So much for the CB360T. I hop off the bike and the rest of the crew rides up. Rob explains to them the situation, but I’m so mad I don’t even take off my helmet, pouting like a MotoGP rider who just crashed out of the race. I shouldn’t have been pinning the throttle, especially at this critical point in the game. While they’re looking at the bike I take out the map.
We are literally at the apex of our trip, the next town is still twenty miles ahead and the last one was twenty miles ago. Even if these rural towns do have a bike mechanic, he’s not going to be open Saturday night, or Sunday, or Monday on Labor Day weekend.
There’s a massive Harley-Davidson rally going on, and Dad is in the middle of it at a Harley shop. Not surprising that everyone is getting out to ride this weekend. Not surprising that everyone has Harleys in Wisconsin either. The mechanic “Monster” is super nice, he offers us a chrome bolt which he hammers into place and some oil for the cable. It gives us enough confidence to keep going, at least to go get breakfast.
Outside the restaurant after Noon has passed:
The day warms up nicely and we ride through the landscape of Wisconsin while the sun shines brightly but the breeze keeps us cool. It’s green and lush, and we even start to see some trees change. Switching off bikes every now and then gives me a chance to reflect about the idea of riding four Japanese bikes as we wind our way into Michigan.
I sometimes that this would be the perfect trip if we were all on American bikes, considering the American automotive industry was born and died in the Midwest. Milwaukee and Detroit are home to everything, and both Harleys and Muscle Cars are one of the few products that America does best.
We drive into Michigan, and despite being delayed a couple of hours we are making good time. On the road, a string of American automotive gems comes the other direction. Deep purple hot rods, pin stripe muscle cars, and airplane (or is it boat?) inspired 50′s cruisers parade southbound one after another for about 20 miles.
We’re in the middle of nowhere, but it’s a classic car show meant just for us.
I come to realize that these American machines were made perfectly to do what I’m trying to do. Cruise, in style, with power in straight line. All the Japanese bikes we have are incredibly uncomfortable. We stop every hour or so, and I can’t stay on one bike longer than two stops without being in serious pain. One hurts my lower back, one my wrist, another one provides a constant pressure which pushes my nuts against the tank.
Nothing is falling off anymore.
I planned the route to stick along the coast, avoiding the Michigan areas you read about in the newspaper. We pass towns with sailboats and fudge shops. There are an awful lot of affluent white people with fanny packs and shorts, but oddly enough a good mix of leather clad bikers mixed among them. It seems there’s two types of people who go on road trips, the rich and the bikers. There’s probably a lot of overlap these days.
Or not. We notice in Wisconsin there are a lot of Harleys for sale on people’s lawns and on the sides of roads. Everyone has a Harley-Davidson and everyone is looking to sell it. Perhaps a sign of the times.
More clutch modifications, that cable isn’t suppose to go there.
Speedwise we start to build up confidence in ourselves as the sun starts to go down on day 2. Since we’re switching off bikes all the time to keep comfortable, each of us has a shot at the CB360T. On it, I pin the throttle and pass cars doing 75 at the CB360T’s max of 80. It’s a little slower than walking by a parked car, but it feels good to hear the bike respond as I get down into a racer’s tuck with my legs and elbows on the skinny tank.
“Every time you pass a car on the side and I follow, I shrug to the driver” my dad says.
The rest of the bikes of course have no problem with passing, even loaded down with gear they are much faster than any car I’ve ever ridden in.
We’re almost at the very tip of our trip, at the very top of Lake Michigan. I pick out a random Michigan town to make it to before the sun goes down. At this point all my destinations based on how big their names are on the map. Eager to make it to the next down and celebrate a bad trip gone good, I ride the bike as fast as it will go and I keep it there.
I hear a sound. It’s sudden, but persistent. It sounds like someone is hitting my engine with a hammer. I pull the clutch in, the sound persists. There’s nowhere to pull over on the side of the road, at this point it’s all farm land and nothing. But a mile down the road is a small hotel. It’s farther than I would like to ride, but I signal to everyone we’re making a stop.
Rob overshoots the breaking distance as normal as I pull in and pulls alongside me. I pull up my visor.
“There’s a noise coming from my bike”
“A noise? LOOK AT YOUR ENGINE!”
We could literally not get farther from home, the sun is going down, the next town is 20 miles in either direction. The only tools we have are monkey wrenches, and none of us have enough technical knowledge to even begin to fix an engine problem. I take a peek.
There’s a bolt, sticking out the side of the engine being pushed in and out. Like a jackhammer. I kill the bike. And boy, does it look dead.
That rusty bolt in the upper middle is suppose to be IN like the one to the right of it.
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.
