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It's Tough Getting Old

I've noticed that when I'm experiencing a problem with the Ninja, I neglect my blog. Seems like this year, my machine developed a few more quirks and not those of character building variety. For instance, the computer that controls the fuel injection system will not always initialize the system on the first turn of the key. On occasion, I must turn the key to the off position, wait a few seconds, and then turn the power back on. This usually works and I can start the bike and ride with no interruption in fuel delivery. I enlisted the help of everyone from the dealer to my favorite local bike shop to examine the problem and they just shrug and tell me that the computer does not register any problems. I think maybe I'll try a fortune teller next. Couldn't hurt, right?

Several online 650R forums list fuel pump failure as a "rare but expensive" problem. They weren't kidding. Mine crapped out about a month ago. I figured this to the source of the erratic start up behavior, but I replaced the pump and nothing has changed. I worried that the inconsistent initialization of the fuel system damaged the first pump and now the replacement pump may be at risk. A new fuel pump costs around $250. A new computer sings to the tune of about $500. Here's the dilemma. With 53K miles on the clock of a $6500 bike, do replace these faulty components, or do I cobble the bike together until the engine cannibalizes itself or until I can afford a new motorcycle, whichever comes first. For the uninitiated, the first of the above choices occurs most frequently.

Until the inevitable, I comb the electrical system for shorts in between rides. I hate when a bike's age compromises it's long distance capability. Options at this point include owning a pickup truck, which I do, and purchasing a good roadside assistance service, which I have. However, my pickup is a Chevy, which means it works well about half the time. Fans of the all American automobile won't receive an apology from me. My next truck will be a Toyota. Not all roadside assistance programs are the same. I've learned to be careful and ask questions before buying. For example, AAA's basic programs don't cover motorcycles, not even so much as a tank of petrol should you run your horse dry. Coverage requires the additional purchase of the recreational vehicle subset. I simply tacked roadside assistance coverage to my insurance policy for a small fee.

Perhaps I'm being too much of a negative Nancy. Some postives arise from this point in a bike's aging process. The more riding I do, the more riding I want to do. I closely examine the machine I currently have, not physically necessarily, but with the eye of the mind. What does it have that I appreciate, power, speed, torque, flickability? As my mind wanders over the shaded lanes I imagine riding in the future, I ask myself what do I wish my current cycle had that it lacks? And I begin the long process of sifting through motorcycle propoganda searching for the "next bike", the machine with which I can turn those imagined lanes into twisting highways of reality. Even at this early stage, I can envision myself on something German or Italian, something sensuous that speaks not just to logic and need, but to that passion which ignites the spirit and new possibility.

Baked with Love

Was out for a quick ride the other day and came across the Bimbo Bakeries truck. The website states that their products are "always baked with love." I couldn't stop giggling in my helmet. Hmmmm....I wonder if they take custom orders?

Rider on the Storm

While on the way home last week, I took shelter from this storm under the awning of a used car dealership on Highway 60 east of Louisville. I glimpsed the radar prior to leaving work and knew that a break in the front would allow me access to the northeast corridor of Interstate 71. Assessing that I had fair chance of making it to the house relatively dry, I pulled over to don the yellow crossing-guard-of-doom rain gear and wait on the nastiness to grind it's way southeast.

One of the maxims that I've come to appreciate in motorcycling regards expecting the unexpected. In general, this philosophy keeps a rider alive and is epitomized in such statements as "cover your controls" and "ride as if you're invisible". Being prepared for and riding in adverse weather exemplifies this practice. I haven't traveled without some form of rain gear on the bike in over a decade; the lesson came hard-learned. In my early twenties, I rode out of Owensboro, KY for a trip of about a hundred miles or so. When I left my apartment, the sun was shining, a light breeze blew the scent of drying tobacco through the woods and fields of southern Indiana, and the temperature barely crested 70. By the day's end, a storm system moved into the area and it started to rain. With only my leathers, I soaked to my skin quickly. The temperature dropped into the lower 60's. I discovered that the body can go hypothermic when wet in as comfortable a temperature as 60 degrees. Add in the wind chill factor and I'd slapped together a receipe for a near-death experience. The resulting pneumonia could have been prevented, in all likelyhood, by a thin layer of plastic.

During a lull in the storm last week, I decided to make a break for the interstate and try to stay ahead of the next wave of thunderstorms. What I hadn't counted on, indeed, what no one factors into the equation, was an accident blocking the north bound lanes of I-71. Before I could ride to the shelter of the rest area and nearest exit, the rain poured down. By the time I climbed off the bike and slouched in under the overhang of the area's vending pavilion, I could not longer see through the sheets of water and blinding lightning. The thunder beat my chest like a drum.

But I was dry, thanks to the thin, plastic rind of my rain suit. And reasonably safe under the roof of the shelter housing the vending machines. Motorcycling fosters patience. Ride long enough and far enough and the weather will turn against the rider, no matter how righteous his karma. The other lessen I learned during that sodden ride years ago was to listen to my gut. If my head busied itself with figuring routes around the storm and my heart stroked my ego with how tough I would be for motoring through a tempest to the far side, then heed the voice of caution, located somewhere between my lungs and my balls, and pull over. Prop myself up between some vending machines among the stray cigarette butts, close my eyes, and bask in the soft spray of hard rain.

Twist of the Wrist

I've recently realized that I'm not well connected to any form of motorcycle community. When I examine my own riding history and style, I find I've been that way most of my riding life. I usually ride alone. A benefit to solo travel includes being able to stack on as many miles as my skinny butt can handle without having to worry about my fellow riders stopping 300 miles before I'm ready. I've always written off some of the drawbacks to my anti-social tendencies. I'm talking about the loneliness that only a lone rider feels standing at 5,000 ft. on the Cherohala Skyway in March watching the clouds sift through the skeletal trees. Cheery, ain't it. Truth be told, I've never much cared for the company of other human beings, even my own kind. Riding the Ninja 650 doesn't exactly attract those motorcyclists in whose company I'd genuinely feel welcome. Most riders mistake it for a sport bike when it's really a standard with some plastic for show. As a result, I frequently draw the attention of the squids, whose vacant heads annoy me, who can not exercise restraint in spinning that yarn about how they crashed their precious GSXR-750 on the interstate while pulling a wheelie at 90 mph and can't wait to try the stunt again next week.

"Just as soon as I get another bike," they say, eyeing my 650 in a way that always makes my heart drop a little.

Another disadvantage to my lack of communion with the motorcycling general populace is that I often miss events like the one night only opening of Twist of the Wrist: Louisville Art on Motorcycle Culture. It just so happens that while screwing off....err....surfing the net at work last Thursday, I came across an article in the cyber version of the Louisville Eccentric Observer detailing the opening of the show and the lives of some of the artists exhibiting. The motorcyclists and artists interviewed for the piece described their love of vintage machines in particular. Having owned several quirky old bikes myself and cultivated a wallflower's interest in two-wheeled culture, I decided that this was something that I had to check out.

Now, I'm not going to wax poetic on the virtues of modern art or the reflection of society such art provides. I just don't have it in me and, frankly, I really don't care. Vintage bike society intrigues me while vintage bike artist society I find somewhat aloof and unreachable. While I'm not one of those riders to sit around and discuss the shaping effects of motorcycles on rebellion in our modern culture, I can appreciate a stunning photograph of a laced wheel strung with cobwebs as the machine to which it's attached slowly rusts into the forgotten ground of a motorcycle salvage yard. It appeals to the lonewolf in me. Sarah Lyon, a female rider, mechanic, and photographer, contributed the most stunning piece in the show, her bronzed pair of leather motorcycle harness boots, which witnessed 30,000 miles of Sarah's travels on two wheels. All of the small imperfections immortalized in those boots spoke to me in a way that reached past my intellect and kicked me somewhere in my gut.

And even this anti-social got a chance to practice his communication skills a little bit. Here's a few photos from outside the show that capture one of those rare moments when my keepers let me out from under the stairs.

Here I am discussing a Honda C350 project with another attendee

Gives new meaning to the term Iron Butt

Assorted scooter trash discussing the shaping effects of motorcycles on rebellion in our modern culture

In the end, for me, it's always about the bikes

Open Sesame!!!!!!

Finally. The cap openeth and the stench of vaporized gas wafted forth. I, however, can't take credit for completing this puzzle. I attempted every chemical solution that I safely know how to perform in order to coax the lock into releasing. I called the local locksmith and he refused to examine the lock as soon as I informed him that it was a part of a motorcycle gas cap. In the end, I dropped the bike at the local dealership who called the locksmith who picked the tumblers of the stuck lock and exclaimed, "Who squirted all this stuff in here?"

Drats!

My last alchemical attempt to free the lock on the Ninja's gas cap has not been successful. An old friend suggested that I douse the lock with PB Blaster in the hope that the powerful solvent would allow the lock to be broken free. Even following repeated application and time to soak, the lock would not budge.

I'll have to remove the lock, possibly by drilling it, and force the teeth holding the cap to the tank to retract. This will destroy the cap which will require replacement, a scenario that I'd hoped to avoid due to the expense of purchasing a new assembly. Once again, I'll be consulting an old hand prior to any major surgical procedures.