Mike Huber Stops By

By Joe Berk

Good buddy Mike Huber rolled through So Cal a few days ago and spent the night at Casa Berkowitz.  It was a fun visit.

Mike Huber on the UberMoto. Mike’s current GS is his second one.

I first met Mike on one of the CSC Baja expeditions, and the circumstances of our meeting hit on shared interests (motorcycles and Baja) and a shared background (we are both alums of the Benning School for Boys).

An August 1972 jump school postcard purchased at the Benning School for Boys Post Exchange.

The CSC crew (me and maybe a dozen fellow RX3 riders) had stopped for gasolina on the 200+ mile stretch between Baja’s El Rosario and Guerrero Negro.  Cataviña is about 130 miles south of El Rosario, and for a long time it has been the only place to buy fuel on that section of Mexico’s Highway 1.  There were no gas stations then; enterprising Mexican capitalists sold it from bottles on the side of the road (capitalism rules, my friends).  Today there is a Pemex in Cataviña, but that’s a relatively recent development.

Refueling in Cataviña. That’s good buddy Tuan, an RX3 rider and one of my former students at Cal Poly Pomona.

You can imagine the scene…a dozen bikes crowded around a handful of people selling fuel out of jugs.  Or maybe you don’t have to imagine it; just take a look at the photo above.  It was a hot day, we’d been on the road a while, and we were two days into a seven-day trip.  I looked at the other bikes around me and on one of the motorcycle tailpacks I saw a decal that commands instant and profound respect from anyone who’s been there:  The winged parachute emblem showing that the bearer graduated from the US Army Airborne School at Fort Benning, Georgia.

Mike’s jump wings on the back of his first GS. It was this emblem that first alerted to Mike and his background. Mike’s done 19 jumps (5 in jump school and another dozen when he served with the US Army’s 82nd Airborne Division).
When the jump wings fell off, Mike replaced them with an 82nd Airborne Division decal. The “AA” stands for “All American.”   I learned that when I asked one of my jump school instructors; he first told me that for us trainees, it stood for “Almost Airborne.”   Then he told me the real story.

That’s weird, I thought.  I had only known the guys on this ride for a few days, I’d seen all of their bikes, and if any had been adorned with jump wings I would have picked up on it immediately.  I was pondering how I had missed that when I looked at the guy standing next to the bike.  It was Mike Huber, whom I had not met yet.  My next befuddled thoughts were that I thought I had met everyone.  Where did this guy come from?  Then I looked at the motorcycle.  It wasn’t an RX3.  It was a BMW GS 1200.  The two machines looked enough alike that I had not noticed the difference when Mike worked his way into our herd of turtles at the gas stop in Cataviña.  I looked up at Mike again and he was grinning.  He knew I was confused and I think he was enjoying my being perplexed.

Mike’s current GS 1200. It’s a stunning motorcycle.

Mike and I hit it off immediately.   He stayed with us a couple of nights later in Mulegé (at good buddy Javier’s magnificent Las Casitas Hotel), and we’ve kept in touch ever since.   Mike did a guest blog or two for us here on ExNotes, and he became one of our regular writers last year.

When Mike told me he would pass through our neck of the Peoples Republik, I told him we wanted him to stay the night and enjoy a barbequed salmon dinner with us.

The port saddlebag on Mike’s GS.
And the starboard pannier. Mike gets around, as you know from his blogs here on ExNotes.

We had a great visit.  The Tecate cerveza (and later, the Spanish wine) flowed freely.  Sue crafted a desert we recently learned about on an olive plantation in Spain (see our most recent blog), and it was awesome.

The post-dinner treat: More vino, and chocolate gelato topped with orange-infused olive oil from the Basilippo plantation in Spain. Olive oil on ice cream sounds strange, but take my word on this: It’s wonderful.

As always, it was great to spend time with my good friend and fellow scribe Mike.  The next morning after a good breakfast Mike was in the wind again, headed north toward Ojai, the Bay area, and beyond.  You will be able to read about those travels right here, on your favorite motorcycle blog.

Good times and good friends, folks.  It’s what life is all about.  That, and clicking on the popup ads.


Never miss an ExNotes blog:

Basilippo: A Spanish Olive Plantation

I like olive oil and I cook with it a lot, so when I heard we would be visiting the Basilippo olive oil plantation and factory in Spain it sounded like a great plan to me.  I knew that extra virgin olive good was the real McCoy (kind of like 100% agave Tequila is the good stuff), but that was the extent of my olive oil knowledge. I learned quite a bit more about olive oil on this visit.

The Basilippo company headquarters.

Did you know that there’s no such thing as extra extra virgin olive oil?  (extra virgin is as good as it gets.)  Did you know that by international agreement every bottle of true extra virgin olive oil has a  “use by” label on the back of the bottle?  (The “use by” date is two years after the olives were harvested.)  If you see a bottle of olive oil that claims to be extra virgin but there’s no date on the back, you might want to take a pass.  Did you know that darker bottles are better for preserving olive oil than are lighter bottles?  Did you know that for the best olive oil, the olives are pressed within 4 hours of being harvested?  All of this was new info to me, and all was delivered by our host, Isaac Martin.

Olive trees on the Basilippo plantation.

Meet Isaac Martin, oil mill master, olive expert extraordinaire, and our presenter at the Basilippo plantation.  Mr. Martin was an engaging, entertaining, and informative speaker.  Isaac told us that with “only” 14,000 trees, Basilippo was a “boutique” producer.   That sounds like a lot of trees to me, but hey, Isaac is the guy would know.

Isaac Martin, who provided us with a marvelous presentation.
Good buddy and fellow photography enthusiast Ibrahim photographing a flower. Ibrahim showed me a few of his other photos. He is one of the most talented photographers I’ve ever known.

We entered the factory and tasting area next.  Good things were in store for us.  The factory was about what I expected.  It was not running when we were there, as the harvest had already ended.  The tasting was an awesome experience.  Isaac told us we would be enjoying olive oil and ice cream.  Yep…you read that right.  Olive oil and ice cream.  I know…it sounds gross.  Boy oh boy, were we ever in for a surprise.

A monitor in the Basilippo oilve processing factory.

Let me type those words again.  Olive oil and ice cream?   Yep, I thought it was crazy, too, until I tried it.  At the end of our tour, Isaac took us to a room where two small glasses (with a bit of olive oil in each) were waiting for each of us.  That’s the photo at the top of this blog.  Isaac showed us how to us to rub the bottom of the glass, remove the paper covering it, and inhale the olive oil aroma.  It was wonderful…with just a hint of orange.  Then the staff brought in a small plate of chocolate ice cream for each of us, and Isaac asked us to pour the olive oil over the ice cream. I know…it sounds like a screwy combination…but wow…was it ever delicious!

Orange infused olive oil….gift shop offerings at Basilippo’s.  Who knew?

Predictably, the path out was through the Basilippo gift shop.  Sue bought three containers of the citrus-scented olive oil.  I was a bit nervous about that, but all three made it back to California without leaking.  Two of the containers were for gifts; the third was for us.  When we finish it, you can bet we’ll be ordering more and if you swing by our place for dinner, Basilippo orange-infused olive oil over chocolate ice cream will be on the dessert menu.


Basilippo also sells their olive oils online and they ship to the US.   Here’s the link:

Home | Basilippo EVOO | Online Store and Oleotourism


Here are links to our other blog posts on Spain and Portugal.

Coimbra
Spain and Portugal
Camino de Santiago:  Part 1
The Sportster of Seville
Évora
Lisbon
Gibraltar


Keep the content flowing:  Please click on the popup ads!

ZRX RX: An ExNotes Resurrextion, Part 4

By Joe Gresh

I’m starting to worry about the timeline on this Kawasaki project. It’s already almost June and we will be leaving for Laguna Seca the beginning of July. Parts are trickling in slowly now and I’ve found things to keep me busy. I don’t want to ride the Yamaha RD350 all the way to California but I will if it comes down to it.

After assembling the rebuilt front calipers onto the 1999 ZRX1100’s forks I tried to flush out the brake lines with a can of spray brake cleaner stuff. No go as all three of the hoses were clogged so badly I couldn’t get a drop of liquid out of them. I guess old brake fluid turns into a solid after many years. A piece of stainless wire, sort of stiff, was worked back and forth into each line pausing occasionally to give the line a squirt. It was slow going but my thrifty ways were rewarded when I managed to force the wire all the way through the hose. Now I could really give the inside of the line a good, high pressure blast with the brake cleaner and air compressor.

I had the same problem with the rear brake hose and solved it the same way. Bleeding so many pistons takes patience and I don’t rush to do the thing in one day. The tiny bubbles take a long time to percolate to high points and I’ve got rear pedal pressure fairly good now. The front calipers are taking a bit longer. I have solid line pressure but I think there might be a bubble or two occupying space that should be DOT 4 fluid.

The Kawasaki ZRX has a lot of black painted parts. I love this even though most of the black paint was rusty and flaking off. There’s nothing easier than applying black paint. It’s a popular color and if it’s a shade or two off no one will notice. I gave the handlebars and water pipes a shot of Rust-Oleum engine paint.

This brand of paint seemed to mix well with the original Kawasaki paint. I tried another brand but it lifted the old paint at the margins where old paint meets bare metal.

The clutch slave cylinder leaked onto the sprocket cover area eating the paint so I wire brushed the cover, along with the slave cylinder cover and shot them with the same black paint.

Removing the four carburetors out of a ZRX is no easy feat. The book says to pull them from the air intake side first, and then slide them out of the manifolds on the cylinder head side. Well, I’m here to tell you that method doesn’t work. It was a battle but I had to slide the carbs out of the manifold first then work the air cleaner boots back with a screwdriver. I’m dreading putting the carbs back in. I think I’ll use a thin flat piece of steel on the air cleaner side to push the boots back without snagging the carbs.

The carbs were gummed up with old gooey gasoline but they weren’t the worse I’ve seen. Luckily all the vacuum diaphragms were intact and flexible. I had to remove the factory, no-tamper idle screw plugs to clean out the idle passage. Oddly, one idle screw was set to 1-3/4 turns out while the rest were +1-ish turn out. I’m going to split the baby and make them all 1-1/4 turns out to start. Located on the bottom of the carbs, these idle screws are somewhat accessible while the carbs are still on the bike so I can adjust them later if needed.

After cleaning all four carbs and reassembling them I wanted to bench test for leaks before facing the gauntlet of those rubber boots. I set the carbs in the vise and rigged a funnel to pour gas in. The gas ran out #4 carb as fast as I put it in. Taking the #4 float bowl off and inspecting the needle and seat revealed nothing so I cleaned the seat and rubber tipped needle again and ran another test. No change; the gas flowed like wine. I have ordered four new float needles so we will have to revisit the carb issue later.

After 25,000 miles I felt it was time to do the Kawasaki-recommended 12,000-mile valve clearance check. As expected, they were all at the minimum gap specified or too tight. With 16 valves it’s easy to get mixed up with your adjustments so I made a chart to keep track of which valve needed what shim.

Kawasaki made the valve setting process easier by using cam follower type rockers. These rockers are mounted on a long shaft that runs through the cylinder head. The rockers are held in place over the valve stem by springs on the rocker shaft. This means you can slide the rocker over on the shaft and lower it so that the valve spring keeps the rocker from returning to its original position. No more having to swap in a shim just to rotate the cams to the next valve that needed setting. I was able to measure all the valves and determine what size shims I needed in two rotations of the crankshaft. After swapping the shims I could, I ended up needing seven shims in total. The local Kawasaki shop had them for $4 each.

I was going to use a new valve cover gasket but the thing costs like $80. That’s too much for a big rubber ring. My plan is to dollar cost average and get one more use out of the old gasket. I’ll splurge on a new gasket at 50,000 miles…maybe. The cover looked pretty bad so I cleaned it up and shot it black with the same paint as I used on the coolant pipes. The gaskets on the crankcase breather reed valves tore when I removed the plates for painting so I ordered the four total gaskets at $30. This motorcycle repair business sure is expensive.

In Rex Rx Part 5 I hope to start getting closer to starting the beast. I’m waiting on bits and pieces so it might be time to do a few days of concrete work.


Help us help you:  Please click on the popup ads!


Miss the first four installments?  Hey, check them out here:

ZRX Rx 1
ZRX Rx 2
ZRX Rx 3


More Resurrections?  You bet!


Never miss an ExNotes blog:

The Santa Fe Literary Festival

By Joe Gresh

Dun colored, in a city of dun colored buildings, The Santa Fe Community Convention Center sits off Grant Street a few blocks from the city’s central plaza. The building is U-shaped with a large, exposed to the elements, interior courtyard paved with red bricks. The courtyard is sunken and drops down several steps lower than the floor grade of the main building. Surrounding the bottom courtyard is a low retaining wall with a wide, red brick cap. This cap is almost two feet wide and situated at just the right height for sitting on a sunny day.

Strings of tiny, white Christmas lights crisscross between the courtyard trees and metal tables and chairs are set up under the trees. Two food trucks, one selling African food, one selling Indian food, are at the far right end where a large gate allows entry for vehicles. There is a wooden bandstand constructed on the side nearest the street. On the bandstand students are reading poetry.

The poetry is depressing. Rape, murder and loneliness are the themes explored and the young poets sometimes break down and cry while they are reading their work. There is a lot of sadness and misery in this world; I don’t know why we can’t do better. Between each reader a relentlessly upbeat emcee comes on stage and asks us to “Give it up” for the previous poet, by which she intends for us to applaud.  We applaud but the emcee is not the boss of us.

Entering the Convention Center from the street, the left side has a room where vendors sell Literary Fest swag and where the featured authors go to sign the books they are selling. CT bought me a T-shirt. From this vendor area a hallway leads up a few steps to several large rooms where the authors are interviewed but we can’t go in yet. We have to line up outside to get our ticket QR code scanned.

The line runs along the outer perimeter of the courtyard and out through a walkway, then the line turns left and goes on for another hundred feet. The festival is well attended and well staffed. The line moves along. As we near the door to the vendor area the line turns 180 degrees to enter the hallway for the lecture rooms. This is the spot where the Line Jumpers practice their craft.

It’s a confusing, swirling area because you can go into the vendor section without attending a lecture. Next to double glass doors there are people making the sharp 180 turn towards the lecture’s security bag-search area mixed in with people trying get to the vendor area. Amongst all this to-ing and fro-ing the Line Jumpers float in the margins just outside the main scrum. With alert eyes and coffee mugs in their hands, the Jumpers strike when the staff glances away a moment or stops to explain the traffic situation to an attendee.

When you are standing in a line for long periods of time you get to know your surrounding line mates. It’s easy to see who hasn’t paid their dues. A tiny old lady lingers near the door watching for an opening. She can’t weigh more than 90 pounds soaking wet. Sensing a weak link in the force she pounces as we approach the turn. She is carrying two large cups of coffee from the coffee kiosk on the street. At Starbucks the coffee would have had a Latin sounding name to describe their size. Something like Ponderosa or Grande. I move to the left to block her advance, too late.

The professional Line Jumper has nerves of steel and without looking me in the eye she says, “I’ve lost my people.” And shoves past me. I don’t know what I’ve lost my people means. Yeah right, I tell her. She waves the hot coffee cups like they are some kind of a get out of jail free card and pushes on. “ You’re cheating, butting in front of people who have waited their turn a long time” is the best comeback I can think of. She ignores me and brushes past a few more people. Security lets her in and just like that another brick in the thin veneer of American civilization tumbles to the squalid streets below.

My anger at the Jumper has cast a cloud over my mood. I’m trying to be a better person and do my best to let it go. I tell CT that I’m choosing to not let the Jumper sour me on humanity in general. Maybe she has a medical disability that didn’t manifest itself as she bulled her way through the crowd of rule-followers like she was the featured attraction in Pamplona, Spain. I’m letting it go…I’m letting it go…

Inside the big room are rows of chairs that have a hook and loop type of attachment on the seat base. This makes it easy to maintain the correct spacing when setting up rows of hundreds of chairs. I didn’t bring my tape measure to the lecture but if I had I would have given the layout a quick quality control inspection. On stage there are a couple old fashioned looking chairs, a table and glasses of water.

The convention center is a multi-use building, thus the floor is level, not sloped like a theater. Seating is first come, first served. I see the Line Jumper lady already has her seat selected. In case a tall guy or a woman with a salad bowl on her head sits in front of me I get an aisle seat so I can lean outboard to see the stage.

The featured authors are on stage for about an hour. Some of them read passages in their books. Above and behind the author and interviewer is a large screen. It’s funny but I’m not sure if it was a projector screen or a liquid crystal display. The screen image lags behind the live stage view a few milliseconds so if you miss something you have to be fast if you want to see it again. There is a different interviewer for each show keeping the thing fresh feeling. There are two large shows in the morning with everyone in the same room. These sessions are for the more popular authors. In the afternoon, several smaller sessions run in tandem so you have to pick one or the other.

The festival was a two-day affair and the second day was a repeat of the first except with different writers and interviewers. The Line Jumpers were out in force the second day but I have risen above the mundane concerns of everyday life and no longer cared if they butted in ahead of people that waited an hour.

Literary fests are great places to learn about new authors and old authors you never heard of. I gained some insight as to why my writing is so poor and have taken inspiration from my fellows. Mostly time is the determining factor in quality writing. It’s all well and good to write a best selling novel in three weeks, one long scroll submitted and the money rolls in. Here at ExhaustNotes we tend to crank out volume product. There’s no time for introspection or craft. Most of the writers at the festival described how hard it is and how long it takes to write a book. Seven to ten years was not unusual. We bought a couple books from Ed Yong. He writes science-y type stuff and was a great interviewee. I haven’t read his books yet but when I do I’ll post a review here.

As we were leaving the convention center the festival, organizers sent a text to CT with the news that all swag was 25% off. We were halfway to our motel but naturally we had to go back and load up on t-shirts and tote bags. We also bought a couple of neat, insulated thermos bottles that look like Michelob Ultra cans except they have literary fest logos on them. If you get a chance, go to a literary festival. They are nothing like Daytona or Sturgis although some of the forms are similar. I had a great time but one thing I didn’t learn from all the lectures I attended was how to end a story.


More literary masterpieces?  Just click on the popup ads and we’ll do our best!

Life as a Digital Nomad: Part 3 (Nicaragua)

By Mike Huber

My flight that had left Boston landed safely in Managua, Nicaragua and I was ready to begin my next adventure working remotely. To ensure a smooth transition to a new country I took a week of vacation so I could test out the Wi-Fi, adjust to the new environment, and take some time to relax after the whirlwind of tasks that had been completed prior to leaving the United States.  Getting off the wheel that many are trapped in isn’t the easiest or least stressful thing to accomplish.  As I would later learn, it is much easier to re-enter the wheel then it is to exit it.  To clarify when I say “wheel” I am referring to how most live their lives with an apartment, car, routines, etc.  There is nothing wrong with living a life inside the wheel, and I am not one to judge, but for me it just felt wrong living that way.  I am not sure if it was too cookie cutter or that I found it monotonous and unfulfilling.  Either way the wheel wouldn’t be something I had to think about for the foreseeable future.

Upon arriving in the tiny jungle village of El Rosario (a 2-hour mountainous drive from the humidity, crowds, and heat of Managua) I gazed upon my new home with glee.  It was a small 3-bedroom ranch on about 4 acres of land with every plant, vegetable, and fruit you could possibly imagine.  All this beauty was just steps away from my hammock on the front porch where I could relax and gaze out into the lush jungle.

Once my week of vacation was wrapped up, I began my usual work routine but a tad different from that in Boston.  The morning entailed going outside to retrieve eggs from the chickens, coconuts, pineapples, starfruit, dragon fruit, and of course, some hot chillis to add a kick to breakfast.  This area of Nicaragua was very secluded, so it wasn’t long before I realized how much time I was spending working and really beginning to get out of my funk I had been in a few weeks prior.

After my 2nd successful week in El Rosario, I felt this would be my home for the next few months and wanted to add some more character to it.  Running was a big pastime of mine.  This activity helped me meet the locals and build relationships within the community.  One of the neighbors had an amazing property to include a monkey named Paco.  Now Paco was not very friendly, and it seemed after you gave him a couple beers, he got even less friendly, nevertheless this was one of my favorite stops along my run (mainly since the owner would give me a beer or two to rehydrate).  After chatting with him I noticed he owned a couple beautiful Rottweilers and they had recently given birth to six cute little puppies.  That was it: I bought two of the little guys for $30 and brought them back to the ranch.

Now my life in Nicaragua felt complete. I now had two bad ass little puppies that would join me every morning when I went out to gather food for breakfast.  They would also make a great addition to the security of the property.  This was disappointing to the neighbors who had a hole in their fence.  It didn’t take long before they noticed their chickens began to go missing. It seems the chickens had a curiosity of what was on the other side of the fence.  Death.  Death was on the other side of that fence.  As soon as they meandered into the yard there would be a loud squawk followed by an explosion of feathers, and that is how my new pups were fed.  Of course, this only went on a couple weeks until the neighbor became highly motivated to repair the hole in his fence.

After two incredible months of living in Nicaragua working by day and spending the evenings in the hammock with my dogs lying next to me as I drank Flor de Caña rum, I started to think it may be time to move to my next location.  The biggest and possibly only issue I had with living there was the isolation.  I was miles from any town, I didn’t have a car, and I was living essentially on a 4-acre compound.  The property was surrounded by 8-foot walls with concertina wire on top.  Don’t get me wrong.  It was a safe area and I never felt in danger, but the risk of theft or a break-in was always there.  After a week debating whether to move or not, I decided to pack it up and take a 26-hour local bus ride to Panama. Once again, boarding a vehicle to a new destination, I felt stress just as intense as departing Boston. Would Panama work out as well as Nicaragua?


Keep the content coming:  Please click on the popup ads!

Enjoy the Day

By Joe Berk

It was 50 years ago that I joined the U.S. Army.  I went to college on an ROTC scholarship and graduated with a Regular Army commission, the same as the people who graduate from West Point.  Three days before graduation, the Army told me my first duty assignment would be staying at Rutgers and getting a master’s degree, all courtesy of Uncle Sugar.  Guys I went to high school with were going to Vietnam; the Army sent me to grad school.  It didn’t feel right, but it was what it was.

The ROTC scholarship was a sweet ride; grad school was an even better deal.  Uncle Sam picked up the entire tab, paid me a housing allowance, and I drew my full pay as a second lieutenant.  As I recall, it was something like $436 per month.  I couldn’t believe how sweet life was and how I was rolling in dough (grad school was actually easier than undergraduate school). Three of the guys I went to high school with were killed in Vietnam.  Several more served over there.

Memorial Day has always been a special day for me, and not just because of what I wrote about above or my time in the Army.  I think about the guys I knew and I remember them.  You don’t have to have served to do that; all of us should take the day, enjoy it, and think about the people this special day honors: Those who were killed in action fighting America’s wars.

Enjoy the day, my friends.

Coimbra, Portugal

I photographed the Honda VFR you see in the big photo above in Coimbra, Portugal.   Bait and switch?  Perhaps.  We are a motorcycle site, sort of.   I’ll try to work in a little moto content when and where I can.  For us on this adventure, it was all walking, buses, and high-speed rail transport (and that was really cool).  But that’s coming up later.

Coimbra was another stop on our recent trip to the Iberian peninsula.  Coimbra is a college town on the Rio Mondego.  It was Portugal’s medieval capital before the Portuguese government relocated to Lisbon.  But this college town was particularly cool.   The UNESCO-recognized Universidade de Coimbra is one of the oldest and most prestigious universities in Europe.

On the Universidade square in the medical school area in Coimbra. It was a stunning day.

Like many areas in Portugal, Coimbra also has a rich wine producing heritage.  Many of the signs display this heritage.

The shape of signs in Coimbra. Wine was everywhere in Spain and Portugal. We had wine with virtually every meal except breakfast.

The  Biblioteca Joanina is one of the world’s great libraries.  One of the things that is particularly interesting is the way the librarians protect the ancient manuscripts from insects (insects are the books’ natural enemies, because they eat the pages).  Bats reside in the library.  They live behind the books.  The bats come out at night and eat the insects in the library.  I can’t make this stuff up, folks.  This really happens.

In the Joanina Library.
Books, books, and more books. The principal threat to these books is insects eating the pages. The University has an app for that.

I grabbed a macro shot or two as we wandered the campus.  This sidewalk guardpost was interesting.

Photo ops galore. Nothing fancy with equipment here…all these shots are with a basic Nikon consumer-grade D3300 DSLR and 18-55mm kit lens.

As we would find to be the case in virtually every Portuguese and Spanish town, Coimbra has a cathedral.  Actually, it has three.  We visited St. Michael’s at the University of Coimbra.  That’s where I grabbed the interior photos below.

Inside St. Michael’s with our fellow travelers.
The tile work, the organ, the roof colors…I had a great time on this trip.
A coat of arms, surrounded by scrollwork.
A statue in St. Michael’s.

After walking around the University, we walked into the city.    It was pleasant.  The weather was comfortable, the city was beautiful, and the photo ops continued.

One of many statues in downtown Coimbra.
This almost looks like a fancy ancient church or castle. Actually, it was a store catering to tourists with a unique product line: Canned sardines.
Another statue in the Coimbra town square.
A street menu for one of the many restaurants in downtown Coimbra. The food was excellent; the prices were reasonable.

I enjoyed Coimbra.   As a retired college professor, I thought visiting a campus was a cool thing to do.   We had a fabulous lunch, and then our journey continued.

Back on the motorcycle thing again…I’ve traveled by motorcycle in some pretty exotic locales.  I think bopping around Europe on a motorcycle would be a fun way to see the continent.  I wouldn’t want a big bike, and even on the freeways, the speeds are such that a 250 or a 400 would be just fine.  Maybe someday.   I know my friends in Chongqing read the ExNotes blog.  If you need somebody to ride around Europe on your motorcycles to spread the gospel, the ExhaustNotes staff is available.  We’re your boys (and one girl).  Call us.

Stay tuned.  I’ll work in more from Spain and Portugal as time and other blogs permit.


Keep the content flowing…please click on the popup ads!


More Spain and Portugal stories?  You bet!

Spain and Portugal
Camino de Santiago:  Part 1
The Sportster of Seville
Évora
Lisbon
Gibraltar

ZRX RX: An ExNotes Resurrextion, Part 3

By Joe Gresh

Labor rates at motorcycle shops are well over $100 an hour and that fact got me thinking about the value of old motorcycles. Take my 1999 ZRX1100: The basic bike is sound but there are many minor issues that add up to a lot more money than the motorcycle is worth. If you took the bike to a shop, that is.

Fixing a bike yourself means you can take more risks. You can reuse iffy parts that a dealer mechanic cannot. The brake system on the Rex was in sad shape. All the calipers were stuck and the master cylinders were stuck, too. If I worked for a shop as a motorcycle mechanic I’d tell the customer they need all new parts. I couldn’t take the risk of my rebuilt caliper failing or coming back for a leak.

The bores in a brake caliper are not super critical as the sealing is done mostly on the piston walls. Unfortunately, my caliper pistons were not in great shape. I polished them as much as I could and cleaned up the bores. New o-rings and dust seals will hopefully keep them from leaking.

The master cylinder bore is much more critical because it forms the sealing surface for the piston and seals. Luckily the bores on the clutch and both brake caliper master cylinders were in good shape.

The rubber bits for the front and rear master cylinders looked ok-ish to me so I reused those parts. I’m to the point that I prefer old OEM bits to new aftermarket bits if I can get away with them.

The levers have a pressed in dust seal and I didn’t have a tube the correct size for the job so I turned out a short piece of PVC tubing to push the dust boot into place.

I ordered a new clutch master seal kit as I tore the original dust boot dismantling the thing. I also bought a clutch slave kit but the bore was so bad by the time I had it remotely smooth the piston was loose in the bore. I have ordered a new clutch slave cylinder.

All in, there were 18 hydraulic pistons in the ZRX that needed service. A shop mechanic would never re-use the stuff I did. It may come back to haunt me later.

I bought two new, made in Malaysia Continental tires for the Rex as the ones on the bike were made in 2009. The old tire sidewalls had small weather checking. I would have run the old tires if I was just bopping around town but I have a few long trips planned so at $200 for the pair I figured I’d better bite. The Harbor Freight tire changer made the job tolerably easy. Still not as easy as having a shop do it.

The fork seals were leaking so I popped in a new set of fork seals and replaced the fork oil and while I had the front end apart I dropped the lower triple clamp and pumped in some much needed grease to the steering head bearings.

I also bought a new front sprocket and new X-ring chain for the Rex. The chain had a new style master link that worked by pressing the side plate on using small nuts then breaking off the studs that stick out. If it works it will be a good idea, if not I’ll probably break my engine cases when the chain lets go.

If I had taken the ZRX1100 to a shop by this point I would have already exceeded the value of the motorcycle. A shop would need to put in all new brake components to cover their butt. I’m willing to risk my life on shoddy equipment to save money and I’m nowhere near done with the bike or spending money, as you’ll see in future blogs.


Keep the hits coming:  Please click on the popup ads!


More Resurrections are here!

Life as a Digital Nomad: Part II (Exiting the Wheel)

By Mike Huber

It was May 2012, Boston was becoming extremely boring, and the thought it might be time to expand my horizons began to grow inside my head.  Still remaining as a “work from home” employee and having traveled throughout most of the United States with not so much as a hiccup in missing calls or people asking “Hey, where are you working from today?”  Most wouldn’t expect any type of a response outside “my living room” or “the kitchen table” since that is what everyone was doing and to think an employee was winding up roads in New England on an Italian sport bike or hanging out in Haight Ashbury in a coffee shop while leading a project team call was unthinkable. Now, many will read this and think I wasn’t working and just touring the country while attending a call here and there.  While that perspective isn’t totally wrong, it isn’t fully accurate, either. My organization was giving me awards every quarter, to include project manager of the year.  While this was all happening, our company was constantly laying people off to the point where morale was extremely low.

Even with my newfound freedom I felt myself being dragged into the depths of depression due to the constant threat of layoffs. It was time to take this working from home to the next level.  That being the “what if I don’t have a home” plan.  It wasn’t much of a plan, but more of an execution of an idea born over a few beers in a dark Boston bar two years earlier.


Want more content?  Please keep us going by clicking on the popup ads!


As with everything in life the first step is the scariest, but also the most critical to set the wheels in motion.  After thinking this over for a bit the most effective way to ensure I followed through with my plan of setting myself free geographically was to rent out my Boston condo.  This was easier than I expected, and had it rented through a management company in under two weeks.  June 1st my new tenant would move in.  This was it.  I was going to not have a home for at least a year. A timeline was now drawn for me to sell everything I owned and find out where my new “home” would be.

Somehow, I knew that returning to Boston wasn’t going to be in the cards.  Having a massive fire sale seemed the best way to clear my life of material possessions that were now just clutter, and there was a lot of clutter to be cleared.  With time being short it was an emotionless task to sell, donate, and give away almost everything.  Paying for a storage unit for an unknown amount of time seemed pointless.

Once everything I owned was condensed into a small box of keepsakes and my travel backpack it was time to decide where to go.  As I looked around the condo (which echoed because it was empty), I was left with the question that I probably should have started with before taking all these drastic actions.  Where the Hell am I going to go?  This is one of those “I may have screwed up” moments.

Originally the semi sorta kinda plan was to just drive around the United States and spend a month or so in each state and see what became of it.  As I was looking at a map figuring out a few first stops on my new journey my phone rang.  It was a 617 Boston number and instantly thought it was a spam call.  Well, this is one call I am glad I didn’t push to voicemail.  It was one of my relatives whom I had gifted a Magic Jack plug a year or so ago.  He was calling to catch up and let me know he was had just moved to a house in the jungles of Nicaragua and had internet service that was just as fast as in the USA.  My jaw dropped and I threw the map of the United States into the trash can that was already overflowing with trinkets and other items that I felt would never be needed again.

Feeling so lost in the United States (on many levels), a new environment would not only be healthy mentally for me but might propel my work motivation (which was currently nonexistent).  Right about this time most of my friends and family were sure I had lost my mind.  Going to Nicaragua on a one-way flight for an undetermined amount of time seemed reckless and a sure way to lose my job (some even felt my life would be in jeopardy).

Having previously traveled much of Central America, I knew most of these concerns were unfounded or pulled from a news article where one person had a bad experience.  The news never really covers the thousands who traveled to this part of the world and had nothing but wonderful things to say about the people, the culture, and the sights that many will never know.  Having grown up in Maine (where for many fear to even venture to Boston) it was incomprehensible for them that I would move to Nicaragua.

As I arrived in Maine, I parked the Ducati in the garage, closed the door, and wondered when I would next see that beautiful machine.  Little did I know that it would be a year and a half before I would hear the magical dry clutch clacking again. Later that day I boarded a flight out of Logan Airport.  With reality setting in I stared out the window.  I was really doing this. Nicaragua was going to be my new home.

The Wayback Machine: Zed’s Not Dead

Our latest Resurrection story about Joe Gresh’s ZRX is not our first big Kawi resurrection story.  Going back a few years, we previously ran a 20-blog series on a Z1 Kawasaki.  This Wayback Machine piece was the culmination of that story, with a link at the end that will take you to the entire series.  Those big Kawis are cool, and the Z1 is unquestionably the coolest of them all.


By Joe Gresh

You may recall from Zed 19 I had to re-soak Zed’s gas tank as 10 days were not enough to dissolve the rust. I drained, dried and reloaded the tank with apple cider vinegar and let it sit for 4 more days. This is what it looked like originally:

The second session really knocked most of the rust out. After rinsing I dumped a large box of baking soda into the tank and added clean rainwater sloshing it as I filled to mix thoroughly. I don’t know the chemical reaction that takes place but the baking soda neutralizes the acid, turning the metal a dull grey, almost white color. This treated metal does not flash rust and I’ve been going 3-4 years on another tank I cleaned like this without rust reappearing. It’s like the metal turns passive and stops reacting to oxygen.

If I wasn’t so hell-bent on riding this bike I think I would flush and cider the tank one more time but it looks good enough and I’ve got to ride! I connected a small hose to my shop vac and played it all over inside the tank. I can hear nothing when I shake the tank so at least there are no big chunks loose inside.

Proving that even the simplest life forms can learn I bought an entire new petcock for $23 rather than the rebuild kit for $8. This is real growth on my part. Usually I buy the kit, mess with it for hours then put it on only to have it leak. Only then will I buy the new one. Kawasaki uses a turnbuckle-type left-hand/right-hand thread on the Z1 petcock. It took about 145 tries to get it to tighten up facing the correct direction.

The new petcock has screens inside the tank and a bowl filter but with 40% of Zed’s tank out of my view-field I can only assume the entire tank is as clean as the places I can see. Inline fuel filters, one for each set of two carbs will hopefully catch any debris still in Zed’s tank.

An update on the Z1 Enterprises regulator/rectifier: It works. The battery charges @ 14.8 volts which is still a tad high but much better than the 17 volts Kawasaki’s setup was doing.

From the top Zed looks pretty well sorted. I took it for a ride and it ran really well for off the bench carb settings. It might be a little rich at idle or it might just be our 6000-foot elevation. I’m not going to tinker with it for now. I’d rather get some miles on the bike.

I don’t know what this bracket is for. Located on the right side down tube near the tach drive, it’d too light for a steering damper mount. Anyway, there’s enough stuff on the bike as is so I’m not going to worry about it.

I took Zed to my secret proving grounds and she ran through all 5 gears smoothly. The bike hit 90 MPH without even trying. I’ll need a better front tire to do any high-speed work. The brakes work ok. When you ride a SMR 510 Husqvarna all other motorcycle brakes seem like crap. After 33 miles there are small oil leaks at the tach drive and countershaft area. Maybe the clutch pushrod seal or sprocket seal is the culprit. That stuff is easy to fix.

The patina on Zed is excessive, bordering on shabby. The bike sat outside for years and paint wise there’s nothing left to polish or wax. The finish is just not there. The pin striping is cracked and missing sections. I’m not sure what to do about that. On the one hand a ratty bike may be less attractive to thieves and old Z1’s are getting fairly expensive. On the other hand it does look pretty bad. I’ve seen my Enduro buddy Mr. French do some amazing work with rattle cans. Maybe I’ll give it a go. The paint can’t look any worse.


That’s it: from Dead to Zed in 20 easy sessions. Don’t worry, this won’t be the last you’ll hear of Zed. I’ll be doing some long trips on this bike, maybe Mexico, maybe ride to a few flat track races. I’ll update the blog if I do any more major work on the bike. The story of Zed’s resurrection may be ending but the story of Zed is just beginning.


And there you have it.  If you’d like to run through the gears (i.e., the previous 19 installments of Zed’s Not Dead), you can do so here!


Help us continue the content:  Please click on the popup ads!