killbam.net » The Don

Bikers

killbam — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 00:59:32 +0000

I’m still a bit shooken up by the crash and the subsequent interaction with the policeman. I’m not out of the wood yet, either figuratively or literally. What if the insurance company demands to see the bike? How many thousands of dollars am I going to have to pay to fix everything?

The bike’s handlebars are bent so that I have to hold them at an odd angle just to ride straight. I am more than a bit worried that at any moment the bike will fall apart, that the already cranky CB360 engine will explode and launch the front wheel off leaving me flipping around on the pavement again.

But with only a couple of turns left in the forest, I make the conscious decision to suck it up and ride like I mean it. If there’s any one thing that caused the crash, and will cause another crash, it’s being scared.

Bicyclists are still running through The Tunnel Of Trees and at a moderately fast pace, I pass a couple as I lead Rob, Jon, my Dad and Jenny through the last few turns. We come out of the forest and arrive at a big log cabin diner busy with bicyclists and quite a few Harley Davidson riders. It’s about 1:30pm, and we’re pretty hungry.

I pull off my helmet and try my best to relax. It feels a bit like I’m walking through a dream, I feel pretty disconnected.

“What, you’ve got a problem?” My dad yells. I turn around and he’s not looking at me. He’s still got his helmet on and he’s facing two bicyclists parking the bikes in yellow lycra.

“That pass was too close! That’s dangerous.” One of them yells back.

“You’re dangerous swerving all over the road. How about you let us decide what’s too close?” my Dad yells back through his helmet. It’s a bit muffled, he’s still taking off his gear.

I have no idea what’s going on. All I think about is that I can’t afford to kick these guys asses because the cop might come back and check my VIN

“We have three feet on either side!”

“So what?”

No, I can’t beat the shit out of them. I start to calculate how far the cop could be since I last saw him. How many bicyclists are there? There’s some Harley guys here too.

“Nothing, it’s not worth it.” Says the bicyclist, as he motions for his friend to go inside the crowded restaurant.

I wasn’t that sure of what was going on before and now I definitely don’t know.

“What was that about?” I ask Jon.

“You made a close pass,” he replies.
“And one of the biker’s moved over and tried to block the rest of us.” My dad adds.

Did I? Did he? I’m not sure. There was probably some asshole biker that I had to pass on the outside. I think I remember some of them hogging the whole road. I think.

I can’t really think.

“We could have taken them.” Says Rob.

Yea, he’s right I think, as we follow them into the restaurant.

There’s a possunk under my stoop

killbam — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 20:00:07 +0000

I came home today and the entire house reeked mildly of skunk.

Ostensibly a skunk, or some angry skunk ghost spirit, got into the house two days ago while I was spending the weekend at Wai’s. The increasingly intense smell which my Dad described as “burnt rubber” prompted him to go on an in house skunk hunting adventure in the middle of the night.

After finding nothing, the next day him and Jon tore up the basement trying to figure out where the skunk actually was. His plan was to air out the house, and then locate the skunk based on the leftover smell. I wasn’t here for this, but as I was being told this story I was hoping with all my heart that they found the skunk and it sprayed one of them in the face and attacked the other.

But they didn’t find it, and after some cursory internet searching my Dad learned that skunks are nocturnal. So at 5 past the witching hour that night he went outside in his robe, with a brick, and a flashlight. I guess he had the brick just to plug up the skunk’s burrow, but I’m sure he would have chucked the brick or at least postured with it as a weapon if he saw the skunk.

Anyway, he found a burrow under our front stairs, but instead of a skunk there was a possum, which did what possums do… and just stared at him. He stared back, and after about a minute of the two staring at each other my Dad went back into the house to do more research on the internet about possums.

Wikipedia says they’re pretty harmless, and he guesses that the possum got sprayed by the skunk and stunk up our house by proximity. They don’t fight cats or dogs or eat wood or anything.

So now we have a new pet possum who lives by our front doorsteps.

Grandma

killbam — Tue, 22 Dec 2009 15:07:24 +0000

Table of contents for 2009 Review

The oldest, and most telegraphed of the three passings this year was my Grandma’s. We’ve known for about a year or two that she was suffering from cancer, and her condition had notibly deterorated from about spring onward.

Grandma was adventerous, often worried about us kids, and religious. We had been making the most of her time left, planning a slew of family reunions and bringing in relatives from California and Hawaii, but only my younger sister saw Grandma in her final bed ridden days. Still, she had copious amounts of cheer. A devout Christian Scientist she accepted and wasn’t afraid.

She passed away at the end of summer, with her two sisters by her side.

At her house in California, we held a non-traditional funeral with music and food stations spread throughout the pool deck area and the living room, per her request. It was like a get together, and a surprising amount of people came, invalidating my theory that the older you get the more you lose contact with people. Some people came to honor my Grandpa, who passed away when I was a kid.

Grandma’s death fell upon me numbingly. During one point in her life, she moved to Clarendon Hills to try to connect with us grandkids, but it was largely a failed attempt. The generation gap was just too large, and although I now appreciate her attempts to culture us, at the time it was just a bother.

We thought she was a bit too uptight, along with the rest of our religious relatives. While preparing for the funeral, my extended family further treated us like children, which only served to divorce me from any pain of her passing. Jon felt the same way, but spoke the truth when he said, “At the very least, she’s responsible for our being. We owe her for that.”

This left my dad as the de facto head of the Kimball family now, as the oldest male. Living in Chicago, he wasn’t able to be with her at the end, and he spent his time working on the CB360T engine in the garage. When he got the call that Grandma had passed, he was cleaning out carburetors.

Grandma’s death illustrated to me a lesson in aging and respecting the elderly. At the get together, the slideshow showed she was a beauty queen as a young adult. The remarkable American beauty was nothing like church going senior citizen I knew. It’s sometimes hard to believe that every geriatric walker using pensioner was once a rebelious 20 something with dreams and a probable disrespect for authority.

I just wish I got to know that side of her better.

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Insurance Claims

killbam — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 05:26:42 +0000

Table of contents for A Lap of Lake Michigan

That soft pillow of a van.

The Michigan police officer looks friendly, perhaps a little bored patrolling the sparsely populated upper portions of idyllic Michigan. He’s not too pudgy, but looks like he mostly deals with tourists and helping people find directions.

With a pen and a piece of paper, he surveys the destruction to the bike in a tense moment of truth. There are no CB360T markings on the bike, but there is still the vin. Like a reverse used-car salesman, I try to direct his attention to the damage.

“There’s some damage here on the left side, this headlight is crashed in. Over down here the footpeg is bent. On the other side the turn signal is working, but the glass has been shattered. The headlights still work. Thank god both tires made it through, we can probably get it to a shop. In the front, the handlebars were crooked, but we bent them back enough.”

He write and writes and then asks me what happened.

“I was coming from around the corner, and had to ride around some bicyclists.” – I probably had to ride around some bicyclists. It could have been true.

“Then the van and I collided.” – I intentionally avoid saying that I hit the van and I make sure to sound like a victim of circumstance, with a tinge of I’m-sorry overlaying a restrained anger at the van driver who decided to hit me.

“Would you say you were out of the lane?” The cop fires back at me.

The lane? There aren’t any lanes here, and if there were, there would only be one and a half lanes. Still, I decide to go for the honest approach. If I’ve nothing to hide then maybe he won’t check if the CB77 registration lines up with the VIN number on the actual bike. I would gladly take a $300 ticket to avoid court.

“I guess.” I say sheepishly.

“Yea.” He says, indicting me, “Those goddamn bicyclists.”

“Oh yea.” I mumble, under my breath . We understand each other! Those goddamn bicyclists! That swam of yellow lycra wasps buzzing by on their 21 speeds! They caused the crash! They are a nuisance! There’s some now, flying by!

The cop walks through the swarm bicyclists over to talk to the driver of the van while I stand on the side of the road. Dad, Jenny, Jon and Rob busy themselves with the bike, although I’m sure they’re stealing glances at me waiting to see if I’m going to be written a ticket.

Rob’s photo of the damage.

Tthe morning was a bit cool but now the sun has come out and properly warmed up the day. I’m a little hot in my textile pants under the 1pm sun. It makes me uncomfortable to be in motorcycle gear and not moving.

When the cop comes back over, he says all of our paperwork is done with and we can be on our way. He gives me a piece of paper with a number and a url where I can look up the report. I immediately lose it.

Constraining my enthusiasm for getting away with no ticket and no vin number check, I walk over to the motorcycle and the rest of the riders, and explain the good news. Let’s get out here! HURRY!

I put on my helmet and sit on the bike, it starts up and still feels good. If we get away from here it’ll just be fine.

“Let’s go!” I shout through my helmet, at everyone else who is still gearing up.

“Wait,” The cop says, and walks up right by me. “What type of bike is that?”

I panic. The type of the bike! We took off all the badges, it says CB77 on the registration and insurance. Honda, I don’t know, CB, Vintage Honda CBR, THIS ONE, CLASSIC, CB77, CB360, 360T. If he’s a rider, he might know the difference, the CB77 that’s written on the registration doesn’t look anything like the CB360T.

Wait, is this a test? If I lie will he take me to jail? If I tell the truth will he let me off easy? Does he know?

“It’s a Honda CB77.” My dad lies buttoning up his helmet. I stare at the cop. The cop doesn’t say anything, he looks at me.

“Okay.” He says and gets in his car and leaves in the opposite direction. Everyone hops on their rides.

I look down at the bent bars, and smashed speedometer.

Softly I apologize to the CB360T, and ask it to carry me home. We ride out to finish up the Tunnel of Trees. I’m first, and I ride fast.

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Down

killbam — Wed, 09 Dec 2009 05:26:58 +0000

Table of contents for A Lap of Lake Michigan

I always thought that if I were to go down, I would make sure that all my body parts worked before I got up. Check out myself methodically, like a computer starting with my toes and moving up one side at a time. No point in going fast, might break something that wasn’t broken before.

Instead, I immediately stand up.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,” I keep repeating to myself. All I know is that my bike is somewhere in the middle of the road. Jon, Rob, my dad and Jenny are nowhere to be found.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, is the driver ok?” I wonder.

I take off my gloves and walk closer to the van, now the adrenaline is pumping through me. I feel like I can push over that stupid van for being there, but what I really want to do is tear my helmet off and throw it into the forest.

I walk towards the van and a line of bicyclists in bright yellow ride by me.

The left turn signal now touching the tank.

The driver gets out of the car, she’s an old lady, in a pink sweater shaking uncontrollably. The type who might have grown sons and looks forwards to church every Sunday.

“Are you ok?” I shout.

“Yes. Are you ok?” She meekly replies. It’s a good question. I still have all my gear on, my neck hurts a bit. For some reason, I think I slept funny on it. My hands are calm, and I take off my helmet as she says, “I’m going to get my husband.”

“What? Are you sure?”

Rob rides by, he doesn’t even hesitate as he parks his bike down the road in front of the illegally insured CB77. He immediately begins to pick it up as the other two bikes drive by to help him.

“Are you sure?” I repeat to the lady. The damage on the van is worse than me. I side swiped it, and bounced off. The door closes just fine as she gets back into the car and turns around. She lives right down the road, two or three turns at the exit.

I reassure everyone that I’m okay, and take off my gear. There’s a small hole in my boot, my gloves are bit torn up, my right side got hit harder but there’s damage on the left too. There’s a nice deep wide set of scratches about 2 inches around on my helmet in the back, might not have made it out alive without it.

The right shoulder.

Everyone works on the bike while I stand around taking in the situation. The bike is illegal, registered under a different make and model with fake plates. We’re still hundreds of miles away from home with out enough space to carry and extra person. And the bike isn’t even mine, it’s Rob’s and my dad’s. They trusted me to ride it because I’m the one who never crashes. Everything, the bike, their trust, our vacation, was broken.

“It’s okay,” I tell my dad, “when that lady and her husband come back, I’ll just pay them off. We’re 30 minutes away from a police station and none of these bikers are going to call the cops.”

The van drives back up and parks in the same spot. Out steps an old man, bald, flannel, and the perfect counterpart to the lady. He doesn’t seem particularly like the patriarch who would handle situations like these, but he’s a little more assured of himself. The old lady stays in the car.

“Dn’t worry,” he says. “I called the police.” And we stand around in the middle of nowhere exchanging information and uneasy small talk. It’s hot in the sun, especially with all my gear, which I begin to take off. Minutes pass, the old man gets in the car as I walk over to the pit crew working on the bike.

All googly eyed now.

The bike starts up, but the handlebars are bent. It is in poor condition, but it actually still runs. Rob rides in around in a small circle. Every so often, some bicyclists stop and ask if we’re okay. They’re not so bad after all.

In a way, we take similar risks and deal with the same shit. Bikes that break down, a love for mechanical things and the open road. Earlier we even saw a bicyclist that had gone down. I guess it happens to them too.

“Look,” I whisper to my dad, ”maybe I can convince him to call off the police. We can leave, everyone is okay.”

His look tells me he’s not entirely confident I can pull it off, but I think I can. I walk back over to the van. As I approach again, the old man steps out.

“Hey, you know, I don’t think there’s anything for the police to do here. You’ve got everything you need, we’ve got everything we need. There’s no reason for us to stay here.”

He thinks for a bit.

“I did call the police, and they are coming. You’re right.” I try not to crack a smile, “There is no reason for us to stay here, but you will stay.”

Then my dad walks over.

“We’re on a schedule here. We’re going to get going. We’ve been waiting for 30 minutes. Jeff will call the police and tell them not to come.” To which the old man replies:

“Yeah. Uh. Ok.”

But the police on the other end of 911 are not so understanding. The dispatcher tells me that since the accident happened on public land, the police have to check it out. He says they’ll probably be another 15 minutes, but he’s wrong. It takes them a total of an hour before the policeman arrives.

“Hello officer.” I say as he steps out of his car.

“Is that the bike?” He says.

“…yes…”

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The Tunnel of Trees

killbam — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 05:28:12 +0000

Table of contents for A Lap of Lake Michigan

The day held a lot of promise as we started out on the back end of our trip. I hosed the bugs off my jacket and we sprayed down the motorcycles with the hotel’s hose. It was a cold morning, but the cleansing was almost ritualistic.

If somehow we pleased the machine Gods, maybe they could get the CB77 home safely. They had protected me so far. Even the bike broke down, I was the best to ride it. I figured I would be safe. I’ve never dropped a bike or crashed. An achievement which I am proud of.

Lined up for sightseeing.

Today would be more weary travelling on the CB77, but each mile closer to home would be one less mile we’d have to come back if the bike broke down. I tried not to think of it as I resigned myself to riding the CB77 for the day. We were in good spirits, there was an amazing section of road that had been part of the plan since day 1. When researching our route, I found it mentioned on the internet in several places.

It’s called the Tunnel of Trees, and I wish I never heard of it.

We first had to cross Mackinac Bridge, which by some measures is the largest suspension bridge in America. Motorcyclists we talked to on the way mentioned that it was an annoying obstacle on our journey, as the entire bridge is grated. Grated roadways mean the bike shakes while riding, and bridges mean wind and cold. We paid the toll, and hopped on.

True to the stories, Mackinac Bridge was very cold and very windy, but half of it was paved and the pace was brisk. We arrived on the other side, not even stopping to reflect on the milestone and our small victory. It was time for the Tunnel of Trees, and then breakfast.

Always in charge of the map, and riding the CB77 in front, I memorized the route we took. I looked for a certain road, but it never came. It wasn’t of much matter to me, the lower Michigan farmland was hilly and straight, and the day warmed up quickly. Despite the CB77 being in a clunky and terrible condition, I began to appreciate the wide handle bars, the predictable and easy torque, the feeling of leading the pack.

Not too far after the bridge we found a gas station and pulled over. I stretched my legs and filled up the gas tank.

“30 miles since the bridge. We should have hit the Tunnel of Trees by now,” I mused.

I looked at the map, we had driven parallel to the tunnel of trees. Although the tunnel of trees was only 15 miles long, we’d have to ride it once up and once back down just to get to where we were.

“A tunnel of trees? Who cares?” Jon said, “That’s called a forest.”

He was sort of right. The riding that we just did was pretty nice in it’s own right, and it was unlikely it was going to get any better. I didn’t want to stomach the feeling of reversing our progress so early in the day.

“Let’s do it,” my dad commanded, “Let’s just ride it and get breakfast after the first run.”

I didn’t want to, but I agreed. Everyone else followed. We caught the entrance a couple of miles down the road and headed up.

We passed a bicyclist headed the same direction, then another one, then a pack. Then about 30 more bikers. There must have been hundreds and they were headed towards the tunnel of trees too. And then I saw it, that familiar but elusive “S” curve sign. Next 15 miles. This was the real deal.

The road narrowed into one and a half lanes, but was perfectly paved. The edges were marked in brilliant white, and the road dipped, bended, and curved like babbling brook. It was beautiful, and the day was beautiful. Just me, the bike, and about a thousand bike riders.

My relation with bike riders has always been ambivalent. On one hand, I respect their choice of transportation machinery. Bikes are mechanically simple and beautiful and the relation to motorcycles is obvious. They obsess over their bikes and upgrade their parts just like Motorcylists. Bikers also deal with a lot of the same hazards, and there’s a certain hardcoreness to choose such a rugged lifestyle.

But on the other hand, I detest bikers who only obey the rules of the road when it’s convenient to them. I also think their spandex is stupid and biker’s crusade to make helmets mandatory is bad science. Biking has been proven to be no more dangerous than walking, and it seems almost an affront on my childhood to wear a helmet on a bicycle.

These bikers didn’t bother me though, nothing bothered me. I knew the CB77 was running fine. With no weight on the back and leading the pack, I began to push. Dad, Jon, Jenny and Rob fell behind. The rules had changed when we entered the Tunnel of Trees. It was now every man for himself and his own pace, and my pace was fast.

There was something in the tunnel, a dark spot. I hit it and my back tire slid wide, my heart jumped. But I didn’t shut the throttle or mash the brakes, I recovered but I wasn’t afraid. I was connected to the bike now, it was a part of me. It was perfect. I waited behind bikers until I saw the opportunity to go. Sometimes they waved me by, sometimes they lined up, but most of the time they kept riding 3 or 4 in a line and I had to wait for a big clearing. It was no problem, everything fell into place.

“S” curves the next 5 miles. “Darn,” I though, almost at the end.

Then, a downhill off camber blind corner. I took it, but went wide. Too wide, I didn’t set up properly and the skinny tires were wrongly on my mind. There was van there, a soft blue, and it stopped, it didn’t move out of the way. Why was the van there? It looked soft. I am going to hit the van, I am going to hit this van.

I hit the van and bounced off, the bike flew. Asphalt, sky, asphalt, sky, asphalt.

Sky. Peeking through the Tunnel of Trees.

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The Michigan State Bird

killbam — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 06:20:13 +0000

Table of contents for A Lap of Lake Michigan

Before we left, days ago.

Riding at night is something I planned to avoid on this trip. By the time night fully sets in I was hoping to be checked into a hotel. Lake Michigan makes things cold, and Upper Michigan makes things even colder, but night also means easily missed signs and completely missed road hazards. Cars tend to hit motorcyclists more at night too.

Then there’s the wildlife. I’m afraid of a meat wall wandering out into the middle of the road waiting for me to crash into it. The brakes on the CB77 would never stop me in time, but I don’t have to worry about that because I might not even see it coming with a dim headlight. Maneuvering on the CB77 which is two screw turns away from broken is not an option either.

But even if the brakes could stop me I worry about the people following me. Would the exhausted and cold riders be able to react in time to stop?

Of course, I pick the wrong wildlife to be afraid of. It’s not the deer that is the problem.

It’s the bugs.

A bug smacks against my helmet. Dusk is the time bugs come out, so I’m not surprised nor particularly chuffed that I’ll have to clean it off. I clean my helmet about every two stops by hand, and even though I hate it, it’s better than leaving them on there.

I wonder to myself how those Harley guys who fixed out bike earlier feel when the bugs hit them. Do the bugs just pop off? I think if your skin is oily enough, they probably don’t stick. Still, they have to at least get in your mouth every now at then.

I’ve experienced riding without a visor to my helmet before. Justin and I were trying to fix a latch on the side of my helmet with a drill and a hammer. It didn’t work, and on the ride home the face shield was coming off. I rode without eye protection at night on the highway, with only a couple miles to go.

Still, in that couple of miles I managed to get a cigarette thrown in my eye. I only remember seeing a red dot, and then not seeing anything through one eye for the rest of the squinty ride home.

I crouch down behind the windscreen-less CB77 to stay close to the warm engine as the temperature drops. It might not actually help.

Then another bugs hit me. And another one. They are hitting my helmet like popping popcorn and a bug (or a part of one) gets sucked up through my helmet and into my nose. One gets caught on something and is now flapping about at high speeds like a stuck moth on a car dash.

One flies into my mouth. More hit my helmet. And the weather has changed too, it’s foggy outside and starting to rain.

Wait, no. It’s not foggy outside, it’s foggy in my helmet because of the bugs, the temperature, and my breath. And it’s not starting to rain, the bugs are hitting my helmet so fast it looks like it’s raining. Each bug begins to replace a bug already on my helmet as they streak off. I strain my neck up to look out the visible corners of my helmet, but more bugs fly up through the neck hole and it doesn’t help.

The road changes from two lanes to no lanes. Again, the road is under construction; fresh, black unmarked pavement blends into the rest of the unlit scenery. The CB77 sputters along but I’m no longer worried about the bolt coming out the engine, I’m worried about riding off the side of the road, the only markings are widely spaced traffic cones on either side of the two lane road.

I decide to follow the cones and stick 1/4th of the way to the right. As long as I stay between the cones I should be fine.

“I will be fine.” I tell myself.

A car zooms by, temporarily lighting up the wall of bugs and my foggy helmet. I’m blind for a few seconds and hope I’m on my side of the road and that the others aren’t necessarily taking my line. I make mental calculations of whether I’m more in danger of riding off the side of the road or getting hit by a car. At least a car can swerve.

More cars drive by, each one blinding me as I try to keep my throttle and line steady. More bugs hit my helmet. They’re gritty in my teeth now, and when I try to spit them out I drool on my chin.

The next town didn’t look far, but I’m no longer sure if we’re on the right road. But soon enough we make it to the next town. Since we’re so close to Mackinac bridge on Labor Day weekend, we can’t find a hotel room. We stop to fill up, and I check out everyone else.

I hate bugs, Michigan, and everyone else

Rob is covered in bugs on the CBR with the small windscreen, but Jon, Jenny and my dad are fine. I have it the worst. No windscreen and riding in front.

I hate bugs, I hate bugs so much.

Dad walks into the gas station to ask about hotel rooms and call. I stand inside too, completely angry.

“WHY ARE THERE SO MANY BUGS?”
“The lady inside said it’s unusual. Must be a hatch,” dad says.
“SHE IS A LIAR. SHE LIES”

My helmet.

We find a hotel room eventually, close enough to where we can see the bridge. From here we cross Mackinac bridge out of the Upper Peninsula and into the lower part of Michigan. The first half is done.

In the hotel room I look at the map. All progress from here gets the broken bike closer to home. It will break down somewhere, but where?

There’s a lakeside restaurant still open, we head there for dinner as tourists walk around the touristy bars. Outside there’s fireworks, but none of us care.

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Heart Surgery On The Highway

killbam — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 02:22:54 +0000

Table of contents for A Lap of Lake Michigan

Broken bike and broken adventure.

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.

Let’s put the bolt back in, my dad says.

What’s the point? I reply. If it came out once, it’s going to come out again. It’s hopeless. It’s ruined. We don’t even know what it is.

For the next few minutes, we argue about what the part is and if we can fix it.

It was leaking oil before, I saw it.

It holds together the tappets for the spark.

The bolt just fell out because the engine is hot.

Jon is right about the hot part. Even with our gloves on, the part is dangerously hot to touch. Dad gets our meager set of tools out. We didn’t bring a manual either; I figured we’d be useless in any situation that required a manual, but now I wish I had the comfort of one in my hands.

Even with one, we’re not very good mechanics and none of us could take an engine apart and put it back together it in a day’s time. When we were assembling the CB360 before we left we forgot to put on a washer that prevents the rear wheel from sliding around left and right. We’ve also broken a good amount of parts just because. Infamously, we end up with extra parts every time we take apart a motorcycle.

Still, they want to try to put it back in. The problem though, is it won’t come out.

We’re just fucking around now.â€ I say as I go sit on a bench. At least we stopped at a motel, we got a little lucky there. Still, we’re going to need to ask these people if we can keep the bike here for a week or two. We’ll need to re-configure the bikes for four people and their gear. We”ll probably end up leaving some bags behind too. When will we ever be able to make a trip to pick it all up?

They’re struggling with the bolt. I watch funny bugs buzz around. More and more are coming out as it gets later and later in the evening. I hate bugs and it’s good I won’t have to clean anymore off my helmet tonight, a process which I do by hand as to not scratch my visor. But to distract myself from my distraction I think about how to configure the bikes, who is going to ride what, what we’re going to leave behind.

Eventually, they get the bolt out and as we look into the engine we see that the thing the bolt goes into has moved slightly off the hole.

I know, I’ll start the bike until it rotates! Rob says.

And since none of us have a better idea than starting an engine that we can stick our fingers into, he does it. Every time the bike tries to start I cringe a bit, but after about a dozen tries, the holes line up.

The bolt is in surprisingly good condition for something that was plunging the interior of the engine and all of the threads on it are intact. It’s also covered oil which is dotted with metal shards. Not something you ever want to see in your oil.

Pretty good condition.

I peer into the engine. The threads inside the engine are half gone, ground completely smooth. The bolt I’m holding in my hand is hardened, while the engine is made of aluminum. When I put the bolt in, it just spins.

Frustrated again I let Dad and Jon take a look at it. They decide to put the bolt in by hammering it and turning it at the same time, using the resistance of the few threads that are already there. It’s a delicate operation, with broken parts, and the tools we have are:

a small wrench, and

a big wrench.

Jon turns the small wrench, careful not to burn himself on the still searing hot engine, while Dad smacks the top of the bolt with the big wrench. It turns, it turns a bit more, and then it stops turning.

I start the bike up.

On the side of the rural Michigan road there is only the sound of the CB360T running. None of us celebrate. None of us move. We all contemplate in different directions, immersing ourselves in the CB360T’s sound, listening for what the engine has to tell us.

I’m designated the test driver now because the bike broke on my watch. Still, nobody is blaming me for ruining the trip, and I’m not really either. Had it really been my fault I would have felt like riding off a cliff on one of the remaining bikes.

Nonetheless I’m a little ashamed at my behavior but impressed we got it to start up and it’s beginning to brighten up my mood. At least I can make up for whatever part of it was my fault, and my sulking, by adopting the CB360T as my ride now.

We might be headed further away from home, we might be getting closer. At this point there’s only one option, and that’s forward. If we’re lucky, we can make it to the next town and then decide what to do.

Somewhere across that lake is home.

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Help from Monster

killbam — Thu, 17 Sep 2009 03:02:12 +0000

Table of contents for A Lap of Lake Michigan

Outside the motel.

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.

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We meet a serial killer

killbam — Tue, 15 Sep 2009 03:45:05 +0000

Table of contents for A Lap of Lake Michigan

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.

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