Photo ops abound in New Mexico. They have at least four different license plate themes. It’s cool.
Wow, we are enjoying our travels here in the Land of Enchantment. Every where we’ve been, the roads have been awesome and the photo ops have been amazing.
Yesterday we were up near the Colorado border in the little town of Aztec, New Mexico, and we came across a National Park Service Native American ruins site. I never heard of Aztec, I certainly never heard of the ruins there, and the roads were amazing. We stopped for a few photos, and then it was on to Colorado.
A kiva, a large multipurpose room. It was cool.A storm on the horizon…As we viewed the ruins, thunder boomed. It added to the mood. It was a great stop. Sometimes the unplanned ones are the best.The view through an ancient Native American door.
Mesa Verde is coming up next, but that’s a topic for another blog.
More cool stuff…it seems my friend Dan the K is planning a trip to the northwest territories on his 250cc RX3, I invited myself along, and Dan told me that’s great. It looks like Gresh may ride with us for at least part of the run, too. All adventure motorcycle tours are great; I believe the ones on 250cc bikes are even more so. We’ll include you in the planning for this ride, and you’ll be able to read all about it on the ExhaustNotes.us blog.
Tinfiny Acres came completely furnished with a junkyard. There were motorhomes, cars, boats and motorcycles lying about the place, all in a shocked state of disbelief. When the previous owner died it was like a plug had been pulled, freezing the many projects in situ. I’ve been cleaning up for a few years now yet still the twisted piles of scrap metal and softly rotting sheets of oriented strand board found on Tinfiny’s extensive grounds yield surprise and enchantment.
I was working on a two-Harbor-Freight-trailer-load of broken fiberglass garage doors that had been squatted by a company of freeloading pack rats when I first uncovered the Merry Tiller. Previously, I had seen parts of the thing, the handlebars, maybe a transport wheel and had caught a flash of chrome between the thicket of brush that had found much success around this particular pile of trash. But now the full tiller was exposed to daylight.
The Merry Tiller
And what a tiller it was. The first thing I thought was, “That’s a nice chaincase.” Long and thin with an oil filler hole two-thirds the way up the case there was no comparison to the clunky, surface-floating drives found on lesser tillers. No, this chaincase was made to knife through plowed earth like a long board skeg grooving down a mountainous wave. This chaincase has soul, my brothers.
The real deal: Briggs & Stratton!
The Merry Tiller is configured engine-over which places the fulcrum directly over the digging tines. This set up allows minor weight shifts at the controls to precisely control forward motion. Sporting a 5-horsepower Briggs & Stratton powerplant this tiller should be able to plow granite, slowed only by the drag bar’s deep bite into the soil.
The engine is a real Briggs & Stratton, the one with the straight carburetor and the diaphragm, crankcase-pressure-operated mini-dip tank inside the gas tank. On the left side is a huge reduction pulley and belt-tension clutch assembly. The frame consists of two heavy angle iron sections bolted together at fortuitous locations.
My Merry Tiller…a mechanical masterpiece!
Having said the above, I’ve never actually started the Merry Tiller. I’ve got a bit more debris to move in order to wheel the tiller out into the open The thing is a classic and might be worth more money in its barn-find trash pile. Maybe I could hire a few archeologists to remove the ground surrounding the Merry Tiller and ship it complete to the new owner.
Who am I kidding? Unconsciously I have shouldered Tinfiny Ranch’s legacy to the world. His projects have become intermixed with my projects. I can’t tell which project belongs to whom. I’ll never sell the Merry Tiller. It’s like a vintage Barbie doll in her original, unmolested packaging, except this one is gas-powered.
It was another broiler-hot day out of Ajo this morning, but it was an easy run…Arizona 85 south to Arizona 86, stay on 86 for about 100 miles, and a right turn on Arizona 386 for the twisty 14-mile climb up to Kitt Peak National Observatory. The La Luz saga continues. Gobi and me, we got some blogging to do. Maybe a video or two. We’ll see. So will you. And for those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about, you’ll find out soon enough.
The topic du jour: Kitt Peak National Observatory, a gem of a destination and a seriously cool place. And, it’s a great ride to get there.
Kitt Peak is up on a ridgeline at roughly 6700 feet, about 50 miles southwest of Tucson. On our ride there today, the skies were clear and the visibility was amazing. Once again, it’s best left to the photos to do the talking…
A glorious set of twisties, with Kitt Peak as the piece of cheese at the end.Impressive credentials!No tigers?That’s Baboquivari Peak on the horizon, the holiest peak for the Tohono O’odham Native Americans. Kitt Peak National Observatory is on their land. The Tohono O’odham believe their creator resides on that peak.The Case Western Reserve University telescope. There are a lot of different telescopes on Kitt Peak.This telescope dominates Kitt Peak. We could see it 30 miles away as we rolled across the desert floor.We didn’t see a single one. Seeing signs like this is a cool thing.One of many cool and colorful explanations at various Kitt Peak observation points. The views are impressive.
It’s Tucson tonight, and we should make Las Cruces by nightfall tomorrow. I love these road trips. The ride today was awesome, but hey, they all are.
I’m gathering my thoughts on the Zero electric motorcycle. It was a fun day and a fun ride, that day last week at Art’s Douglas Motorcycles dealership. It’s way different than any motorcycle I ever rode, and it’s also way different than CSC’s City Slicker. They’re both good bikes, I loved riding both, and they both have their strengths and weaknesses. The differences are driven by what each company designed their bike to do. Different missions, like we used to say in the Army.
Watch for the Slick vs. Zero blog. It’s coming. I’ve been thinking deep thoughts about both bikes, and sometimes when I think really deep thoughts on any topic, I can’t think for days afterward. I’m in that mode now, so I’m simply enjoying the trek to Tinfiny. La Luz, Gobi, Tinfiny…I know it’s confusing and I’ll explain what it all means soon enough.
I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings but us oldsters are through. Our time has passed. No one cares if we like electric motorcycles or have range anxiety or just don’t like the silence. They don’t care. Bemoan the new kids all you want but we are dead-generation walking and the future always bats last.
Harley-Davidson, having had their finger on the pulse of the American motorcyclist for more than 100 years, can feel that pulse weakening. They get that Easy Rider means a mobility chair to anyone under age 50. With the Livewire H-D is busting out of the leather-fringed, concho-ed cage they so carefully crafted for themselves and it’s about time.
Electric motorcycles just make more sense than electric cars: City-centric, short range, narrow and easy to park. E-bikes comfortably fit into the existing technology envelope as it stands today. While always appreciated there’s no need for advancements in battery technology. E-motorcycles work right now, man.
Generation X, Y, and Z are down with plugging in electronics equipment wherever they go. They grew up watching battery level indicators like we grew up watching fuel gauges. They don’t have the same history or values that we have and they’d be a pretty sorry generation if they couldn’t come up with their own idea of fun.
As usual on Wild Conjecture we have no factual information on the Livewire so the first thing I noticed is that the thing actually looks good. The heavily-finned battery compartment is kind of huge so maybe range will be decent (100-miles would do it for me). Large diameter dual discs means this may be the hardest stopping H-D yet. More than likely the rear disc will be assisted by regenerative braking because it’s fairly easy to do and adds a few miles to the range.
The rear suspension resembles Yamaha’s Monoshock system from 40 years ago except with a much shorter shock absorber. The frame appears to be cast aluminum, a construction method that eliminates costly, complicated robot welding machines and messy human interaction. Forks appear standard and I don’t see any way for the front wheel to charge the battery under braking.
One of the problems I see with electric motorcycles is that they try to be like internal combustion motorcycles. They measure their range against gasoline mileage. They pit their performance against machines that have had 100 years of refinement. For the most part they stack up so-so. E-bikes should embrace a less costly approach; give up a few miles of range and a few miles per hour for a faster charge time. Maybe cheaper, quick-change batteries so commuters could keep one at home, one at the office and one in the motorcycle thereby eliminating the wait time for charging.
The Livewire is an even bigger leap of faith for H-D than their ADV bike (which breaks no new ground) and I’m not sure it will sell out of a traditional motorcycle dealership. Maybe sell them from kiosks at Red Bull events? The Livewire should appeal to a younger audience but it’ll have to be less expensive and carry less emotional baggage than Harley’s oil burners to do it.
Much like when your old granny starts using Instagram or throws down internet slang terms like LOL, Harley-Davidson’s new, Pan America concept motorcycle is a sure sign that the out-sized ADV fad has played itself out. It can’t come a moment too soon for me because these giant dirt motorcycles are the worst idea to come down the pike since Thalidomide. I won’t list the moto-journos that have injured themselves on these bikes but it’s a who’s who of two-wheeled typists. Remember, these are the pros!
H-D has ignored the segment these last twenty years for good reason: It’s simply not their bag. Change comes slowly to The Motor Company. They’ve been very successful building and selling a cruiser lifestyle. People tattoo H-D logos onto their bodies! Who else but a Batdorf and Bronson coffee fanatic would do that?
Back on topic: The Pan America. Harley doesn’t keep me in the loop so I have nothing but a promotional photo to go by but the thing doesn’t look half bad. There’s just a hint of Royal Enfield Himalayan in the styling but that’s not a bad thing. The fairing is kind of goofy, a requirement for ADV bikes. It’s got a decent-looking skidpan and a nice flat seat that looks comfortable.
The engine looks like a restyled version of H-D’s 750cc liquid-cooled Street power plant but with displacement rumors swirling around 1200cc, maybe not. Maybe it’s a V-Rod engine. Anyway I can’t see Harley building a new engine just for the Pan America unless it’s the beta test of a wholly new Sportster power plant. There’s almost no way the thing will weigh less than 600 pounds, again, seemingly not a problem for the chuckleheads who plow these big bikes through the trails.
I haven’t heard of any major reliability issues on the 500cc-750cc Street models or the V-Rod so if it’s either engine the thing should be more reliable than the class-leading GS BMW’s. I’m hoping the thing is chain drive as toothed belts squeak like crazy in the dirt and shaft drives seem to snap in half with alarming frequency.
The rest of the cycle parts look really modern, Japanese even, and the Pan America shows that Harley can build a bike that rivals the Europeans and Asians anytime they feel like it. They just haven’t felt like it. Until now.
A gentle rain of cinders descends upon passengers in the open-air cattle car. Shifting side to side, now a hard lurch, has you reaching, drunk-walking to the beat. People sway in time to the rails and the rails play a tune older than wax-cylinder recordings. Engine Number Four-Sixty-Three chuffs black, riot-grade smoke as the tracks gradually rise into the tailings of the Rocky Mountains in northern New Mexico and southern Colorado.
It’s beautiful, isn’t it?
Fire is the driving force behind the Cumbres & Toltec line. The tender hitched to Four-Sixty-Three glistens with dark, crumbling coal trailing a peat-tane scent. This is the good stuff, before coal became clean and beautiful. The tracks steepen; Four-Sixty-Three’s breathing becomes labored. The chuffs are farther apart in time but not distance. The fireman shovels more coal into the boiler. Steam pressure rises, pile it on man, let’s get this iron horse moving.
Tenderly stoking the fire…I think I can…I think I can…Adding new meaning to bore and stroke.
We climb higher, waxy shrubs and rabbits give way to deer and pines. The air cools and each sigh from Four-Sixty-Three’s smokestack hangs in the air marking the exact spot it escaped the inferno. The little train spews water vapor from several ports. It drools water near the drive wheels, jowly and unpettable. Geysers of high pressure water shoot out the side of the engine at random, but no doubt necessary, intervals.
We left Antonito, Colorado three hours, twenty-five miles, and thousands of gallons of water ago. The scenery is aboriginal: landslides, mountain streams, hard cuts through solid rock and lonely cabins pressed to the ground. We are burning our way across eons of metamorphic western land.
Great rides on great rails…A magic ride through amazing lands…
The Cumbres & Toltec stops for lunch midway between Antonito and Chama. Of the two options, I pick meatloaf because turkey is for Thanksgiving. It’s an assembly line operation but the food is tasty, old style and all you can eat. Fitting for a vintage steam train ride.
Water pours out onto the ground. Between the elbow of the tower and the chute there’s a 6-inch gap. Four-Sixty-Three guzzles the water as fast as it can flow into the boiler. The steam whistle blows twice and steam-torque pulls us away from the feed bag higher into the mountains where the spruce trees are dying from beetles and fungus.
The line into Chama is bumpy and downhill. In places Highway 17 parallels the railroad track. Old men stop their cars to photograph Four-Sixty-Three comin’ round the bend. The whistle blows and camera shutters release to freeze a moment from the past today. Four-Sixty-Three pulls into Chama a half-hour late. Missing the schedule is death to a train man. They apologize and ask forgiveness.
For people not staying in Chama a modern motor coach whisks passengers back to Antonio in one hour. The same voyage that took us nine hours by train. I feel sorry for those poor people, they’ll never get that hour back.
It’s March in central Florida, cool and clear. I get the call from Ed in the late afternoon. A couple of his California friends are racing motorcycles in the 600cc class. He wants me to help them out. The sun is setting low over Lake Schimmerhorn, the sky a blood-orange deepening to cobalt blue high overhead. White, high-persistence contrails cross the sky in an Atlanta-Orlando direction. The scene outside the Love Shack looks like a flag from The Republic of Kodachrome. “Yeah” I say, gently pulling the wrapper of a grape Jolly Rancher. The candy rotates clockwise between my fingers. “I’ll go.”
“Cool, you met Jeff and Beaver at the retirement party held after the anniversary party,” Ed said. “Remember Torrance?” In the background I hear a machine scraping metal: another of Ed’s big-block Moto-Guzzis. The man can’t leave motorcycles alone.
“Torrance? Yeah, I remember, my wife said Jeff seemed kind of depressed. Happily married, good corporate job; didn’t he give up racing?”
“He did, then he didn’t,” said Ed. “Look for the Baby Appleseed pits. Get there early tomorrow, I told them you’re coming.”
It’s 38 degrees in the morning. My Italian-era Husqvarna 510 stumbles and stalls, then lights off on the fourth push of the button. I rev the engine and slip the clutch on the Husky’s tall first gear. A sloppy, brapp-brapp snarls out of the pipe and ricochets from aluminum singlewide trailers to sway-backed modular homes. I turn right onto Highway 40. Open the throttle and the Husky’s tachometer rips past 9000 rpm, front wheel climbing on the surge. Two, three, four, five, six, shift as fast as you can, man.
I’ve got to keep the front down. It’s dark. Highway 40 is damp with morning dew. The headlamp flickers intermittently between low beam and parking light, low beam and parking light. It’s a random problem and one I can’t solve. Oncoming cars dip their headlights, thinking I’m flashing them. I wish I could stop and explain Italian motorcycle electrical systems but there’s no time. It’s cold. My hands hurt.
At the very end of Pit Row the black, the white and red Baby Appleseed logo is splashed across two huge gazebo tents. I guess with Ed involved I expected one rusty Craftsman toolbox and a mid-eighties Moto-Guzzi Alfresco. I’d find Jeff and Beaver slumped over, gently sobbing. Beaver’s greasy jeans would have holes in both knees.
Pit row, Daytona.
“What’s the problem, boys?” My confident tone would instantly buck them up. “The bike has a high rpm miss, Gresh, we’ve been trouble shooting the damn thing for days.” I’d get in there and clean the fuel filter, maybe straighten a bent metering needle and the bike would run perfect, you know, save the day.
Baby Appleseed’s pit has two mechanics, electric tire warmers and a second rider, Neils, owner of the high-end baby furniture company sponsoring the team. There’re computers to track lap times, 120 volt AC generators and air compressors.
Both Appleseed motorcycles are decked out in Baby Appleseed racing colors. Back in the dry pits there’s a motorhome with a full-body Baby Appleseed wrap parked in front of a dual-axle Baby Appleseed trailer stocked with Baby Appleseed race parts. The mechanics wear Baby Appleseed logoed race shirts. Jeff has qualified in the front row for race one. To the untrained observer it appears they’re doing ok without me.
“My wife was worried about you.” I tell Jeff, “At that party in Torrance she said you seemed unhappy, settling for security.”
Jeff looks at me, grins, “I’m down to 140 pounds, I’ve been training every day, running. You’ve got to be light to keep up with these kids.”
“She’s sort of an Empath.” I explain, “Like Deanna Troy on Star Trek. When I told her you were racing again she got a little teary-eyed.” Jeff nods, unsure of the protocol. I better close it out. “Anyway, people tell her everything, man. I mean, people she’s never met spill their life story within two minutes.”
“Um,” Jeff says, “Tell her I’m ok. Tell her I’m happy.”
We’re watching the race feed one of the pit monitors. Jeff’s dicing for the lead, the crew is wound up tight. Two laps in, the front tire pushes and Jeff wads the Baby Appleseed bike, a hundred mile per hour get-off. Mostly we see a cloud of dust as the bike tumbles through the infield. It’s hard to tell what’s going on with the monitor. There’s Jeff walking away. Collective relief: “That’s all right then, we can fix the bike.” I think that was Neils’ dad.
By the time I get to the dry pits the bodywork on Jeff’s bike is already gone. Every part that sticks out is either broken, bent, or ground off. One mechanic is removing forks, the other removes the mangled sub-frame then goes back to pit row. Neils is still racing. Jeff surveys the damaged bike, “Damn. We don’t need this extra work.” The bike has to be fixed by 7 PM, when the dry pits close. I better help sort things out.
The bike is down to the frame and motor. “Can I do anything to help?”
The mechanic stops wrenching on the triple clamps, thinks three beats. “Uh, yeah, drain the gas from the wrecked tank.” I grab the tank, “What do you want me to put it into?”
The mechanic looks up again, “What?”
I hold the tank up, “The gas. Where you want it?”
He looks around the pits, “ Um, I don’t know, see if you can find an empty can in the trailer.” He goes back to the triple clamps. Jeff is sweeping the work area, picking up small bits of motorcycle. The mechanics dodge around us to work on the bike.
The trailer is locked. I go back to the pits. “Sorry to bug you again, man, the trailer is locked. Do you have a key?” Water runs from a radiator hose into a plastic, 5 gallon bucket.
“The key? It’s locked?” Hands dripping, “Lemme see if it’s in here.” He searches the top tray of his rollaway toolbox. “Damn, it was here.” He scans the pit area, “I don’t know where it went. Listen, I got to get this radiator off.”
I find Neils, still in his leathers. He just pulled in after a solid race, finishing 20-something out of 60 bikes. I ask him if he has a key to the trailer.
“What?” Sweat runs down his face, “Find my dad, I think he has one.” I wander past the trailer. The door is open. Beaver is inside. There’s an assortment of cans.
“Which can should I use to drain the gas from the smashed tank?” I ask.
“What?” Beaver replies, putting down two replacement wheels.
“I need to drain the gas from the old tank.”
“Oh, um…take this one.” Beaver hands me a can.
“You got a funnel?” The other mechanic is back. He’s sliding a new fork leg into new a new set of triple clamps.
“What?” He stops sliding the leg.
“A funnel, to pour the gas into this can.” I hold up the can Beaver gave me.
“Don’t use that can. Use the one under that pile of bodywork. I don’t want it mixed up.” I move a broken plastic tailpiece and there’s a can underneath. The fill opening is one inch wide.
“Man, I hate to bug you, I need a funnel.”
The mechanic stops working on the forks and gives a hunted look around the pit area, “Jeff, find this guy a funnel.”
“Look in that box on the rolling tray.” Jeff says. I find three big, red funnels. I fit the funnel and begin to pour the gas from the bent tank into the can.
“Hey! Put a sock on that funnel!” The first mechanic yells at me, putting down the handle bar he was about to install.
“A sock?” I have no idea what he is talking about. Jeff hands me a cloth filter with a sewn-in elastic edge to stretch over the wide end of the funnel. I fit the filter and pour the gas.
“Watch what you’re doing!” There’s a puddle of gas on the floor. I’m so intent on not missing the funnel mouth I don’t notice that the tank’s internal vent tube is pissing gas. It’s a like a frigging geyser, man. Tipping the tank upright increases the flow, broadcasting a liberal dose of high-octane race fuel around the pit area. Both mechanics drop their tools and run over with rags. They start mopping up the spill.
“We got to clean this up! If the AMA guys see this they’ll freak out, you can’t have pools of gas laying around in here!”
Beaver appears beside me and guides me by the elbow away from the spill. “Can you give me a hand moving the gear from pit row?” We walk out to the Baby Appleseed tents on pit row, a distance of some 300 yards. Beaver hands me two cartons of water, I walk back to the trailer. Next trip Beaver hands me three tires to carry, I take them back to the trailer, then a big stack of sprockets.
There’s one of those folding carts parked at the tents. Beaver hands me the portable generator. The damn thing is heavy. “Can I use that cart?”
“No.” Beaver says, “It’s easier to carry the stuff.” I move gear back and forth from pit row to the trailer. Late in the afternoon I glance over at the pits, Jeff’s bike is rebuilt and has passed tech inspection.
The next day Jeff’s rebuilt bike runs near the front all day long and in a photo finish misses the podium by inches. I call my wife with the results. She’s happy, she tells me Jeff is doing what he’s supposed to be doing. The sky turns blood-orange deepening into cobalt-blue high overhead. The Baby Appleseed team is upbeat, they’ve got an entire racing season ahead of them. I only hope they can do as well when I’m not around.
I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings but us oldsters are through. Our time has passed. No one cares if we like electric motorcycles or have range anxiety or just don’t like the silence. They don’t care. Bemoan the new kids all you want but we are dead-generation walking and the future always bats last.
Much like when your old granny starts using Instagram or throws down internet slang terms like LOL, Harley-Davidson’s new, Pan America concept motorcycle is a sure sign that the out-sized ADV fad has played itself out. It can’t come a moment too soon for me because these giant dirt motorcycles are the worst idea to come down the pike since Thalidomide. I won’t list the moto-journos that have injured themselves on these bikes but it’s a who’s who of two-wheeled typists. Remember, these are the pros!
