudden my Classic was a 40-cubic-inch single, and Harley fixed it on the warranty). I asked Marvin about that, and the answer was, “Yeah, this unleaded gas thing don’t work too good with the new motors. Put a little Marvel Mystery Oil in each of the tanks, or maybe a dime’s worth of diesel, and you’ll be okay…”

Seriously?  Marvel Mystery Oil?  Diesel fuel?

But I wanted to be good guy, and I did as directed.  It wasn’t enough.  A valve stuck again at 8,000 miles, Marvel Mystery Oil and that dime’s worth of diesel notwithstanding.  Another trip to the dealer, and another valve job. I could see where this was going. The bike had a 12,000 mile warranty.

“So, Marvin,” I began, “what happens the next time a valve hangs up?”

Marvin smiled a knowing smile. “It all depends which side of that 12,000 miles you’re on.”  Somehow, Marvin’s Texas accent made it not hurt as much.

Sure enough, at 12,473 miles, a valve stuck for a third time. This one was on me. I pulled the heads, brought them to the dealer, and paid for that valve job. You know, you can just about fix anything on a Harley with a 9/16 wrench and a screwdriver. It was easy to work on. But it wasn’t just the valves sticking. The rear disk brake had problems. The primary cover leaked incessantly. And a bunch of other little things. I’m not kidding. The mean time between failures on that bike was about a hundred miles, and I’d had enough.  I called the bike my Optical Illusion.  It looked like a motorcycle.

One other thing about the Harley sticks out.  I took it with me when I moved to California, and at one of the dealers one of the many times when it was in for service, the dealer’s mascot did what I suddenly realized I had wanted to do.  That mascot was a huge, slobbering St. Bernard.  It sauntered over to my bike and took a leak on the rear wheel.  “Oooh, better hose that down,” the service manager said.  “That will eat up the aluminum wheel.”   I had to laugh (hell, everyone else was) as the guy sprayed water from a garden hose all over the bike.   That dog had beat me to it.  He did what I had felt like doing the entire time I owned the bike.  The kicker is that even though the service manager sprayed the bejesus out of the bike in a vain attempt to remove all traces of the St. Bernard’s territorial claims, it was all for naught.  From that day on wherever I went if there was a dog within a hundred yards, it did the same thing.  My Harley was a two-tone tan-and-cream traveling fire hydrant.

Good Lord, though, that Harley was beautiful. Park it anywhere and it would draw a crowd. Half the people who saw it wanted a ride, and if they were female I was happy to oblige. It was big and heavy and it didn’t handle worth a damn, but it sure was pretty. The only time I almost crashed I was riding through a strip mall parking lot admiring my reflection in the store windows.  That’s how good-looking it was.  I wish I kept it.

Read about our other Dream Bikes!

Swag

I didn’t start out in the typing business looking for swag. I was more interested in seeing my byline on a real, printed object. Being published meant at least one person in the world thought my stuff wasn’t terrible. No, it was like more swag found me. Slowly at first, then faster as the typing game became less and less lucrative, swag has grown ever larger in importance.

Today all I write for is swag. I pay the electric company with logoed T-shirts and swap brake manufacturer stickers for groceries. Swag has completely replaced the United States Dollar in my financial transactions. My wallet looks like an overstuffed armoire and I fill those Leave-a-Penny convenience store change holders with plumbing company plastic key fobs.

More than money, swag fills the void: I insulate walls with swag and burn it to make a fine garden fertilizer. When cooking, I substitute swag in all recipes that call for newt. I mark time by measuring the half-life of a rubber USB drive shaped like a Harley-Davidson motorcycle. I have over 1000 tiny jars of lemon sage Best Western hair conditioner that I plan on converting into diesel fuel someday.

CSC sent me a flat-brimmed swag cap. They didn’t need to: I love those guys and how their business plan is a fantastic experiment in mail order motorcycling. I like that the customer needs to be a bit more self sufficient to operate their motorcycles. And I like the hat. With most products becoming sealed off to us regulars, CSC bikes actually require you to dig in. Since I own mostly weird motorcycles that have no dealer support I relate to the pride a CSC owner feels when he sets his own valves or replaces the chain and sprockets on his motorcycle.

Swag works. The preceding paragraph should be all the proof you need. Swag turns customers into advocates and a scuba suit beer cooler celebrating Pandya’s 50th birthday will always come in handy. Come to think of it, Exhaustnotes.us has no swag that I’m aware of. I’ll have to get to work on that.

Barron’s recommendations…

I guess more financial mags are zeroing in on Harley-Davidson’s plans to introduce an electric motorcycle.  You saw our post a week or so ago about The Motley Fool and their thoughts on the Livewire.  Barron’s, another financial newspaper/advisory service, similarly reported on Harley’s woes but with a twist.   This most recent Barron’s article strongly recommended that either Harley move into manufacturing pickup trucks, or allow itself to be acquired by Ford.  Yeah, that’s right.  Ford.  The car company.

Ford has already produced F-150 pickups with Harley trim packages (seriously, I can’t make up stuff this good) and they are reintroducing a $100K Harley-themed truck for 2019…

Barron’s reasons that Harley’s brand recognition could help Ford (a company who’s stock price has been tanking for years).   The Barron’s article actually recommends Harley as a buy (the stock, not the motorcycle), with a target price of $50 per share if such an acquisition occur (i.e., Ford buying Harley).  Seeing as Harley stock (symbol HOG) is currently about $35 per share, Barron’s reasons that could be a wise investment if Ford acquires Harley (which I don’t think will ever happen).

I’m watching all of this in stunned silence.  Well, nearly stunned silence, except for the tapping of my laptop’s keyboard as I whip out this blog.   $35,000 electric motorcycles.   Harley-badged $100,000+ Ford pickup trucks, which presumably will sell to folks whose judgement, common sense, and sobriety has to be questioned.  Financial advisors recommending buying Harley stock because if Ford (a company with terrible stock performance) buys Harley (another company with terrible stock performance), the Harley stock price will go up (while Harley’s business has been tanking in a dive so steep they may not be able to pull out of it).  Got it.  Right.

My take on all of this?   It’s hard to take it all in, let alone understand most of it.  Your thoughts?  Let’s hear them!

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The Motley Fool weighs in…

The Motley Fool is an investment advisory service newsletter I’ve been following since the 1990s, and my take on things is they generally have good advice and make predictions that have proven to be sound.  Most recently, The Motley Fool published an article (Harley-Davidson Really Misjudged the Electric Motorcycle Market) about Harley’s Livewire electric motorcycle.   Their take on the new Harley is the same as ours…Harley’s marketing muscle and distribution channels will help, but the idea of a $35K+ electric motorcycle nearly guarantees a dead-on-arrival introduction.   The Motley Fool piece is well reasoned and mirrors our earlier prediction.  Let’s hope both we and The Motley Fool are wrong.

Gun stuff is da bomb!

Or so sayeth Joe Gresh, soothsayer, philosopher, and observer of the human condition extraordinaire. Say what you wish, every time we post a gun blog here on ExNotes, the hits (no gun puns intended) go through the roof. We’re primarily a motorcycle site, with an emphasis on vintage bikes, restorations, destinations, Baja, and adventure riding. But our readers love gun stories. What to do?

I guess we’ve got to find a way to merge the two topics: Guns and motorcycles. Somebody did it with roses. We’ve got to be smart enough to find a way to do it with motorcycles.  Here are my thoughts…

Maybe armed motorcycles. Hmmm, that might work. I’m thinking a .45 ACP Gatling mounted centerline on a big V-twin, maybe with the bike being designated the FLH-GG. Centerline mounting would prevent recoil-induced torque steer (just as was done on the A-10 Warthog), and the .45 ACP chambering would allow for increased ammo storage and shorter barrel length (plus, the .45 ACP is an incalculably cool cartridge). I’m thinking a firing rate of 1000 rounds per minute would do nicely.

I’d go with a single Gatling mounted in the headlight, chambered in .45 ACP. You get the idea.  If you need to know more about Gatling guns, take a look here.

That Gatling thing could work.   When I was in the Army, we called our 20mm Gatlings Vulcans, and Kawasaki made a motorcycle called the Vulcan.  There are branding possibilities here, folks.

Or maybe we look for bikes that have already been built. Ural had a sidecar model with a machine gun mount a few years ago. Yeah, that could work.

Ural’s Gear Up model, complete with machine gun mount. Machine gun sold separately. From The Complete Book of Police and Military Motorcycles, by You Know Who.

We could focus on police and military motorcycles. Hmmm, I know a pretty good book on that topic, and Lord knows there’s enough models of police and military bikes to support a string of blog features. But hey, we’re already planning to do that.  And it will be cool.  I guarantee it.

A Harley WLA, complete with a Thompson submachine gun scabbard. Thompson submachine gun sold separately.  This is another photo from Police and Military Motorcycles.

Maybe a feature or two on how to carry a gun on a motorcycle, both out in the open and maybe a concealed carry feature. The Army had some cool ideas on open carry back in the 1940s (see the above photo). For concealed carry, I’m thinking maybe something that’s integrated into the clutch lever, or a tankbag holster that looks like a map case. Or maybe a cell phone mount with a Derringer designed to look like a cell phone.  Yeah, we could have a lot of fun with this one.

When I was at CSC, we sometimes ran a postal match. You know, where folks shoot at a target, send the target to us, and we’d score them to find a winner. That was a lot of fun.

Drive By Bike GIF from Driveby GIFs

While we were running the postal match, somebody actually wrote to me suggesting we have a match in which you have to shoot from a rolling motorcycle (no kidding, folks…I can’t make up stuff this good). It would be kind of like polo, I suppose, but with bikes and bullets instead of horses and mallets (or whatever they call those things they whack the ball with). Liability coverage might be tough, but it could be made to work.

We could design a gun that transforms itself into a motorcycle. You know, you carry the thing in a holster, say a few well-chosen words, and it converts itself into a motorcycle to allow for a convenient and quick exit. We could maybe call it something catchy, like the Transformer. We ‘d probably sell a few just because it sounds like an electric thingamabog (you know, it would sell to folks wanting to show they’re green). Nah, I don’t think he technology has caught up to the EPA challenges yet. But it’s fun to think about.

The Transformer, a motorcycle that changes into a gun. We’d sell a lot of T-shirts.

I’ve done a blog or two on motorcycle companies that started as firearms manufacturers.  You know, BSA (which actually stands for Birmingham Small Arms), Royal Enfield (of Lee Enfield rifle fame), and well, you get the idea.  That would involve a lot of research, so it may not fit in with our ExNotes labor minimization strategies.  But it might be worth considering.

All of the above is food for thought, but I’m rapidly approaching a state in which I’ve been thinking so hard I may not be able to think for the next several days. Help me out here, folks. What are your ideas?

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Dream Garage

If I had all the money, I’d be one of those crazy collector types, like Jay Leno or Anthony Hopkins, the Silence Of The Lambs guy. You know, the kind that has 177 motorcycles, their Great Paw-Paw’s washing machine motor and 42 washed-up old cars stored in three aircraft hangers. All of my bikes would be in neat rows, I’d have every color of every year of each model and they would all sit in my gigantic storage shed and slowly seize up. And when I die there’d be an auction where the stuff would sell for pennies on the dollar to a bunch of soulless flippers intent on making old motorcycles as expensive and annoying as the collector car scene is today.

Maybe I’d organize both cars and bikes by engine type. There would be a Kawasaki 750 triple, a Saab 93 triple, a Suzuki 750 triple next to a crisp, modern Honda NS400. Flathead Row would have a Melroe Bobcat with the air-cooled Wisconsin V-4, and all three Harley flatties: The 45- incher, the Sportster KH and that big block they made (74-inch?). You’d have to have an 80-inch Indian and the Scout along with most of the mini bikes built in the 1970s.

I love a disc-valve two stroke but I’ve never owned one. First bikes in that section will be a bunch of Kawasaki twins (350cc and 250cc). I’d have a CanAm because with their carb tucked behind the cylinder instead of jutting out the side they don’t look like disc bikes should. A Bridgestone 350 twin without an air filter element would be parked next to a ferocious Suzuki 125cc square-four road racer, year to be determined.

Besides the two-stroke Saab I’d have a two-stroke Suzuki LJ 360cc 4X4 with the generator that turns into the starter motor like an old Yamaha AT1-125. I’d need a metalflake orange Myers Manx dune buggy. It would be that real thick kind of metalflake that looks like some kind of novelty candy served only on Easter or found in table centerpieces at wedding receptions. A few Chevy trucks from the 1960’s would make it into the collection also. A mid-60’s Chevy van, the swoopy one, would be a must-have to go with one of those giant steam tractors, the ones with the steel wheels and the chain wrapped around the steering shaft and then to the center pivot front axle to make the beast turn hard.

To complement the Bobcat I’d have a gas-engined backhoe, something from the 1950’s with all new hoses and tires. I’ll paint it yellow with a roller and then hand paint “The Jewel” in red on both sides of the hood with the tiny artist’s brush from a child’s watercolor set. The backhoe would be a smooth running liquid-cooled flathead with an updraft carburetor and it would reek of unburnt fuel whenever you lifted a heavy load in the front bucket.

No one would be as into my junk as me, so I’d have to hire a guy to feign interest in the stuff. I think $10 an hour should get me a sidekick who would always be amazed at what I had found. We’d both marvel at how little work or parts the item would need to get it running and then we’d push it into an empty space. After a cold beer from a refrigerator plastered with Klotz decals he’d run his card through the time clock with a resounding clunk, leaving me and the shop cat sitting in my beat-up brown vinyl recliner to stare at my collection and wonder if I really had all the money.

Happy New Year!

A 2019 Heritage Softail.  It’s magnificent, and magnificently expensive.

I’m celebrating the start of 2019 the right way, with a trip to the rifle range to test a few new loads for accuracy, but during a break in my reloading session yesterday (at the tail end of 2018), I let chaos theory take over.  That’s the theory that says you often get unpredictable outcomes from random, seemingly unconnected events.

The unconnected event was the light bulb over our bathroom shower blowing out a couple of days ago.   The Boss (SWMBO, or she who must be obeyed) gave me directions to get it taken care of, and that meant a short ride to the lighting store.  You’re probably wondering about now if I somehow got electrocuted or if I slipped on the ladder taking the bulb out.  Nope, neither one of those things happened.  But….

You see, the lighting store is just across the street from our local Harley dealer.  You know, the T-shirt guys who also sell motorcycles.  I had to stop in to see the new Harleys.  I mean, I was right there.  No, I didn’t need a new T-shirt.  But I was curious.  It would be 2019 in a few hours, and I needed to see the latest and the greatest from Milwaukee and Mumbai.

I’ve owned a couple of Harleys in my life.  The first was a 1979 Electra-Glide Classic, a two-tone-tan-and-cream-colored full dresser that was beautiful.  I called it my optical illusion.  It looked like a real motorcycle.  The thing was gorgeous, but it couldn’t go a hundred miles without something breaking, and when I finally sold it (also in 1979, after its third top end overhaul), I swore I would never buy another Harley.

Promises are made to be broken, and that led to a 1992 Heritage Softail, which was a great motorcycle.  I did some real traveling on that one, as you’ll need from reading Moto Baja.  The Softail made it to 53,000 miles before the engine froze up, and that was after I owned it for just over 10 years.  I’m real certain about that “just over 10 years” time frame, because when the engine locked up, the Harley dealer wouldn’t touch it.  That was because it was “over 10 years” old, and that’s the cutoff for Harley working on a motorcycle.  But that was okay…because I put a 96-inch S&S motor in the thing, and that really woke the bike up.  Top end went from just under 100 mph to well over 120 mph (the speedo only went to 120, and burying the needle was no problemo with the new motor).   The fuel economy went from the low 40-mpg range to about 30 mpg with that new motor, but hey, who’s counting?

But then chaos theory took over again.   I was supposed to bring home a carton of milk one day when I was out on my Harley, I forgot, and SWMBO sent me back out to fetch said carton.  For whatever reason, I took my KLR 650 on that run, so I had a chance to ride the 96-inch Harley back-to-back with the KLR.   You can guess where this story is going.  The KLR was faster, it handled better, and best of all, the entire KLR motorcycle had cost less (brand new) out the door than just the S&S had cost for the Harley.   Cycle Trader came to the rescue, and two days later, I was happily Harleyless.   Chaos Theory.  Powerful stuff.

So, back to the main attraction here:  My visit to the Harley dealer yesterday, and the 2019 version of the Heritage Softail.  Here’s the ticket, folks, not including sales tax…

Wowee! Note that this model has the optional 114-cubic-inch motor, for those times when 107 cubic inches just won’t do.

$22,787!  Yikes!  I asked the sales guy, after telling him I was only interested in looking and I was not a buyer, about the engine size.   It seems the standard motor is a 107 cubic inch V-twin, and this one had Harley’s optional 114-cubic inch motor.  I guess there’s no substitute for cubic inches.  My two earlier Harleys had 80 cubic inches.  My current motorcycle has 250 cubic centimeters, which is hair over 15 cubic inches, and that has taken me all over the US, up and down Baja a half-dozen times, across China, around the Andes in Colombia, and well, you get the idea.  But you never know.  There might be a time when another 100 cubic inches would come in handy.

Anyway, take a look at the dealer setup fee on that sticker above.  Yikes again!  And how about that CARB fee?   Folks, I’ve been in the business, and I’ve spent a lot of time seeing bikes through the CARB process at their test facilities in El Monte, California.  I know the folks who run the place.  There is no such thing as a CARB fee.   At least that the CARB people know about.

Moving on, I noticed the Harley Street model.  Gresh told me he’d never seen one, and I thought I’d snap a photo of it for him.  It’s not a bad looking bike.  Nah, scratch that:  It’s a great looking bike…

The Harley Street. 500cc. It looked and felt good to me. Maybe I can talk these guys into a test ride.

I like the look and feel of the Street.  I don’t know how it rides.  The price of the bike is reasonable, too, other than the aforementioned CARB and dealer setup fees…

This is more like it for a guy like me. But there’s no way I’m paying a fictitious CARB fee or a thousand bucks for setup.  The freight cost is close to reality, I think, and I’m okay with that.

My guess is Harley is eager to deal on these little bikes.  They should just give me one.  I’d like to ride the Mumbai Monster.   I’d ride it all over and publicize the hell out of it.  It would give me license to start wearing Harley T-shirts again, too.

I joked with the sales guy about the prices, and he told me to take a look at the CVO (as in “Custom Vehicle Operations”) number on the bike behind me.  Wowzers!

Yowzers,wowzers, and more!  $45K!  Hey, maybe they’d throw in a free T-shirt.

$45,522!  Good Lord!

But, the bike was beautiful…

A CVO Harley. It was magnificent, and magnificently priced.
The CVO Harley has a 117 cubic inch engine. You know, for those times when 114 cubic inches just won’t do.

So there you have it.   A burnt-out light bulb led to a Harley dealer visit and the photos you see above.  No, I didn’t buy anything.  Not even a T-shirt.  But I had fun looking.  It was a good way to wrap up 2018.

Happy New Year, folks!