It’s not just a ride.
Back in May Pam and I rode into Rahway for their annual Hot Rods and Harleys event. The emphasis was definitely on the hot rods. It was a blast wandering the city checking out the cool iron (amazing how the $50 junker of my youth has come to be worth a small fortune), drinking beers in the sun, taking pictures. Go check ’em out if you have a few minutes to spare.
Afterward we had a minor run-in with a local LEO, but it turned out fine.
Yesterday was a pretty good day. Pam and me rode out to Rahway for their Hot Rods and Harleys event. It was the first one of these that we’d been to. Â What an incredible exhibit of vintage iron! What a trip down memory lane! Â The weather was pretty good, too. 70s, mostly sunny, a fine day for walking around. We caught a bit of a sprinkle on the way out but it passed so quickly that it just didn’t matter.
After a stop for a quick beer, we left Milltown and entered the evening traffic of route 1 south. Accelerating into the left lane I worked my way through the gears rather loudly, smiling to myself, satisfied with the day. Then I saw the squad car under the flyover. It was much too late to do much about it.
I flipped the blinker and decelerated, moving back through the lanes, and left the highway for the Office Depot parking lot. There really isn’t anyplace safe to pull over, and I figured this would likely be a lengthy stop. I killed the motor and Pam and me dismounted, doffing our helmets.
The officer got out of his car and approached. “License and registration, please.”
“Yes, sir.” I pulled my license, handed it over and began sorting through the registration and insurance documents in my wallet, I have several.
“Mr. Plavnicky,” he said, “you’re local. You were doing seventy one in a fifty. You have yourself a nice day.” He handed my license back.
“Thank you, sir!” I said as he returned to his car.
We mounted up and left the parking lot. It could have gone very differently.
I didn’t catch the badge number or name, but if you happen to be reading – yeah, right, like that’s likely – well, thanks for making my day!
This came up in conversation the other day. There’s a patron saint for most everything you can think of, and for some reason I thought that the bikers’ patron saint was Gabriel, who also looks after messengers.
But no, it’s Columbanus, an Irish saint who lived from 540 AD to 615 AD. Recurring themes in the stories of Columbanus are virtue, women and beer.
There’s much to be found on the Web about Columbanus and, of course, there’s a Wikipedia article.
But near as I can tell there’s no Saint Alphonzo – as in Saint Alphonzo’s Pancake Breakfast, a zippy little number by the late Frank Zappa.
To say this was a crappy show would be an understatement! Everything was stacked against success. It had been rescheduled from February and today’s weather was outstanding. There were bigger events this weekend in Pennsylvania as well as Wildwood. Oops. Kevmark really dropped the ball on this one and I’m sure everyone involved lost wads of cash. (This was a stark contrast to last November’s show, where we had a ball.)
Pam and I arrived thirsty from Long Branch. Convention Center parking was easy and there was no line for entry. That should have been a warning sign, but it was late afternoon so we paid it no mind. We paid the gate and Pam chastised me for neglecting to print the discount coupon available online. (We learned later that the gate was the discount price – I guess the ticket seller sympathized, knowing what we were in for.) So we walked in and… whoa! You could have scraped my jaw off the floor! The place was freakin’ empty! We bought a couple of beers and started to walk the aisles.
It was a tough call. Walk slowly to make it last or move quickly to avoid the spammers. Spammers? Yup, dare to saunter and they’d assault you, pitching their “free” vacations or whatever, shoving clipboards with forms into your hands. Y’know, filling out one of those things constitutes a “business relationship” which gives them the right to call you or email you mercilessly (and sell you to others), immune from FTC regulations. We’ve learned to avoid ’em. The number of non-biker vendors, compounded by the emptiness, was just staggering. All I gotta say is if I wanted a ShamWow or a Gutter Helmet I’d have bought one long ago.
We refilled out beers. There were some decent bikes to see. There’s so much detail in an Indian Larry build, say, that you can see it again and again and it just doesn’t get boring. I stopped to talk for a while with a guy from Boss Hoss of Stamford when one of their heavily customized monsters caught my eye. He welcomed a break from the boredom. The paint on this beast was stunning, and the engine – closer than not to twice the displacement of my Ford pickup – would be very respectable in any vehicle, never mind a bike. I had to ask. With over 40K in the build, he said, if it were for sale it’d go for at least 120 large. He invited me to climb on and stand it up. Despite the thousand-pound-plus weight it felt amazingly light and well-balanced. Can you just see me approaching in your rear-view?
And that was that. There’s nothing else to say because, um, it really was that empty. On the way home we stopped at the Brunswick Grove for a couple of beers and some fries. You hear it said all the time: “It’s all about the ride!” Today that was well and truly accurate.
The Saturday just passed was the first day of what I would call great weather for 2009. After a winter like the one we’ve had, there’s only one thing to do – go riding. So Pam and me blew off the gym and headed down to Long Branch Harley-Davidson for their annual open house. As H-D dealerships go, they’re a good bunch of folks and I’ve been known to take my business there even though they’re out of the way.
The local traffic was heavy. Gas prices have dropped to less than half what they were last year so hitting the road isn’t quite the expense it was. But soon we had filled the wallet with cash, tank with 93 octane and left the local roads for the freeway. I settled into an easy cruise, about 65-70 MPH, and stretched my legs, one hand on the throttle and the other on my leg. I usually like to be moving a little bit faster than the prevailing traffic – it’s less stressful to be overtaking traffic than the other way around – but this felt great and I wanted it to last.
Way too soon we were off the freeway and into the local traffic stream in Eatontown, which absolutely sucks in the best of circumstances. There’s this several mile stretch of route 36 between 18 and Broadway that’s full of traffic lights, timed such that you hit each one – several times. It’s always choked with traffic and it can literally take 20 minutes to cover two miles. It’s a moneymaker, too. I’ve never NOT seen police in the area, lights a flashing. We sweated our way through it. I mentally calculated how many degrees I might lose with better fuel management, perhaps an oil cooler, while cursing the EPA.
We parked right outside the dealership and joined the fray. Wow, what a crowd! It was lunchtime so we queued up for a couple of sodas and footlongs while the band played. The guy manning the grill was obviously a graduate of the r.plav school of incineration! Say, wasn’t that one of the parts guys playing bass? I chuckled to myself. The Harley crowd’s an older crowd, mostly aging Boomers. The songs being played were probably written before most of the band members were born!
We wandered the merchandise inside and out, but neither of us found anything to buy. That’s sort of unusual; we usually come away with at least a t-shirt or two. I didn’t feel too bad about it though because the lines to each register were quite long. There was very respectable amount of business being done. You’d hardly think that the economy was in the toilet.
After a while we hit the road again. Our next stop was the Northeast Motorcycle Expo in Somerset. We worked our way back through that stretch of hell – er, route 36 – and got back onto route 18. Again, we took it easy. We’d get to Somerset soon enough.
Today was the benefit run for David Wilson, a Hillsborough, NJ police veteran and motorcyclist, now battling leukemia. Cancer sucks.
The weather turned out to be fantastic and the turnout nothing short of amazing. Judging from the staff comments, the number of bikes that showed up far exceeded expectations. Staging and parking were, well, chaotic. We arrived to stage at Hillsborough Volunteer Fire Company #2 literally minutes before scheduled departure, registered and entered the queue. It’s not my favorite position, way in back. Last out is last in, and that makes for long lines later for food and beer.
I heard that about 1,500 bikes were expected. I think there were quite a bit more than that. From a rider’s perspective, these group rides are considerably more perilous than ordinary traffic. The riders around you are often strangers, their skills unknown. You’re riding in close formation, sometimes on unfamiliar routes, and situational change occurs constantly at speed. You’re looking out not only for yourself but for those around you. There’s simply no room for mistakes.
We were fortunate, those around us proved competent. Well, there was one bagger nearby that had trouble keeping his position; I guess he was into his music too much. I quickly adapted to giving him plenty of room. It was a short ride, maybe 35-40 miles through the rolling Sourland Mountain area. (They call it a mountain but hey, this is New Jersey – there ain’t no real mountains here!)
These events usually follow a pattern. You register, stage, ride, return, then eat and drink to live music. This was no exception. The roast pig was delicious, the beer flowed freely and the weather was perfect. I saw the colors of more clubs than I could count, a heavy representation of law enforcement and related public service clubs. Â (There was a distinct lack of 1%ers, conspicuous by their absence.) Everyone was smiling and laughing and having a great time.
This winter’s been one of the worst in a several years, not much snow but bitter cold. Finally, way too many days after the calendar says, it felt like spring had finally arrived!
I heard that David, having been hospitalized in New York for chemotherapy, had been discharged to rest at home nearby. It’d be nice if he had been able to see the turnout. If not, I hope he at least heard the thunder of thousands of bikes. Here’s to your recovery, David!
Ed. March 6: A newspaper article today that David did indeed make it to the event. The link I had placed here expired after a time and has been removed.
Yesterday I found that the 2008 Parts Catalog for the Dyna, publication number 99439-08A, contains a typo.
On page 64 there is an illustration (duplicated on page 66) of the front fork. The screws for the axle holder (end cap) are shown as having different lengths and index numbers. Index number 1 is listed on page 65 as part number 4042, which is correct. Index number 31 is listed on page 67 as part number 46614-06. This is incorrect, as are both illustrations.
According to an H-D tech I spoke with yesterday, you should use two part number 4042 screws to secure the end cap, even though the illustration shows a shorter screw on the trailing side of the cap.
It logically follows that the lockwasher, index number 3, part number 7062, should be used in both places as well.
A week and a half ago Pam and me rode over to the CyclePro show at the Garden State Exhibit Center. The funny thing is that I probably wouldn’t have gone except that Pam suggested we ride over. Now, I ride pretty much year-round. Pam doesn’t, but this year she’s been challenging her tolerance of lower temperatures – this would be a good ten degrees lower than her usual lower limit. It wasn’t something to be passed up – she wants to ride, we ride – that’s good enough for me.
The show itself was pretty good! It wasn’t too crowded, which probably didn’t thrill vendors too much but was fine for me. Probably yet another effect of today’s troubled economy. I was hoping Dr. Dyno would be there; my Dyna’s been running strong lately and I kinda wanted to measure it. It wasn’t to be. But there was a good mix of vendors in attendance. Bikes new and old, of course, and more individuals than usual with parts arrayed on the floor. An indication of a resurgence of the swap-meets that seem to have been displaced by commercial interests? I snapped a few pictures between beers as we wandered the floor.
There was the requisite tattoo contest and, much to my surprise, Pam wanted to show off her ink! So up on stage she went…
Well, she didn’t win (she says it’s because all they look for is super-ornate stuff) and that was a little disappointing but it was a lot fun anyway. And now we have a reason to visit the shop more often – to pick up the magazine with the pictures.
Afterward we went for some food (and more shots and beers) over at the Brunswick Grove. The sports-orientation ain’t exactly what I look for in entertainment, but the atmosphere and food are pretty good. Excellent pizza. Pam and me try to drop in every now and again.
By now the sun had long set and the temperature had dropped some more. Decision time: slow ride takes longer, fast ride chills you faster. Six of one…
All in all, an unexpectedly fine day!
When you ride a motorcycle you subject your eyes to all manner of risk. The importance of quality eyewear can’t be understated. It’s astounding how many riders don ordinary sunglasses and think that they’re protected. I guess they’re okay if you wear them beneath a helmet visor that’s never lifted, but I prefer a helmet without a visor and that calls for glasses or goggles designed specifically for bikers.
I’ve had a number of pairs of goggles from Harley-Davidson. They go far to convince you that their apparel and other rider gear – MotorClothesâ„¢ – are second to none. Well, not in my opinion. First, you’ll be hard-pressed to find anything in their line that’s made in the USA. But specifically, their goggles didn’t last very long for me. Like most motorcycle eyewear there’s a gasket that fits between the frame and your face. Theirs is foam with a felt-like surface that actually touches your face. After a short time – as little as a month or two – the felt on every single pair peeled back, leaving the foam right on my face, there to absorb sweat and grime. I tried gluing it back on. Contact cement works best but it doesn’t last. As if that isn’t enough, the strap tension adjuster is plastic and when it breaks that’s that. I can’t recommend Harley-Davidson eyewear.
If you’re into goggles, Body Specs makes a quality product. My personal favorite is the BSG line. They fit well and the gasket is both high-quality and replaceable. In fact, their warranty will replace a failed gasket. When I had them replace one under warranty they told me that failures were rare and sent me two for my trouble. I’ve had several sets of BSGs and my biggest complain is that the elastic strap will eventually lose its stretch. The BSG line is convertible; you can snap in regular glasses-style temples in place of the strap but none have ever fit me well enough to use that way.
Today it’s all about convenience. I wear polychromatic riding glasses which self-adjust to light levels so I’m never caught with the wrong lenses installed. For the past year I’ve been using the same pair of Panoptx Diablo. Oh, look, they’re now marketed under the name 7EYE. Not sure what that’s about, but there you go. Anyway, the glasses are a pit pricey but the lenses are bulletproof (not a scratch on ’em in a year), they’re very comfortable, and the gasket is still like new. My complaint about them is the finish of the frames which began to peel. It’s kind of like they had a plastic coating that’s flaking or peeling off. They have an excellent warranty, though, so I’ve sent ’em in for repair. I’ll let you know how that goes once I get ’em back in the next week or two.
In the meantime I’ve picked up a pair of WileyX. My wife picked up a pair and I liked them so I figured I’d try them out myself. So far so good, but it’s only been a few hundred miles. The lenses are polychromatic, the replaceable gasket has a good fit, but the temples don’t loop around the ear like the Panoptx. Instead they’ve got a rubber-like area that just stays put, kind of like Oakley sunglasses. WileyX is pricey, too, but still a good deal less than the Panoptx. (Update – WileyX has a line of H-D branded glasses that are very good. My only complaint is that they change styles often and the gaskets are NOT compatible, making replacements hard to source after a while.)
The quest for the perfect eyewear seems never-ending. What’s your favorite?
Yesterday was quite a day.
I ‘celebrated’ eleven years of shaving my head. I went ‘down the shore’ with my wife and kid to walk the boardwalk, eat some boardwalk food (the Midway Steak House at Seaside Heights has the best sausage sandwiches around), play some games (a Ziplock full of quarters equals an afternoon of mindless fun), have a few beers (Jack & Bill’s). I’m not going to mention how the cost of such a trivial (in the days of my youth) afternoon has risen – what’s the point? When I got home I found my dad’s cat, Buffy, had died. Buffy was an old cat, suffered advanced kidney disease (just like dad), and wasn’t in the best of health. Still, I was stunned. I’ve been caring for Buffy since my dad’s hospitalization in mid-May, and he was looking pretty good. They say that pets get attached to their owners that way, maybe with dad gone he figured he had had enough. So you could say the day was kinda packed. And if that wasn’t enough there were a few other things rattling round in my head. I retired to an uneasy sleep.
This morning dawned beautiful, though. We’re two days into the first ‘heat wave’ of the season (it never gets hot enough, long enough for us, but everyone else complains) and it was almost 80 F a little past 7am. After a pot of coffee I put the computer aside and set off to do a hundred miles before breakfast. I’m breaking in an engine on the Dyna, so this would be perfect blend of varied travel. Plus, I needed some time to think.
Route 27 south toward Princeton is a good start, nice to get the fluids up to temperature. Few lights and little traffic. Passed through Princeton and picked up 295 south near Lawrenceville for a bit, a bit of freeway to let it breathe a little. There were some clouds ahead, but I figured if I hit a little rain so be it. I wasn’t dressed for it, but so what. Below Trenton I jumped on 29 north: through the tunnel, alongside Trenton proper, and soon onto the two-lane toward Lambertville. Traffic remained light, permitting a good pace that didn’t exceed the posted limit by too much. At Lambertville I peeled off to 179; the number of bikes on the road seemed to grow with every mile. I guess others had the same idea. By Ringoes, 179 changes to 514 but keeps its name - Old York Road – but where 609 crosses it changes to Amwell Road while retaining its 514 number. Who said New Jersey roads made sense? The clouds I mentioned earlier had given way to blazing sun, but there was evidence here that it had rained earlier. On through Amwell, Cloverhill, Neshanic, and into Hillsborough. I decided to divert a bit through Raritan, grab a bottle of water at the Wawa there, and stop out at Branchburg Park. My dad spent many hours there flying model planes. It would be good to sit, hydrate, and watch the models. This map shows where I parked. After that I headed home, with a much clearer head. Riding is good therapy! The roads home were more suburban and a good deal less interesting. 202 to 22, then Foothill Road to 607 into Bound Brook, followed by a quick hop over the Raritan River onto 527 into New Brunswick. Through the city – it’s a campus town – and onto US 1 south for a final blast home.
99 miles, close enough for government work. Time to fire up the grill for some breakfast.
Yesterday I dealt with a minor problem with the Harley, one that had been bugging me for a month or so. When applying the rear brake the stop light wasn’t coming on as quickly as I would like.
I was thinking that it might have something to do with the master cylinder rebuild I did some months back. That wasn’t merely convenience, it was a necessity! The pliable parts of the piston had largely disintegrated leaving the rear brake absolutely useless. The switch is actuated by hydraulic pressure so perhaps a bit of debris had made its way down the line and into the switch. Odd, since I completely purged the circuit and bled it thoroughly as part of the rebuild.
I noticed the trouble with the stop light during a pre-ride check so I bled the circuit again. The trouble cleared but soon returned. Another bleed, another temporary fix. This time when the trouble returned I did the electrical checks (all good) and gave in to replacing the switch.
So yesterday was the day. Luckily the local dealer had one for me and lightened my wallet by a twenty. I considered myself fortunate; they usually don’t have whatever part I happen to be looking for. Since it was my first visit to the dealer since they stocked the 2008 models I couldn’t resist browsing just a little…
Back in the garage, it took about fifteen minutes to replace the switch (with a metric wrench, so much for American Iron, eh?) and bleed the circuit yet again. The stop light was back to functioning normally at the lightest pedal touch.
I suppose I should have inspected the old switch to try to determine if it had any debris in it causing the trouble. But I just pitched it in the bin, grabbed a helmet, and went out for a test ride. Today they picked up the trash.
I was in the parking lot of the local WaWa strapping a jug of milk to the sissy bar of my motorcycle. For a winter day in New Jersey this wasn’t a bad one – temperature around 40 and the rain of the past several days had given way to overcast. Today’s ride was a good one and now I was on my way home.
The old guy diverted from his path to the store and stopped to talk. “You’ve got balls,” he said, “out riding in this weather. I know – when I was younger I did it, too.” I hadn’t thought of the day as particularly cold. I’ve certainly been out in much worse. We talked for several minutes, and he smiled and laughed as he spoke of the past.
I thumbed the starter. The engine came to life and settled into that characteristic V-twin idle as I pulled on my gloves. I think the old guy walked a little taller, a little straighter, as he continued into the store.
Carl Merrell “Easy” Wasson died in Florida on the 18th of October, 2007, following a head injury sustained in a motorcycle accident. As I heard the story, he and another rider had stopped but a rider behind could not. They locked handlebars and Easy went down.
I never met the man, but knew of him through r.m.h. Easy wrote this in 1999, pretty much sums up why we do what we do. Ride on, Easy!
i added it up a while back. 12000 on the two sprints, 41000 on the first sportster, 9500 on the second, 55000 on the fxrs, and 72000 on the dresser. all mileage numbers are approximate of course. 34 years in the saddle, not one year, 34 times. what a long strange trip it’s been.� don’t really have any bad memories, just a few people and places i could do without seeing again, and a whole lot i look forward to seeing again.� all those wonderful mind pictures: sundown in the badlands, sunrise in the hills, the beauty of yellowstone, the grand canyon, the change of colors in the painted desert, mesa verde, yosemite, the high desert of nevada, the expanse of the great plains, high in the smokies with just the mountain tops peeking out of the clouds, the california coastline, new mexico, arizona, colorado, utah, wyoming, montana, idaho, the dakotas, nebraska, kansas, oklahoma, texas, arkansas, iowa, missouri, minnesota, the lakes states, the midwest, kentucky, tennessee, the virginias, the carolinas, georgia, alabama, mississippi, louisianna, florida, and the rust belt. maryland, deleware, pennsylvania. canada, and old mexico.still gotta get to the PNW and NE. some day, some day.� and the people, lots of smiles, plenty of friendly talk: where you from, where you going? nice day. nice looking bike. i/my gramp/dad/brother/uncle had one. old men sharing memories, young kids with the shy smiles, the long looks, and the quick grin when you wave.� the pretty girls, and the interesting women. the friends you make and never see again, and the ones you see every year or so, out there. the little roadside places with the best cheeseburgers and coldest beer in the world. camping on the yellowstone/arkansaw/animas river, cooking over an open fire, listening to the water as it runs by. a billion stars at night. burning up in the heat, drowning in the rain, freezing in the cold, and loving every minute of it. sometimes you’ve got somebody to share it with, sometimes it’s just you and the sound of the engine, and either way it’s just fine. i’ve had the opportunity and privilege to see this great country without it being framed by a windshield, meet the finest of people and share the finest of times because i ride a motorcycle. it’s cost me a fair amount, but it would be cheap at twice the price. biker? i don’t know, and i don’t care, but i am a rider, and i am proud of that.
the big easy. waxing philosophic as the calendar makes another turn.
#39
I was hit by a car. No, it’s okay, really. I wasn’t hurt and no real damage was done.
It was my neighbor, Heather, that did it. My garage empties into a little court leading to the public street. I had rolled my motorcycle out, preparing to run some errands. I saw her car, motionless, and she was talking to another neighbor. I had my back to them as I wrapped some bungies around the sissy bar.
Suddenly, the rear of her car was pushing me against the motorcycle, my leg sandwiched between her plastic bumper and my license plate holder. I hollered, cursing, and she stopped immediately. She had been moving slowly and reacted quickly. The car halted less than an inch from the sheet metal of my rear fender.
There was no damage, really. A slight bend was visible in the chromed barbed-wire plate holder where my leg had been pressed against it. My arm got scratched a bit – I must have hit something as I spun to turn my attention to the car.
“I didn’t see you!” she apologized, after seeing that disaster had been averted and everything was basically alright. Those very words are heard by bikers WAY too often.
I delivered the lecture and went about my business.
I often have business near the neighborhood where I grew up. It’s one of the older neighborhoods in the township. Before the surrounding area was developed it existed solely as two roads crossing to form an L with a few one-block cross streets on one leg, no major traffic.
Come summer, back in the day, the neighborhood was absolutely bursting with action. Ball games, kids on bikes, skateboards, you name it – kids everywhere, and the sounds of play could be heard from dawn to dusk.
Today things are different. The streets are largely deserted. I guess everyone’s busy. Kids just don’t recreate outside anymore, the way we used to do so long ago. Instead, what I see most of all in the old streets are marauding bands of fat girls.
I was motorcycling through, my son on the pillion, returning from an event at the high school. There, ahead, were a group of them. About eight bodies. All girls. All fat. All Black. Arrogantly sauntering, occupying most of the street, apparently deliberately oblivious to any traffic that may come along. Some were using their cell phones.
Now my scoot ain’t exactly quiet if you know what I mean. They had to have heard us approaching for blocks as we slowly cruised at perhaps 15 MPH, dead-center down the middle of the street. My throttle hand was rock-steady, keeping characteristic sound of the V-twin even and unwavering.
They waited until the last possible second to make a hole for us.
I signaled my turn at the end of the block, dabbed my left foot to the pavement briefly in deference to the stop sign, and accelerated.