killbam.net

Standing at the side of a gas station we’re trying to call Rob.  Nobody is picking up, but then again we don’t really expect him to.

“Well,” I say “Did you at least find Jon’s bag?”

“No,” My dad responds.   “Well yes.   Yes and no.  It was destroyed.  We picked up as much as we could.”

I suppose that’s a semi victory, although by the look on Jon’s face, he doesn’t seem to think the same thing.  After about 15 minutes, Rob calls.  He’s on the exact same road we are, but for some reason we think that’s impossible.  The only things open are our gas station, and there’s nothing in the other direction that would make Rob go that way.  He and Jon talk a bit, but Rob can’t pick out any landmarks and since we don’t know where he is either, so we wait for him to wander around to find us.

Dad eventually suggests we go find him.  I protest, and so does Jon, but with nothing else to do we might as well.  I head left on the road and Dad heads right. Both of us ride five minutes out, and five minutes back, while Jon and Jenny wait.  We leave, we return and don’t see anybody.

Rob calls again, and now tells us the bike is broken down, he says he managed to limp to some gas station.  Right before he hangs up, he says he thinks he’s 15 minutes away from the highway.  We head out into the cold but after driving for 15 minutes we think something is wrong so we pull off into a parking lot to call again.  Same thing, keep heading on that road.

We pull out, and stop at a red light.  I hate riding in Illinois for a lot of reasons, but one of the things I love is that I’ve never run across a stoplight that didn’t recognize bikes.  This light in Wisconsin doesn’t recognize bikes, maybe there isn’t enough metal, or they’re not heavy enough, but the light cycles several times without picking us up.

There aren’t that many cars on the road, and I’m pretty mad.  Mad at how cold I am, mad at the state of Wisconsin, mad at our bikes.

“We’re blowing the light!” I shout over to my dad, and I signal to the rest of the riders with my free hand.  I then rev the bike, our chosen signal for we’re-about-to-go.

I’m not sure if there’s an actual law about it, but the theory goes that if you’re waiting at light that doesn’t change for a minute you’re allow to run it in a safe fashion.  Then again, I have seen a lot of cops out tonight because of labor day.  They’ve already been cracking down and I also hear they’re not too friendly to out-of-towners sometimes.  In any event, I know we can’t afford to be pulled over because the CB360T isn’t registered.

Dad points to his left with his right hand in an awkward twisting motion.  No, we’re going straight, not to the left.  I think that he’s confused, so I need to gun it off the line to make sure he doesn’t fly off in the wrong direction and we end up losing him.  No cars are around, I twist the throttle and drop the clutch.

I’m shocked as light turns green milliseconds after I move, and a cop at drag race speed flies by us on the left and speeds off in front of us.  I cut the throttle and slam my nuts into the tank.  This always happens to me, a second earlier and I would have been in perfect position for him to see me blow the light.  That’s what dad was pointing at.

5 minutes later, waiting at the side of the road at a closed gas station is Rob.  Closed that is, except for the gas pumps.  There’s another person at the pump filling up a ratty pickup truck.  He’s six foot something, skinny, overalls, long thinning greasy hair, and parked staring right at rob’s bike.

“He came up and told me that bikes get stolen a lot around here and then went to pump gas” Rob says, as we idle past him towards the motorcycle.  The serial killer watches us as we try to start the bike, it starts up but the clutch has suddenly become inoperable.  It takes more grip strength to pull the clutch than any of us can really muster.  A bolt has fallen out of the lever, so now in addition to a rusted wire that hasn’t been changed for 30 years, there is no fulcrum to pivot.

Parts for the 360T are hard to find, even with the power of the internet.  It wasn’t that popular of a bike, following on the heels of the mildly popular 350 and being quickly bested by a four cylinder 360 there’s a reason ours was $200.

Rob told us a story earlier about how automobile factories used to have someone called a “fitter” whose job it was to take a bin of bolts and a bin of nuts and find the ones that matched up.  Same sizes and all.  Our parts manual actually has three measurements sometimes for torque, metric, imperial, and something else.  And considering it’s already a mish-mash of Japanese parts finding a bolt that will fit is impossible.

But shifting the bike isn’t.  With a little love, the proper throttle control, the bike can shift without the clutch.  Dad hops on the bike.  I don’t even care anymore whether or not the bike works.  It’s now 1:30am and I’m frozen.  I gave my warm weather/ rainproof gloves to Jenny because she forgot to pack anyway, and now my hands are freezing.

We ride until the next town and find a hotel.  I’m a fantastic combination of sweaty, oily, dirty, and I smell like exhaust.  But manage to take a shower and pass out.

It’s morning, and I’m a little sick and it’s only day 2.